Tag: Non-human Companions

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The strain of senior pets

— Caring for patients with life-altering needs can test the human-animal bond

By Steve Dale, CABC

It is sadly too routine that veterinary professionals diagnose a condition that quickly forces a pet family to become caretakers. The stress can be insurmountable on the human family, the pet, other animals living in the home, and the often forgotten veterinary professional.

Our pets are increasingly considered family members, and there may be the heartbreak and devotion to required caretaking. Twenty years ago, who would have thought pet hospice could be a viable option?

The list of life-altering changes for a pet may be long for the human family—everything from learning how to administer fluids to having to carry a large dog up and down stairs. How does an elderly pet owner do either of these things? Scheduling visits to see the general practitioner or a specialist might strain a busy family. The pet’s condition could even mean a child missing band practice or canceling family or business travel plans. Changing life plans can be financially costly, and so can treatment.

All of this and more may put a strain on you, the veterinary professional. Although some incredible human beings are natural caretakers and are able to deal with all this in stride, most clients are not quite so malleable. It is also no fun communicating a difficult prognosis and describing a long series of pharmaceuticals that can be alphabet soup in clients’ heads.

A normally amiable client might transform into a quite testy one. It is human nature to push back; however, this is where your patience, empathy, and professionalism should be applied. And remember, whatever is said is rarely personal.

Attempting to remember which medications to administer and when to give those drugs is tough enough. Also, consider some clients may simultaneously be dealing with health challenges requiring medications of their own or dealing with the illness of another family member.

Now add day-to-day difficulties, like administering pills to that dog or cat. When the well-meaning pet owner goes to a counter where the medications are and the fragile cat manages to make a break for it, it’s heartbreaking (and sometimes physically challenging) to push the pills. Sometimes, medications aren’t given because the pet owners feel guilty or that they aren’t capable of getting that pill into the animal.

Not only are human family members stressed, but so are the pets. The once beloved human family members are doing things that may cause temporary discomfort for the pet. Any chronic pain issues are likely being addressed, but findings from many studies demonstrate that pain can cause changes in mood, potentially even aggression, and also might cause behavior changes likes accidents outside a litter box. All this can profoundly impact both sides of the human-animal bond.

An animal not feeling well can feel anxious. After all, no one can explain to that animal what the medical condition is. What’s more, we know that pets, so closely bonded, will pick up on the stress of human family members. Anxiety is contagious.

Other household pets sense that stress as well. And they may exhibit behavior changes because of what’s going on. For example, if one dog has an accident indoors, a second dog might too. Life changes quickly from having fun with multiple pets to feeling frantic.

All this sure isn’t easy—and in many ways not so different from caretaking for a sick human family member, except the good and bad news is having the option of euthanasia when the time is right.

But how do pet owners know when the time is right? How many times have you been asked, “If this was your pet…?” And many clients do seek the professionals’ unbiased opinion, which can be exceedingly valuable, particularly with longtime clients. However, that question isn’t an easy one to answer, even if the answer is obvious.

To a great degree, all situations are different. Some clients simply cannot continue to cope with caretaking or perhaps the expense. Or, frankly, there are just too many accidents in the house or perhaps the dog has uncharacteristically bitten a family member. When the human-animal bond is fractured in a terminally ill animal, isn’t euthanasia a reasonable expectation?

Other clients can’t let go, as their bond is so intense and maybe even made more so through the process of caretaking—they simply can’t bear the notion of euthanasia. And your truthful suggestion is met with defensive resistance, even though the client said, “I want an honest answer.” However, the client really only wants an answer to support a predetermined opinion. Your guidance through this entire process begins with being available and expressing empathy.

Human physicians never deal with all the emotions and issues regarding euthanasia. I am doubtful all human physicians could easily step into the shoes of a veterinary professional. And, as I’ve said, as well as others, “Pet owners do not care how much you know until they know how much you care.”

Complete Article ↪HERE↩!

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How To Say Goodbye to Your Pet

— Dog dad Zak Rosen on preparing for the inevitable.

Vanessa Gangadyal consoles her son, Ian, 8, while her husband, Michael Gangadyal, pets their dog, Ally, shortly after its passing.

Like many pet parents, Zak Rosen and his wife lived for years in a state of denial about their beloved dog, Rumi. Then they learned that Rottweilers only tend to live about eight to 12 years, and there was no denying it: Rumi is already in her twilight years. In the not-so-distant future, they’ll have to make some truly tough decisions.

On this episode of How To!, Zak seeks out advice about end-of-life pet care from Dr. Ellen LaFramboise, owner of Crossroads Veterinary Hospice, and fellow pet parent Gabby Santos, who shares how she prepared for the death of her 18-year-old miniature pinscher, Bob’i. Their conversation might change the way you think about your furry pal’s final days (and maybe even your own).

