Missing my muse

Monday was the hottest day of the year.  And also the saddest.  For me. After almost 12 years together, my gorgeous girl - a stunning rescue chocolate Labrador - went to the big kennel in the sky. And God, it was painful. Really painful.  I still can't believe she has gone, even though I have been dreading this day for the past nine months.

 

The Divine Miss M, as she was known, had been staying in the South West with my mother for several months because I had been constantly on the move.  At least she got the best care and devotion thanks to my ma's heroic efforts. She also had cancer - one of the most aggressive types that a dog can get. The prognosis was 'early next year' ie 2009 but as the months went by, she stunned us all with her steely determination and love of life.  Well, love of food, to be more precise.

 

Two weeks ago we celebrated her 13th birthday.  That in itself was a miracle.  My mother had phoned me the day before to say that she had made that phonecall to the vet and things were set for the Monday.  At 2pm. She'd also made an appointment with the pet crematorium (something I totally changed my mind about when we lost one of our beloved family dogs earlier this year) for the following day.

I arrived, armed with cake and candles (the Diptyque kind) and wearing the biggest sunglasses I could find.  I'd already sobbed all evening with my husband at our local pub on the Friday night - knowing what awaited me.  I sobbed all the way to Devon, too - desperately hoping that fellow passengers wouldn't ask me if everything was OK.  Not everyone understands the deep grief that goes with the loss - imminent or otherwise - of a much-loved pet.

When I arrived, the birthday girl got up and got excited.  Particularly about the cake.  It was a Lazarus-like moment because my mother feared, as she later told me, that I would arrive too late.

Each day she got better and stronger. Monday's and Tuesday's appointments were cancelled and the business of death was forgotten. Albeit temporarily.  Each day at 2pm, I hugged my girl and thanked whoever had given us this extra time.  When it was time for me to return to real life, I spoke to her.  You may think it mad but there it is.  I told her to hang on until June 27th ie until after Glastonbury, when I knew I could devote myself totally to her care.

 

Even with a workshop in between and various other commitments, I was on permanent standby.  I had my exit strategy planned from the Green Fields, if necessary.   Since January, I have always been within 3/4 hours of getting back to Devon.  At all times.

 

Fast forward to last Saturday and we discussed leaving Glastonbury early. A few phonecalls backwards and forwards made me think I should get home.  Not to Devon but to my house just outside London. There was nothing explicit about needing to be back but I am so glad I decided that no band could compete with the Chocolate Wonder (as we also named her).  Not even a Blur reunion.

 

When I did arrive, it was clear that all was not well.  My beautiful beast had gone downhill rapidly and even doing doggy things were almost beyond her.   I had already decided that the moment she could not be a dog ie go out into the garden, enjoy her food and/or get in and out of her own bed, enough was enough.    

 

The three of us sat with her in the garden; I sobbed while the others told me to keep cheerful around her.  I knew it would be my turn to make that phonecall to the vet on Monday.

 

I stayed with her on Sunday night; lying in a sleeping bag right next to her.  It was a long, long night yet not long enough. (In fact, my mother had been sleeping downstairs with her for several nights.)

 

On Monday she rallied again.  She could walk.  I spoke to the vet, at length, and tried to work out what the best thing to do would be.  As my mother said, the hardest thing for you is the kindest thing for her.   As soon as it became clear that she was suffering (according to the vet), it was a no-brainer decision.  The selfish part of me wanted never to say goodbye.  The rest of me knew it would - one day – have to accept that it was the right thing to do.

 

There is much to do around death, even the death of a pet. The ritual of saying goodbye has helped.   A few years ago I would have recoiled at such a thing as a pet crematorium.  Now it wasn’t a luxury but a necessity. I desperately wanted to take her to a reputable and respectful one; I didn’t want her stuffed in a freezer at the vet’s, waiting for a weekly pick up and then cremated as a job lot.  It just seemed so wrong.  So we hotfooted it down to Hampshire – literally - after the deed was done – my husband (still officially on holiday), my mother, and our remaining family black Lab, all sweltering in the car, even with air-con.  The staff were so kind and sensitive, as I held her for the last time.  My obvious distress did not phase them one bit and I will be eternally grateful for that.

 

On Saturday, we'll be picking up her ashes and dropping off her bedding to the local dog rescue.  

 

It's the circle of life, my neighbour told me.  The circle of life it may be but it hurts like hell.  With my heaviest anthropomorphic hat on my head, I hope she is reunited with our other two dogs (Labrador and Labrador-cross), referred to as The Boyfriends.  They were, without doubt, her two love slaves.  She knew and they knew it but they didn’t care!

 

I know I am biased but she was particuarly beautiful and highly intelligent.  It was love at first sight, for me, it absolutely was.  She was the most dominant dog I have ever met; it was her way or no way.  When I used to work in an office, I was forever paying off colleagues for the sandwiches she ate. She raided bins – indoors, outdoors, anywhere and everywhere.   No wonder freegans can live so well in the city; there is food in abundance! On every street corner.  Summers in London were hopeless; the capital is just a giant smorgasbord.  She would also refuse to walk along certain streets because they lacked eating opportunities.  Our dog-sitting friend did not believe me until she witnessed it for herself.  So the dog was packed off for summer camp on Exmoor - every year, where she couldn’t indulge in urban snacking but she could enjoy country pursuits – swimming, running in the woods and catching pheasants, if she was quick enough.

 

Through a strange twist of fate, she was involved in several campaigns.  She sat on the GMTV sofa with Eamonn and Fiona.  She visited Broadcasting House but only once we had secured her special pass.

 

She also liked to demonstrate her own artistic talent by creating what we called her rubbish collages (not of inferior quality but the contents of the bin) strewn over any lawn or floor, however the mood took her.  Her magnum opus was a masterpiece spread over not one but two terraces.  She was featured in an art installation in Brick Lane.  She’s been captured on film by budding artists. If there were treats involved, she was game.  She loved being the centre of attention and was beyond quick to let you know if you weren’t paying her enough. 

Even at the end, if someone wasn’t in her eyeline, she would bark until she could see them -  looking straight back at her. Old age simply exacerbated her most challenging qualities ie pointless barking and attention-grabbing.  But her charisma and charm won us over, every time, even after being woken up for the fourth, fifth, or even sixth time in a night!  She was a fabulous communicator; animal lovers adored her (they really did).  Buddhists friends in south London are chanting for the next 40 days - for her safe passage.  Isn’t that wonderful?   She was surrounded by love.  From the moment I got her. And she loved life. She loved people.  She loved food.  And I think, well, I hope, in her own doggy way, that she loved me, too.

 

She had the best veterinary care – ever.  Bruce Fogle was our vet in London and Richard Allport provided the all-essential homeopathic treatment throughout her whole life with me.  I am convinced that Richard’s support gave us those extra months.

 

Tonight I am going to see Blur in Hyde Park. It won’t be a substitute for the Pyramid Stage but it will give me a chance to stand in the place I walked my dog for years.  There will be tears; many, many tears. 

 

Somehow I will honour my gorgeous girl; I am not sure how but a few drinks beforehand at The Victoria (dog-friendly pub in W2) will help steady the nerves or maybe they’ll just open the floodgates. Who knows?

 

I haven’t managed to have a tear-free day yet since Monday so it could go either way.  

 

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