Esme’s right front leg gave out last week. A day later, so did the rest of her body.

It seemed sudden, but it wasn’t. Our fetch-runs turned into fetch-walks — so comically deliberate I created a movie trailer entitled The Grudge Fetch.

Now, she is a tripod. Getting in and out of the dog door is a one-minute geometric exercise. She no longer hops on the bed. Or gets in the car. Or gazes out the front window curtained specifically for her. Now, about the only reason she moves is when she smells food.

But that, too, is waning.

I had the “quality of life talk” with the vet. But how do you gauge a dog’s happiness? They are the model of optimism. Teddy was run over by a car as a puppy and suffered a compound fracture. After a horrifying yelp, he sat there, grinning, leg pointed the wrong way, as I frantically got dressed to get him to a hospital.

So it is with Esme. With the exception of a whimper on that tender foot, she’s lodged nary a complaint. Just snores away in a cat bed she has made her own.

My father saddened himself to death. While his death certificate cites heart failure at 84, the truth is he outlived his family, his friends, his reason for living. He hardly owns that patent, I know, but I consider myself fortunate to hold no claim to its inheritance.

And I think Ezzie is with me. There are all sorts of reasons. This morning, as I grogged awake in the jacuzzi, I heard a scrape, jingle, and soft thud against the tub. Esme had hobbled her way up the wooden steps to lay in the sun at my side.

I rubbed her belly from the tub until I pruned. Then I stepped over her and carried her onto the couch, where I write this piece.

Sometimes, just wanting it is enough.