Actually, it was tears before lunch. Lots and lots of them...
This morning was Ozzy's appointment with the vet to determine what his mysterious fainting spells are. Turns out they're mini-heart attacks. And now we've fallen all the way down the slippery slope and are lying in a crumpled heap at the bottom. There's nothing else that can be done--he's already taking all the meds a tiny wee dog can possibly take--so it's just a matter of time now. His walks are restricted, though he can still go to the park, I'll just have to carry him for most of the walk; also up and down the stairs.
The hardest part, and the reason for my tears, is realizing that I can't change this, can't save him or turn back time. And hanging over my head like the bloody sword of Damocles is that Ultimate Decision: Let nature take its course until the Big One kills him, or go for the...other option. Either way, the outcome is the same, though how I get there is decidedly different.
So, after most of a box of Kleenex, and a very long and painful conversation with the vet, we both agreed that until Oz crosses the line between having a life or barely living, I'm going to take it day by day, and give him as much love and care that I possibly can. There are no other choices.
I hate this.