Let sleeping dogs die

Calling time on a wonderful friend

Last week we said goodbye to one of the family. Observations on climate change return as soon as next Friday. Thanks for reading.

Is it heartless to talk about death and dying using the d-words?

I’m not a fan of those awkward phrases which commonly get used - sorry for your loss, when did they pass away, when did they pass, even a perfunctory when did they…; no attempt to finish the sentence, the unspoken words left hanging.

It’s typically a friend of the family, treading delicately, but needing to say something. The person grieving is left to speak, filling the void, encouraged by the sympathetic and relieved nods.

Dying is part of living. Does it need to be camouflaged under a layer of saccharine-styled sympathy, a sugar coating of tone and words?

I changed my mind for this very behaviour, after dealing with three reception staff at one euthanasia service in London. It was when the goo hardened and payment details were explained, the pretence finally dropped, the tone altogether more business like.

Fortunately, I found a wonderful alternative called Home Goodbye and Dr Paul Manktelow.

Dr Paul Manktelow

Annie, the vet nurse, set-up an online chat once we’d spoken. The payment link was there and she put me in touch with the pet crematorium. Being there to answer questions, not needing to phone about final arrangements was easier, a lot less painful and no sugary aftertaste.

Pogo’s last day

It became a week of memories and reflection as we hobbled towards last Friday and our final farewells.

Normally, I walk Pogo morning and evening, Mrs H in the afternoon except on Thursday. It’s been the routine for a long time, although with boys home, I’ve been reduced to morning only for a while, except when called upon to fill in for last minute socials.

I was stood on our usual corner watching Pogo last Thursday. He wasn’t on the lead, he hasn’t been for some time. He’d stopped and was now looking at me intently, a sure sign that he wanted to cross and walk the longer way around. Why not? It was the last walk we were ever going to take together. Fill yer boots, no rush.

I bumped into Ivan, the retired doctor, well into his eighties. He stroked Pogo as always and I explained.

“Well I hope to see you again, young man, but if I don’t, it’s been very nice knowing you,” with a final pat on Pogo’s soft furry head.

His tone and demeanour unchanged, years of practice dealing with the inevitability of life and death. He shuffled away with his empty bag to do a bit of shopping and enjoy a cup of coffee at his favourite stop. We continued on our final journey.

We met two more dog walkers, the lady with the crossbred whippet and an owner without his dog. They both thought Pogo was doing well. I didn’t explain. It was easier to agree than reflect on how much more immobile he’d become since we’d last spoken.

Looks can be deceiving. There is still a puppy-like quality to Pogo as the picture above testifies, but it hides his withered back legs and refusal to stand a lot now, even when cheese is on offer. He’s been eating too many of his favourite slices the last week or two.

I’ve noticed others though, always without dogs, who’ve seen straight past the puppy-dog face, shaking their heads, muttering to whoever they’re with. I think they want you to notice their disapproval, but they’re not going to criticise directly. I wouldn’t mind if they did, I think they’re right. In the objective, cold light of day, it’s not okay to go on. Setting a date is the only kind way forward. No more struggling with the daily challenge of living.

It doesn’t make the decision easier.

Pogo was 12 years and 5 months old, the average life expectancy for a Portuguese Waterdog is 12 years. Job done, especially when you consider the serious nerve damage 5 years ago. It left him with paralysed back legs for 3 months, which we carried around in a sling for him. His left leg never quite recovered.

This week he’s been sleeping in a bedroom. He’s finally made it to the top, if that counts with only me for company.

He’s less anxious and a routine was quickly established. He leaves around 4:00am most mornings. His paws on the wood wake me as he hauls himself up, having kindly deposited in his sleep. He sensibly returns to his ground floor abode, well away from the crime scene for a late lie in.

The telltale left leg and a ball in that mouth

On the day, we took our friends advice and started him off with a sausage breakfast. Later it was followed by a sausage lunch before a last sausage supper. All enthusiastically received, as were his favourite balls, his two big joys in life. He enjoyed the final pleasure of tearing up one last tennis ball.

Paul turned up from Home Goodbye as arranged. Pogo, who likes to greet strangers with his formidable bark, didn’t even bother to get up. It was probably a combination of too many sausages and feeling safe with family about.

The sedative took a few minutes to put him to sleep. We all said our goodbyes and Mrs H fed him one last final sausage for the road.

For a few seconds just before he went, his sniffing went ballistic. It was if he’d suddenly discovered an even greater superpower which he’s now taken with him.

After a few more minutes, completely unconscious, Paul administered the final, lethal injection.

He moved a tiny amount after he died, final bodily reflexes which are quite normal. There were three short sighs in quick succession as I stroked his head for the last time. It felt like he’d finally let go.

Stroke me now

Now I understand why many people choose to get another dog. Often the same breed and sometimes before the older statesman has departed. I think the argument goes that the youthful usurper keeps the old dog on their toes for a little bit longer at least.

Maybe we would do better with another dog now we’ve passed our probation? There’s more time for training, play and not allowing the wilfulness streak in his breed, to remain quite so free to roam as it did with Pogo.

In his prime, the large, dog-walkers field in Wokingham was not enough to contain him. Rescue missions were regularly organised to help the kids when he wouldn’t return from a weekend walk.

“Where did you last see him?”

“He went through there and down that path onto the trading estate.”

On one occasion, he was being kennelled for the weekend and escaped, jumping a 10 foot wire fence before disappearing into the nearby forest.

He knew where he was because I used to run there with him. He managed to find his way home unscathed, having crossed two main roads. Our neighbours kindly shut the gate before his bashful minders came and picked him up.

Already I miss his touch and smell. Whenever he came in from a walk, if I was sitting at my desk, he always stood next to me, regardless of the protests to get his paws washed. If I didn’t stroke him, my elbow was nudged with his nose. If that failed one of his oversized paws would remind my knee that he was still waiting.

I’d put my arm around his shoulder and gently pull him in to my side as I stroked the white flash on his chest.

I wish I could stroke him now.