WE WAKE FROM OUR AFTERNOON NAP with Cooper crying softly. I pick him up and place him gently on the floor. He cannot walk. I carry him to where I think he may want to go -- the adjacent bathroom, with its door that leads to his fenced potty-place -- and stand him up, positioning his hips just so and gently massaging his legs. Sometimes this works, as if reminding legs that they can stand, walk, propel triggers muscle memory into performance ... in hope that desire can eclipse pain.

But he cannot walk, not yet. It's often like this in the hours after the effectiveness of his pain medication has worn off.

I remove his diaper. He, and now I, smell of stale dog urine. Perhaps a warm bath will help?

But first I carry him to my desk and set him into an infant stroller, where he reclines uncomfortably till I set him on the floor at my feet. He dozes.

We don't euthanize people when they can no longer walk. Adult diapers are advertised in the Sunday paper supplements. But wheelchairs for handicapped pets cost almost as much as those for people. One of the sadder things I ever saw was an ad for a lightly used wheeled cart for which the owner had paid $350 and used for only two days before his dog passed on.

Again and again, I look into Cooper's eyes for some clue. Always the question: "Is it Time?"

People say his eyes will tell me. But one eye's blind, and the other's thick with cataracts. He no longer barks at deer passing across the lawn; when we walk outside -- when he can walk outside -- trios of deer will stand nearby, watching, till some small, sudden move on my part spooks them away. It's as if to the deer, Cooper has ceased to exist.

We'll try a warm bath. At this point, it feels as if we are buying time, a day here, a day there, hoping to keep him here,comfortably, one day at a time. One day more, for as long as he wants to be here.

Now to fill the kitchen sink with warm suds in hope of buying a few more hours of comfort, of mobility till it's time for his evening pain medication....