Tag: fur-babies

Letter from a Big Dog

Dear Dad,

Thanks for leaving me with Grandma, but you’ve been gone a long time. Where are you? When are you coming back? I wonder if I should escape and try to make it home. Sigh! I don’t think I could. I can’t exactly fit under the gate.

I don’t mind staying with Grandma, but some things could be better. I wish you’d tell her it would be nice if she let me sleep upstairs with her. Keeping me downstairs is bewildering. I could keep her company on the long, lonely nights if she let me sleep next to her bed. She wouldn’t even need to keep her eyes open since she could smell my eau de Dogue and hear my melodious snore. She doesn’t know what she’s missing, so would you please tell her to let down her guard – literally, the one that barricades the landing – and chill. I’ll do the rest. For your information, I did try to let her know that’s what I wanted; it might have been too subtle. I fitted myself, with some effort, along one of the steps, and attempted to sleep there. Fortunately, she snuck a look from top of the stairs to see if I was settled, noticed my awkward position and came down to put me back on my bed, but she didn’t invite me to go up with her. She’s a harder nut to crack than I thought. Still, I was grateful she got me off the step. Scrunched up as I was, I would’ve had a crook back by morning if I’d stayed there. You know, most of the time I don’t notice I’m such a big dog. I really feel quite small inside, which is why I get surprised when humans get flustered as I gallop to greet their furry companions or when I find myself blocking a passageway. Anyhoo…

Talking about my statuesque figure brings me to another point. Do you think you could persuade Grandma to buy a bigger car? One with a proper, big boot like ours? It’s nice for her that I can be so close when she’s driving, and I know she likes to have me breathing down her neck and looking over her shoulder, but being on the back seats isn’t my ideal. I can only lie along them; not move my rear around however I want. There is the advantage of the open window – when she thinks to put it down – and I do like poking my muzzle out and letting my floppy jowls flap in the breeze. But still, it’s undignified and when we’re stopped at the lights, dogs in other cars look at me funny. Really, if she continues to want to take me on long trips, she does need an appropriately dog-sized vehicle.

Speaking of stopping, like, outside of cars, does she ever? I follow her around the house trying to be a good companion, but when she finally sits and I’m all settled and starting to snore, she’ll jump up again and go someplace else. I force myself to snap out of my slumber to keep an eye on her, and sometimes I go to the trouble of pushing myself up off the floor to check on her, but then she’ll turn around and go back to where she started. I can’t understand it and I wonder why I bother. She can even repeat the same thing again five minutes later. It’s exhausting, I tell you. And she looks at me as though I’m simple.

Anyhow, I forgot to tell you about the scary storm the other night. I’m not exaggerating, it was like the sky dogs were in a battle and each time they growled and lunged at one another, lashings of spittle would spear the earth in gusty blasts and their gnashing teeth made blinding explosions. It was terrifying. And to prove that Grandma is a bit odd, I’ll tell you what she did when the noise and flashing and spit eased off a bit before bed. She opened the door and went outside! Then she called me! I had to pee, so I went but I didn’t dilly dally. I ran straight back inside. Next thing, Grandma’s strolling up the street picking up all the bins that had fallen over, even though she was getting wet, and the sky was still stroboscopic. The storm must have fried her brain! Seriously, I was close to crapping myself. And even with all that, she still left me downstairs. Don’t you think that’s mean? Even if I did get double treats.

The next day, on the drive to the river house, we stopped twice for Grandma to stretch her legs. She made me get out of the car both times and walk, which wasn’t too bad, really, especially because I persuaded her to give me treats to get back in. We had another walk before bed, but I think I must have been too distracted by the luscious aromas of roo poo and forgot to poo myself, because during the night, as I remembered the scary storm, I finally did crap myself. I didn’t mean to, of course, but it was a good-sized dump and had to come out. Grandma was asleep with the door closed so I chose a spot I didn’t think she’d find for a while, but surprisingly, she found it as soon as she got up. She must have felt guilty about the previous night because she just gave me breakfast without comment and when I came back inside, the crap was gone. She had already forgotten about it. Which is good, but you know, she is a bit vague sometimes. Anyway, Dad, sorry about the dump. But if Grandma hadn’t kept me out of her bedroom, I could have warned her it was coming.