Complete Article ↪HERE↩!

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My three-point turn toward personalizing good death in old age

By Marcel G.M. Olde Rikkert

It was New Year’s Eve, and my wife and I were visiting my father in his long-term care apartment. He had been cautiously wandering around, waiting for a visit, when we arrived, something he’d been doing since my mom had died a year ago. He looked frail. The “surprise question” occurred to me: Would I be surprised if he passed away in the next year?

No. I wouldn’t.

After we’d spent some time together, I asked his wishes for the coming year.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “I’m 101 years old. I was married nearly 70 years and have finished my life. Marcel, I am very much afraid of dying. Will you ensure that I don’t suffer and that dying won’t take too long?”

I promised him I would try.

The second week of January, I received a call that my father had fallen and was in pain. He had no fracture, but he insisted he did not want to get up anymore. I drove the 120 km to his home, thinking about all of the possible scenarios. My first thought was to get him on his feet again, with enough analgesics to overcome his fear of falling. As a geriatricianson, I had always tried to keep my parents active and felt proud that they had enjoyed so many years together this way.

But would such encouragement fit the situation my dad was in now? He’d asked me to make sure dying didn’t take too long. Was it already time to consider death by palliative sedation? I felt uncertain. To qualify, he needed a symptom that could not otherwise be helped, and death had to be expected within two weeks.

When I arrived at his bedside, he repeated, “I don’t want to get up anymore,” and again, he asked me to help alleviate his fear of dying. I had to honour his heartbreaking request for a peaceful death. With a leaden soul, I went to the doctor on call — luckily his own physician — and asked for his assistance in ensuring a peaceful death. We discussed all options, acknowledging my father’s increasing frailty, despair and anxiety, and we agreed to start acute palliative sedation with midazolam, adding morphine according to the Dutch national protocol. I watched as the doctor prepared the equipment, feeling reassured by his calm professional acts.

My father could not understand the plan himself, but after an hour or so he woke for a few seconds and, with a frail smile, said goodbye to my sisters and me. We made a schedule for staying with him and I took the first turn. I sat next to him for two hours, and just after his second dose of morphine, he stopped breathing and passed peacefully away, just as he had wished. Sadness and relief turned to warm gratitude in my heart. Life had given us a sensitive and wise physician who enabled us to overcome what my dad and I had feared most.

***

In December of the same year, my 86-year-old father-in-law asked me to come to Antwerp and talk to him about the options for assisted dying. He had metastatic prostate cancer and had not recovered over six weeks of hospital care. He was bedridden with a toe infection and painful pressure sores. My reflex, again, was to involve geriatricians and try to get him on his feet. However, my father-in-law, an engineer by profession, had decided it was time to turn off his engine after losing hope for sufficient recovery. My wife and I explained to him what medical assistance in dying and palliative sedation could look like, as both are allowed under certain conditions in Belgium.

Without hesitation, he chose medical assistance in dying. He was very satisfied with his life, having experienced war, liberation, marriage, births, retirement and nice family holidays. In line with his story of life, he did not want to deteriorate further and end his life in pain and misery. We kept silent while he wrote his last will, then thanked us for everything and suggested we should now watch the Belgium versus Morocco World Cup soccer match.

When the game ended, saying goodbye was hard. We looked into his eyes, still bright, and shook his hands, still strong. We knew it was the last time. But his calm smile wordlessly assured me it was time to turn off my own geriatrician’s inclination to pursue mobility and functional improvement. Death was made possible within a week, and after ensuring that all requirements were met and speaking to each family member, his oncologist carried out the procedure carefully in the presence of his children.

***

Just two weeks later, our Spanish water dog, Ticho, made me reflect again on what’s needed most at the end of a long life. For 16 years, Ticho had been my much-loved companion and daily running mate. I had begun to dream he might become the world’s oldest water dog. However, his sad eyes now showed me that his life’s end was close, also evidenced by having nearly all possible geriatric syndromes: slow gait, repeated falls, sarcopenia, cataract, dementia, intermittent incontinence and heart failure.

Still, he came with me on short walks until, one day, he became short of breath, started whimpering and did not want me to leave him alone. Patting calmed him a bit, but I realized we needed to help him die peacefully instead of trying to mobilize him again. Though not comparable to the last days of my dad and father-in-law, there were echoes.

Our three adult kids rightly arranged a family meeting, as Ticho was their sweet teddy bear. We agreed to consult a veterinarian and ask for help with a good farewell. Next morning, the vet agreed with assisting dying. She said Ticho was the oldest dog she had seen so far, and she reassured us that it was the best decision we could make. Again, I felt very thankful for this professional and compassionate help. Ticho died peacefully after sleep induction and, together, my son and I buried him in our garden.

