Jack's time is probably measurable in weeks, if not days. He's sleeping 23/7, getting up only for a drink of water or, if I'm out of the room for more than a few minutes, to find me. (Lucky for him I stay put for hours at a time.) He's eating very little, and what I can get him to eat he doesn't much keep down (which makes me half reluctant to try to get him to eat more—I don't imagine he enjoys puking any more than I do, and lately his puking lasts a lot longer than it used to, even though there's barely anything to bring up. But I keep fixing him bits of this and bits of that, some of which—a few bites of steak last night, the meat off a pork rib—he'll eat and some of which he'll hardly sniff—bacon, egg, beef soup). He started peeing where he stood a few weeks ago. I think he's stopped getting "I'm gonna need to pee soon" signals soon enough—he gets up, walks a few paces, and that's it. At least he's not peeing where he lies. That's gonna break my heart. For now I pick him up every couple hours and carry him outside to do his thing. He can walk, but he can't manage the porch steps well. He's shaky when it comes to his back legs. If I'm in the kitchen, he'll come into the kitchen and stand there, looking unsteady and half out of it, until I move into a room with a comfy place to lie down, or until he gets tired of standing there and wanders off to a room with a comfy place to lie down. So far he can still hop up onto his living room chair and into his various baskets—that seems to be less tricky than climbing wooden steps with no risers. It takes a couple tries sometimes, though. And he hasn't even tried to get up into the chair in this picture lately. I guess that one's too high.
He's an old guy. I've had him longer than any other pet. He's a royal pain in the ass, which is why my stepmother named him Black Jack Pain in the Ass Wells when my dad had him, and of my dad's three dogs, he was the only one she wasn't willing to keep when my dad passed away. He's neurotic. He's has no idea how to be warm or personable or happy to see you, unless you have food. He dances for food.
Well, he used to dance for food.
God, it was adorable. Stiff-legged and ridiculous. He looked
happy.
My stepdaughter and I have scars. We've been on antibiotics for infected dog bites. I've yelled that I hate him. I've yelled that I was going to have him put down. I've slept curled up with him. Gotten him to play. Gotten him to cautiously come out of hiding when people come over. (When I first met him, he was just a growl coming from behind a big chair. Now people can even pet him, if they're willing to ignore him for a bit a first and then approach slowly.) I've used him as a pillow. He makes me laugh. I've been so, so glad to have him around, far more often than I've wanted to be rid of him.
I love him so much. Please let him go quietly. With reasonable comfort. I don't want to have to bring him to the vet and have him put down. We did it for Ruby because she was miserable after the cancer surgeries and experimental gunk the vet had us trying on her—and the cancer just kept growing faster and faster. We did it for Izzy because one day she was okay, and the next she was very, very not. I brought her to the vet, she got very, very worse, and she never came home. I want Jack at home, and I want Jack to just have us around him, no strangers. I want his time to come when it comes, not when we give the nod. I think he deserves that. Please, let it be doable.
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I think I've got the kefir water thing down! It's not Coke fizzy, but it is effervescent. I have pomegranate flavored at the moment. Mmm. Pineapple is excellent, too. 
