This guy is nearly 15 years old. His name, which suits, is Jekyll, as in Hyde. We rescued him from the woman who rescued him first. She found him under a bridge, tossed like somebody's garbage. He had a broken rib, fleas, minimal hair and Attitude awarded those with small parts and big egos.
But we saved him from her, too. She put an ad in the paper. When we answered, we discovered that she had over 300 house mates: rabbits. There were cardboard dividers throughout the house, creating little running zones for the bunnies, who freely dropped their tiny stinky business every which way and that. Dander, it did fly. The matron, then a buxom lass, did notice the asthma inhaler and cigarettes on the counter.
So we fell in love with the scrappy, yappy, stinky skinny terrier mutt -- and brought him home. Our first dog, Thurston was just a few months old and when we introduced the brothers, it was puppy love. Now Thurston is gone.
And Jekyll is the newest (actually only--John and I have a few good years left) geriatric case in the house, the one in need of diapers. When we wake him up in the morning (he is deaf and blind and needs a good shaking), he just stands up and pee falls from him.
If it's cold -- oh wait, we live in Minnesota -- I mean: Every day he puts his tiny snout out the back door, juts back in and poops.
Our other dog was so old and so worn when he died that people stopped saying hello when they came to our house. They said, "Oh My God. Isn't that poor thing dead yet?"
So we know the road ahead, well. But this guy is far from suffering. He is simply wildly inconvenient and messy. Not my euthanasia material. At least in my book (I know friends who have killed their pets for peeing: not me).
Besides, if Jekyll wasn't around, who would the new puppy torment?