I’m hoping this isn’t an obituary,
but by the time you read this it might be.
Our dog, Jerry, is sick. He joined
our household, or pack as we sometimes call it, in the summer of 2005. I had gone
self-employed, with an office in the house, so had the opportunity to care for a
puppy during the first, demanding months of the human and dog relationship. We
had another Golden at the time, known as ‘Old Dog’, because she was. The arrival
of Jerry sparked new life into Old Dog, and she happily took the puppy under her
paw and taught him the ropes of domestic life. She tottered happily around with
Jerry for another couple of years.
We’ve had a dog in the house for
twenty years and the other morning, when it hit home that Jerry was very poorly,
we looked at each other, my wife and I, and cried at the anticipation of loss. Watching
Jerry climb on wobbly legs to the patch of grass at the top of our garden to
relieve himself, summed up the bravery of animals in the face of difficulty.
As humans, we want to label the
illness, to intervene, to make the dog better. We are creatures of action. The
dog, this dog, wants to be left alone. Having struggled outside, he sits on the
grass and conserves energy, cooled by the damp grass and the soft breezes of
autumn. He tolerates the occasional stroke, a rub of the ears, a gentle brush. He
shows no sign of being in pain. But he doesn’t need to be with us in the way we
feel we need to be near him.
Jerry was very attached to us, especially
to me, because I was at home when he was a puppy; and because, to be truthful,
he was a handful when he was a strong adolescent dog. He’s never been shy of
jumping over walls into someone’s garden, or racing off when picking up the
whiff of barbequed sausage or a split bag of kitchen waste three streets away. He
has never grasped the concept of privacy, so any open conservatory door was an
invitation to explore the house, and not everyone is a dog lover. He
embarrassed me a number of times. Every time I believed he was a reformed
character and let him off the lead on a familiar walk, he would play along for a
few days and then go AWOL again. I don’t blame him. I blame the dog’s owners.
He’s never taken to being put in
kennels. He even hates a shut door anywhere in the house. He liked to be near
us, right under my feet if possible. We did manage to keep him out of our
bedroom at night, on condition that our door was open and that he could sneak
in twice a year, at New Year’s and bonfire night when the bangs of simulated
warfare freaked him out. He would not have made a good gun dog.
One of his favourite locations was
under the desk where I’m writing this piece, making it difficult for me to put
my feet down. He’s not there now. For the past twenty years, we’ve had a dog
under the table when we’ve eaten our evening meal. Last night, Jerry was
outside in the gathering gloom while we ate our chicken. Chicken, and Jerry
wasn’t there hoping for something to be spilled. I tell you, life feels very
different at the moment.
Dogs are a messy, hairy, tying, trying,
nuisance; an extra hassle to consider for every human arrangement and
engagement. They have to be walked twice every day. Sometimes they eat stuff that
isn’t really food and throw up on the carpet. They roll in fox poo and cow dung
and horse manure, and stink the place out. They shed hair all around the house.
They scratch the newly painted hallway as they roll on their back and stretch
their legs, scraping paws against the wall. They bark manically at the
neighbour’s Jack Russell and fly into a panic if a cat enters the garden. As
puppies, they destroy electronic equipment when you go out to do the shopping.
As adults, they eat the newly baked apple pie left to cool (out of reach, you
believed). They are a bloody, bloody, nuisance at times.
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But what a wonderful relationship it
is between Homo Sapiens and Canis Familiaris. I checked my Collins Gem Pocket
Latin Dictionary. ‘Familiaris’ (adjective) means ‘domestic’; and ‘household’,
and ‘family’, and ‘intimate’, and ‘friendly’. That’s all dead right. As a noun,
it means ‘servant’ and ‘friend’. That’s right too; though I’m not entirely sure
which one of us is the servant.
We humans give ourselves the title
‘wise’. Being with Jerry through the closing chapter of his life, I’m beginning
to think he’s the wise one. As he gradually gives up his attachment to things
domestic and focuses his dwindling strength on being a pure dog, he does not
complain or struggle. He takes a lap of water from the bird bath and raises his
head occasionally to sniff the evening air.
This evening I will go the Cavalry
Arms and explain to the regulars why Jerry (and I) haven’t been in recently.
The good wishes they send him will be genuine. For all his social faux-pas,
he’s a very popular dog around here, greeted and patted by many. He always
stopped at ninety year old Mary’s front gate, whether she was out in the yard
or not, because she rubbed his ears and told him he’s handsome. His human
friends will feel sadness. As a good vet said to us when Old Dog passed away,
it’s the price we pay for loving animals who live shorter lives than our own.
Latest: Jerry has responded well to some palliative
care and is enjoying meals of basmati rice and chicken.