Which brings me to where I’m sleeping. She put my bed in the lounge room, which in my opinion is too far away for comfort. I did the sad eyes, and she then moved it to the corridor, but then I decided I wanted to sleep in the guest room. I am a guest, after all, aren’t I? She didn’t kick me out – a moment of sanity – but she did move my bed back to the lounge room. Honestly, I don’t get why she just doesn’t let me sleep next to her.  It’s frustrating that she deprives herself like that, at her age.

So, the only thing left to tell you is how fit I’m getting. Grandma walks me three times a day: a small walk, a big walk and a wee walk. I go swimming and play with friends, Jack, Ronnie and Susie. They can be a bit temperamental, especially when I’m feeling bouncy, but they’re okay. They don’t scare me with their snarly faces and usually, we just get on with it and walk or fetch sticks. When Grandma lets me off the lead, I like to chase birds, especially ducks. Grandma calls my name, loudly, and I know she’s cheering me on, so I run faster. Sometimes she pulls snarly faces too.

Finally, I think you should let Grandma know I don’t speak her language. Sometimes she talks to me, and I have no idea what she’s saying. I just give her my best blank expression, so she gets the hint, but then she laughs. She is a bit simple. Sweet, though.

So that’s it from me. I hope you feel better now you know how I am. Hurry up home.

Big Chief. xx

A Final Act as Master

It’s nine months since I made and enacted my last decision as master. Those of us that love dogs say our dogs are our fur-babies or our dog’s human, as if they’re our equal, but they’re not. If you’re like me, you treat your dog as your companion, a cherished member of the family or your favourite living creature on earth, but your dog is still not your equal. They’re nearer to being a dependent child or reliant best friend. As its owner, you are fully responsible for your dog’s happiness: its comfort, its health, its exercise, its mental well-being and its love. You are responsible for its life – and its death.

I took Chopper, my last dog, the handsome, seal-eyed, chocolate Labrador, to the vet on the afternoon of 20th March this year. I say my dog because that’s the way I felt, although I know that he had a family, my family. His two fur-brothers accompanied us. It had been a hard decision to make; harder than I knew. You see, I understood that he was suffering, and I gave him lots of drugs to ease his pain. I modified our walks and hugged him as I lay next to him on the floor. But I still thought he was happy. He always seemed eager to go out, lifting his head attentively and wagging his tail when I asked, ‘Do you want to go out?’ His eyes followed me around a room. He sat on my feet when I was still. But some days he could barely go out to wee. He could barely get up. Or he’d throw up.

My sons helped as much as they could and one day, as I broached the subject of the imminent end, they said things that indicated they already knew and they were waiting for me to accept it. I suggested we wait another week, until after the Easter break, so that Chopper and I could have quality time together in our holiday house down the south coast, a place he loved. ‘He’s still happy,’ I said, ‘so it makes it that much harder.’

Then one son said, ‘He’s not happy, he’s only happy when you’re with him.’ I was shocked. I asked the other son what he thought, and he said, ‘It’s not a dog’s life!’ I suddenly felt so sad. And selfish. My desire to keep him by my side had affected my judgement and my reality.

My sons carried him outside for his pre-bed wee, a time, not long before, we cherished as an end of day ritual: fifteen minutes walking, out in the darkness and quiet, Chopper sniffing all the night-time scents and me looking up to the moon and stars. He sat there. He couldn’t even get up to wee. I hugged him and cried. I buried my face in his furry neck and said I was sorry. I was so afraid to lose him, to no longer have the comfort of him, to be on my own.

I’d been his master for over eleven and a half years. He’d been my companion, pal and confidante. I rarely walked him on a lead. I rarely roused on him. He’d joined in the fun of the family, guarded us and looked after the emotional needs of each of us. He’d chased remote-control monster trucks, swum in the sea, supervised barbecues, romanced other dogs (putting it politely), played chasings and tug-of-war.

 

 

He’d travelled with me in a motorhome, never tiring of exploring, resting by a lake or meeting other nomads. He’d consoled me when I was sad, willed me off the lounge at night, and wagged his tail every time we made eye contact. He lay on my feet when I was writing. He didn’t feel like my equal; he felt like a soul-mate.

And for my soul-mate, I had to put his needs before my own. I had to do what I could do as his human and ultimately, his master. I could give him peace.

And nine months later, I can tell you about it.

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