***

Strangely, although death in old age is as natural as birth is for babies, pediatricians seem much more involved in deliveries than geriatricians are in dying. These three encounters with death in my life made me feel I had fallen short so far as a doctor, having undervalued assisting dying at old age. How to guide people to a better end of life was largely left out of my training as a geriatrician. Like pediatricians, geriatricians prefer to embrace life. In geriatric practice and research, we tend to reach for the holy grail of recovery by improving functional performance and autonomy to enhance well-being for frail older people, rather than focusing on facilitating their well-being over their last days. In this tradition, I practised hospital-based comprehensive geriatric assessment and integrated care management, as this had proven effective in giving older people a better chance of discharge to their own homes.

In my research, I had steered a straight line toward longevity and improving autonomy, in accordance with the dominant culture in society and medicine. I had excluded older people with short life expectancies from our intervention trials and did not adapt outcomes to this stage of life. Even for our recently updated Dutch handbook on geriatrics, we did not describe death or dying in any detail. I served many older people in their last days and hours, but did so with limited experience, few professional guidelines and little legal leeway.

Now, having been helped so compassionately with the deaths of three beings close to me, I realize how rewarding it can be to switch clinical gears from recovery-directed management to dying well, and to do so just in time. Older people can show and tell us when they arrive at this turning point and are ready for ending life. I hope other physicians will realize, as I have, how important it is to allow death into a conversation, even a care plan, and to be adequately trained to do so. Perhaps we also need our own turning points as physicians to get ready for the delicate responsibility of compassionate and professional assistance in personalizing good death in old age.

Complete Article ↪HERE↩!

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This is how to deal with the heartbreak of losing a pet, according to an expert

— Because it’s often far more painful than any of us let on

By Megan Hotson

From dogs and cats to tortoise and fish – there are few small animals we haven’t brought into our homes and loved as pets over the years.

According to research from the UK Pet Food Manufacturers’ Association (PFMA) 62% of households in the UK were said to have owned some kind of pet in 2022, making us an undeniably animal-loving nation.

Despite this fact (and the reality that there are people losing their animals daily), we tend to shy away from discussing our feelings when it comes to pet grief.

In one 2019 study, researchers found that 25% of owners ‘took between 3 and 12 months to accept the loss of their pet, 50% between 12 and 19 months, and 25% took between 2 and 6 years, to recover’.

Clearly, more of us are struggling than we might care to recognise. So, we spoke to grief and bereavement expert, Lianna Champ, about the best ways to remove the stigma and tackle this strangely taboo issue.

With over 40 years’ experience and a practical guide, How to Grieve like a Champ, under her belt, Lianna is an expert in how to deal with loss of any kind, including your pets. This is what she told us.

Give yourself permission to grieve

One of the most important things we can do, according to Lianna, is to be honest about our feelings and recognise that they are valid. After all, ‘grief is grief,’ she explains, adding that some people can often feel more pain from the loss of a pet, than a relative. ‘It is important to allow yourself to feel devastated by losing a pet and understand the significance of the relationship you had.’

While those without pets might not be as sympathetic, that doesn’t mean these feelings of loss can be any less painful, says Lianna. ‘What determines the level of grief felt is not whether the loss relates to a human or animal, but rather the strength of the relationship between the person grieving and the human or animal that has sadly passed away,’ she says.

Don’t shy away from discussing your feelings

Most of us will drone on for hours about the joy that comes with owning pets. And yet when they die? We’re often silent on the matter, reluctant to discuss or admit the pain which comes with losing an animal.

According to Lianna, human grief is something we are more likely to take time out for to seek help, or work through properly, meaning that we are often better positioned to cope with its effects. But when it comes to animals, the same just can’t be said. Often, she explains, ‘it’s because we feel that we don’t have societal permission to grieve in the same way as we would with humans.’

One way to feel more comfortable about grieving the loss of a pet, Lianna suggests, is to regularly talk or share stories about your pet with people around you. This, she says helps to set up a support network of people who know just how much that pet meant to you and will already have a level of understanding if you happen to then lose a pet.

Recognise the impact losing a pet can have on wellbeing

The physical and mental health benefits of owning a pet are well known, from a dog’s ability to get you out walking in the fresh air every day, to the soothing, stress-busting capacities stroking a cat can elicit. In fact, research conducted last year found that owning a pet, especially for five years or longer, may be linked to slower cognitive decline in older adults.

Then there’s the unconditional element of the love a pet offers – something which is too often overlooked, says Lianna. Unlike those complicated relationships with our fellow humans, the relationships we have with pets are free from conflict, or compromise.

‘Humans often treasure the unconditional love and comfort they can get from a relationship with an animal because pets don’t get caught up in drama like humans do,’ explains Lianna. The wellbeing impact of that ‘drama’ can be significant too – research from 2020 found that troubled (human) relationships can double our risk of depression and anxiety disorders.

