Who can put a price tag on love for a pet?

I was going to write about an off-the-news issue for today’s column -- parent concerns about criminals on campus or the deadly toll of teen drinking and driving.

But all I can think about is Puff.

Puff is my 10-year-old pup. That’s 70 in human years, but the tiny black-and-white mutt we brought home when he could fit in the palm of my hand has always been as lively and lame-brained as a puppy.

Now -- suddenly, it seems -- he has slowed down. He sleeps all day. He can’t keep up with me when we walk. I realized he had gotten alarmingly thin last week when I clipped his winter coat off.

Then on Wednesday when I came home from work, he didn’t come downstairs to greet me. In fact, he hardly budged from his bed all evening, except to stumble down to the kitchen and slurp water.

The next morning I took him to the veterinarian’s, where he remains, caged and with tiny IV taped to his leg.

Puff felt as light as a feather when I carried him in to see the vet, a gentle man with a matter-of-fact manner, who refers to his patients as “individuals” and pulls no punches with their owners.

“Puff is a very sick dog,” he said. His test results showed massive infection, diabetes, pancreatitis and an auto-immune disorder. He needed immediate hospitalization.

Dr. Erickson scooped him up from the examining table and cradled him while I said goodbye. Puff’s body sagged and his eyes were glazed.

Recovery will be a long haul. The best-case scenario: He’ll require twice-daily insulin injections. I try to quiet the calculator in my head. But I’m already tallying the charges. There goes the income tax refund, the summer vacation, the bathroom remodel.

Loving a dog is not a matter of dollars and cents. Americans spent more than $11 billion on veterinary care last year -- for items as diverse as tooth extractions and kidney stones. Tomorrow, our newspaper’s business section features a series on the rising cost of veterinary care and how pet owners can deal with it. The good news is our pets are living more comfortably and longer thanks to high-tech interventions and pharmaceuticals.

But every pet owner has a personal calculus of costs and benefits that dictates how far they’ll go for an animal companion. Cataract surgery but not chemotherapy. Insulin injections but not a new hip joint.

For me, limits have gone out the window when faced with life or death conditions. In 15 years of loving three dogs, we’ve wound up four times with a pet on the operating table: Domino had kidney stones and later twisted intestines. Cookie swallowed a sock. Puff needed stomach surgery. When I tallied up the costs, I realized I had spent about $11,000. I haven’t even begun to consider how much Puff’s illness will set me back; I’ll find ways to make space on my credit cards as long as I can give him a good life.

With Puff in the hospital, the house seemed unbearably quiet. I thought I heard the tags on his collar jingling, but it was the wind chimes. I’m so used to him curled up by my feet as I write that I think I see him, not my furry slippers, out of the corner of my eye.

I put his food and water bowls under the sink so I wouldn’t see them each time I walked into the kitchen. I stowed his bed in the closet, then took it back out. That seemed disloyal and hopeless, and I’m not.

The vet promised to call if he got worse during the night. I slept with my cellphone in my hand.

Dr. Erickson didn’t call until morning. Puff’s lab work still didn’t look good, but he had a peaceful night. “We’re eating food and keeping it down. We’re holding our own.” Still, Puff is far from out of the woods.

I asked if I could visit. We don’t want to get him too worked up, the vet said, but we don’t want him to feel deserted either.

I felt foolish when I walked through the waiting room with a blanket from Puff’s bed, his favorite stuffed toy, and one of my dirty T-shirts plucked from my hamper.

He was scrunched up in a ball in the back of a cage. He barely moved when he heard my voice. I dropped to my knees and stroked his head.

He looked away, as if he were mad. I balled up my T-shirt and tucked it near him. He waited a moment and then rested his head on it and wagged his tail.

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sandy.banks@latimes.com