It seems that it happened so quickly, I’m not sure now there were even any signs I could have acted on.

One day I brought my dog Bailey home from the shelter, just a soft bundle of fur and ribs, all tail and legs and tongue, and then suddenly I was standing with her in the vet’s office, hearing him tell me that the symptoms I described likely were signs of dementia. If she were a person, he said, she’d also be using a walker now because of the deterioration in her back end.

I went around with a lump in my throat most of that day, because … well, it just wasn’t fair. She’s my girl, my best friend, my family. She shouldn’t have to go through this, and besides, we’ve only had 14 years together. Can’t it be more?

The fact is, though, Bailey has become a geriatric dog, and, along with Jack, who has an enlarged heart — apparently common in the Doberman breed — I now have two elderly and failing but very much loved family members in my care.

My life is now that of any caretaker: running to the doctor for endless appointments and medicines, watching each dog for new symptoms and getting up several times a night to let them out, so they at least have the dignity of doing their business in the yard, instead of having inside accidents that surprise and embarrass them.

My house is lined with piddle pads. My kitchen countertop looks like a miniature pharmacy. My refrigerator is stocked with sliced deli meats to wrap the pills in, and my cabinets are filled with expensive, natural canned dog foods, to appeal to their waning appetites.

And still I watch as Jack’s ribs become more visible, and his countless lumps and bumps stick out further still. I watch as Bailey pants and pants from an unknown anxiety that so far has defied five different medications, and I see her trip while she walks on legs and feet that no longer move in rhythm with the rest of her body.

I remain vigilant for new problems; when they sleep, perfectly still, my heart stops for a moment — I wonder whether they’ve left me without saying goodbye, until I can see their chests rise once more and I know I still have them with me for just a little longer.

Each day, each part of each day, I ask myself yet again whether their quality of life is still good. So far the answer is yes, but that could change tomorrow, or this afternoon.

I have to keep watching, keep asking. That’s part of my job as a good pet owner.

That’s the hard part of the job, but that’s what I signed up for when I took them in. It’s the part of loving them that’s not a surprise. It’s just … hard.

I am angered beyond words when I see or hear of people who grow annoyed or disgusted with elderly pets, and they simply toss them outside or leave them at the shelter. “I can’t do this anymore,” they say. “That dog (or cat) is ruining my house. I don’t have time for an old animal.” Or worse: “It’s just a dog (or cat). I’ll get a healthy one.”

How does one deal with such cruelty?

A number of years ago I took in a geriatric, arthritic, incontinent Dalmatian. Hopi’s owner just didn’t have time for such a dog, and in the worst heat of summer, the dog was tossed out into the backyard, to struggle in the humidity and to know that she would be in the bitter cold when winter came.

I took Hopi in for her last eight months, and I did my best to make them good ones, because that is part of being a pet owner.

She had a soft bed in my kitchen for her aching legs that stuck out stiffly and awkwardly, even as she slept.

I mopped up her messes that happened even while she snoozed; I kept her clean and dry.

She had fresh food and water each day; she shared my popcorn with me.

And she trusted me to know when she’d finally grown tired of hurting.

On that last morning, she’d messed herself very early, before I’d awakened, and she’d struggled for perhaps an hour or more to get up out of it, without making a sound, before I’d found her.

I just knew that was it, and the vet helped me release her from her pain later that morning.

I will be making that same decision again soon — much sooner than I want, much sooner than I think I can even bear. But I will make it to the best of my ability.

It’s just part of being a good and loving pet owner.

— Sue Novak is a board member for the Lawrence Humane Society.