On Sunday, I sleep late again. In the middle of the night, he wakes and asks to be let out, and he’s still there when I get up and start making my coffee. While it drips, I check on him in the yard.

He accepts the head scratch and belly rub, and follows me inside.

He drinks his water and then looks at me, expectantly. There’s kibble in the dish; it’s been there two days.

I put some in my hand and hold it for him, a few bits at a time. He eats it and then looks at me.

His eyes aren’t rolling. His head still tilts to the side, but his eyes look like they can focus.

Clearly he can focus, because what he wants in more kibble, from my hand.

I sit next to him on the floor and feed him slowly.

An hour later, The Child appears; she wants french toast. When I start cooking, the dog wanders over and lies down in middle of the kitchen. I move around him and he remains there, insistently.

He wants his french toast, too.

I make one for him, and cut it into pieces. I give him one piece, and put the rest in his dish across the room. He walks over to get it.

He’s wobbly, but he finds his way.

When he’s done he sits in the kitchen, content.

We are both content.

The dog can barely walk. He wobbles and falls. When he stands up, he tries to shake as he usually does, and finds himself right back on the floor.

He vomits constantly.

When he manages to walk, his head is tilted at a strange angle – as though his neck were broken.

He lies down, and when his eyes are open, they are constantly twitching and turning, rolling and trying to right his vision, which, from the looks of it, is spinning violently.

He stops eating.

The only slight sign of hope is that he still drinks water.

It is hot, by Seattle standards, so he sleeps outside in the grass until there is no shady spot. He wants to come inside, so I carry him to his water, and he has a drink, and then lies on the floor next to his bowl for many hours.

Saturday morning comes, and I am allowed to sleep late.

I don’t want to sleep late. I want to be pestered awake too early. I want to take him for a walk before I’ve had my coffee.

My neck aches from sleeping on the sofa to be near him. I know I cannot help him; the only thing I can do is reassure him that I am with him. His person: the one he has spent nearly every day of the last five years velcroed to the side of.

The pain is excruciating. I cannot turn my head.

He and I lie still, together.

One Monday, I ask The Child to take the dog for a walk. She complies but returns quickly, after only a few minutes.

He didn’t want to walk? I ask.

She said, He keeps falling down, so I had to bring him home.

He seems a little wobbly, but he lies down next to me and goes to sleep.

Tuesday evening he seems very wobbly. He tries to walk but his back legs slip out from under him, and he can’t decide where to put his front paws down or in which order.

This is odd. He’s had trouble with his back legs before – there are mats all over my wood floors to keep him from slipping and re-injuring himself. But I don’t remember him slipping. I have some painkillers left over from his last injury, so I give him one and it knocks him out and I hope that he will recover as he rests.

At 4am, I am awakened by a loud crash. He’s at the bottom of the stairs, lying there and trying to struggle to his feet, but his legs keep coming out from under him. He cannot walk.

I carry him up the stairs and lie with him on my bedroom floor. He falls back asleep.

I take him to the vet the next day, carrying him to the car, and from there to the office. He’s hurt his legs again but I’m not sure how, I tell her. Maybe the cleaning lady took up the mats and he slipped.

She puts her hands on his head and holds it steady, looking into his eyes. Look at his eyes, she says. Do you see how they are rolling slightly?

She lets go of his head and he rolls it to one side. Did you see him roll his head? she asks.

He’s had a stroke.

She gives me some sedatives for him and says, take him home. The only thing we can do is wait and see.

Wait and see.