Cry me a river

Here we are, two weeks on. Two weeks. (Two whole weeks. How the hell has that happened?) And there's really no change. My Harry still can't move his hind legs. He can't wag, even though on Monday we thought we saw the faintest ghost of a hint of a wag, but it didn't happen again, even when the Boy called in, which usually fills the dogs with joy. Until yesterday, when being stood up to be pottied and his bedding changed, if his legs were put in the right position he could support himself for a couple of seconds. Today he hasn't been able to - I hope tomorrow will be better. We can't go on like this for much longer, neither he nor us. My heart breaks every time I help him move, and he's such a valiant, patient, accepting little soul that he'll do anything I ask of him. Yes I know he's 'only a dog'. But he's my dog, and he's my special dog, and I don't care if it's silly to be so attached - I just am. Although I love all my dogs, out of all of them he's the second who's been so very special - the first was his great-great-great-grandmother who I lost suddenly in 1980. Now him. And I feel guilty for resenting the fact that it's not one of the others; we've been braced to lose Beattie, who we were told would be lucky to make double figures and is now heading for 15, or Piglet, who, if we're honest, is only here because nobody else wanted him when he was a puppy, so he stayed. Poor Piggy, always the bridesmaid - the eternally unwanted. It's not his fault. I can't let this nightmare, this living hell, go on for much longer; it's just not fair. Harry hates wetting himself and soiling his bed. It's hard work keeping him clean and dry to avoid urine scald, and turned to avoid bedsores. He's heavy, even though his hindquarters are so wasted through lack of exercise, despite the physiotherapy, that they're almost skeletal. He doesn't seem to be in any physical pain, but they're so good at hiding serious pain that it can ber very hard to tell. I hope he isn't. I couldn't bear to think I was making my lovely boy suffer.

Sorry for the incoherent, self-indulgent ramble. Grief and exhaustion do strange things to a person's mental state.