In the end, I made the call. My husband cancelled the dog food delivery and dug the hole. I could hear him hitting buried bricks and swearing. The chickens watched, clucking comments.
I wouldn’t say I knew it was the right time to put Oscar down, more that it didn’t feel wrong. Getting into bed made him yelp and, once in, he struggled to settle. He started whimpering at night with pain, bad dreams, or both. He ate voraciously but flinched when touched; a tennis ball could make him momentarily skittish but he was withdrawn and rarely seemed fully relaxed, this dog who had spent a lifetime lolling in the softest possible places.
