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Daisy is not doing well.

As you can see, she doesn't so much lie down as collapse like a house of toothpicks. A dog's fur coat conceals some of the effects of aging, but all you have to do is pet her to feel the difference. There's not much meat on her spine any more.
She hasn't had much appetite. And for THIS dog not to have much appetite is an event worth noting.
She'd be 14 next month. Depending on which system you learned as a child, that's either 72 or 98 in dog years.
The family has had Daisy since I was in high school and since Graham was 6 years old. When she was little, I used to run around with her in the backyard till I accidentally stepped on her foot. She seemed fine after a little TLC, but I was too nervous after that, and I'll always wonder if that misstep led to the limp she developed later in life. She used to get SO EXCITED whenever she heard a drawer opening, because she knew it meant someone was getting out her leash for a walk on the beach. A shameless beggar, she licks dirty dishes on their way into the dishwasher like it is her God-given duty. Her guileless eyes could melt the heart of the Grinch.
I'm not ready for her to go.
She's better today, at least. Back to eating dog food instead of chicken and peanut butter crusts. She may have a year... another two years... another six months. Hope and realism make bitter sparring partners.