26 Aug Four Hands on Dog
We have taken our last walk with our decrepit family dog, riding in his pram. Despite loss of sight, hearing, mobility, his nose still scans from left to right to suck in all the smells of his territory like radar. Dementia has stolen the signal between brain and limbs, so he can no longer remember how to sit or lie down. The final blow is his loss of appetite. For the last seventeen years, Pickle’s enthusiasm for food – meat, cheese, treats, pavement bones and raided scraps – has driven him. Despite increasing lack of agility, he has until very recently, been able to topple the cat’s bowl from its shelf, without up-turning it, to scoff her more dainty biscuits.
At this final lunch, we toast him and celebrate his life, remembering the list of close scrapes, relishing his personality quirks. He has remained a loyal, devoted companion to an extended pack, which includes two households and three generations, as well as other pets.
I have been loved steadily and unconditionally by Pickle. His brown eyes and attentive ears have witnessed my every mood. In return, I have thrown balls, sticks, been muddied, pushed his chariot, taken him for regular ‘spa days’ at the vet, carried him up and down stairs, and walked ever more slowly with him. I forgave his anxiety at fireworks, smoke alarms, rioters and thunder, because he calmed mine. During one of several close calls, I sustained an injury, which will mark me for life. It is my capacity to love, which feels expanded. My heart is deeply marked by the depth of my love, in response to his. Four of us place a hand on him, saying our last appreciations and farewells, as tears and snot streaks down my face.
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