So, when someone says losing their pet was harder for them than losing a relative, believe them. After all, many pet owners might not form the same type of relationship with humans, meaning their grief for their animal could be the strongest emotional reaction they have to death, explains Lianna.

Be honest with your kids about the loss

When it comes to communicating the death of a pet with children, Lianna urges parents to prioritise honesty as much as possible. ‘This is because losing a pet can be a positive way to educate kids on how death is a natural and expected part of life,’ she explains.

A part of this honesty is trying not to conceal your own emotions fully in front of your children in a bid to shield them. ‘Your raw emotions might act to provide comfort and show humility to a child who also feels upset and wants a figure to relate or talk to about their feelings,’ she emphasises.

Alongside this, Lianna outlines the importance of using language that is easy to understand as a way of helping younger children grapple with death. ‘Given the complexity of the concept, honesty and clear vocabulary are key to teaching your children how natural the process is.’

So, avoid confusing euphemisms like “passed away”, “gone to live over the rainbow” and “moved on” etc. Instead, explain to them clearly and precisely what has happened, and be ready to give them the support they need.

Don’t rush to replace your lost pet

Lianna suggests that we tend to replace our pets soon after they die as a quick fix solution to cover up feelings of loss. However, this won’t necessarily help you. ‘Buying a new pet to replace another prevents us from sitting with the grief to accept it and move on in a healthy way,’ she says. ‘It also makes it harder to form a bond with your next pet if you do not leave time to grieve in-between.’

As for your kids? While replacement is a popular course of action, substituting your pet with another could have a damaging effect on your children’s understanding of death. ‘Replacing a pet without explaining to the child what has happened or why it has happened will minimise a child’s relationship or affinity to their pet,’ she explains. ‘Telling your child, “you can go Buy a new one on Monday” will prevent them from working through their loss in an open and healthy way.’

Need something else to help with the heartbreak? Here are three different things you can help your child, or family cope with the emotional heartbreak of losing a pet.

3 WAYS TO COPE WITH PET GRIEF

According to grief expert Lianna Champ

  1. Find an appropriate way to commemorate. You could cremate, bury, or perhaps plant a tree to celebrate the life of your deceased pet. Commemorating and celebrating the end of their life can be a really key and special part of the bereavement process.
  2. Share and celebrate memories. Displaying photos of your pet who has passed away in your house, or sharing them with others, is a nice way to feel their presence after they are gone and remember their legacy. You could even get your children to create memory boxes, or scrap books as a way to work through your loss collectively.
  3. Volunteer at an animal sanctuary. It can be hard for families that have lost a pet to form a bond with another pet straight away. Instead of buying a new pet, try volunteering with other animals – it’ll help you work through your loss whilst being surrounded and comforted by other animals.

Complete Article ↪HERE↩!

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How to Know When It’s Time to Say Goodbye to Your Dog

By DogTime

The thought of our dogs dying is something that we pet parents have a lot of difficulty with. But the reality is that, unlike your children or anyone else you’ve helped raise and take care of, your dog will probably not outlive you. At some point, it will be time to say goodbye to your dog.

Even more sobering, you may end up facing a difficult decision about when to end the life of this precious friend and family member. Some dogs do pass peacefully on their own, but in many cases, the will to survive keeps a dog going long past the point of experiencing good quality of life.

While recent advances in veterinary medicine are nothing short of amazing, remember that just because you can prolong your pet’s life doesn’t mean it’s in your dog’s best interest to do so.

Most of the factors around aging and death are beyond our control, but the one thing you are able to do for your dog is alleviate undue pain and suffering. Arguably, no other decision you make about your dog will be as difficult as the one to euthanize, but in so many cases, it’s the only humane option.

If there’s ever a time to put your dog’s welfare ahead of your own needs, this is it. While the idea of living without your beloved pet can be devastating, the thought of them suffering should feel even worse.

So in considering what to do, ask yourself the following questions:

  • Does your dog have a terminal illness? Ask your vet what to expect at the next stage. Then ask whether you’re prepared to go there.
  • Is your dog in the kind of pain that cannot be alleviated by medication?
  • Will more treatment improve your dog’s quality of life, or simply maintain a poor quality of life?
  • Can you afford treatment? End-of-life care can run into thousands of dollars. Unfortunately, people can end up prolonging their grieving while paying off credit cards.
  • Has your dog lost the ability to maintain most bodily functions? If they can no longer stand up, get down stairs, defecate, and urinate on their own, the quality of their life is pretty poor.
  • Do they still want to eat? Once a dog loses their appetite, they may be signaling that they’re close to the end.
  • Are their gums pink? When gums aren’t a normal pink, your dog isn’t getting enough oxygen.
  • Is it in their best interest to extend their life, or are you doing so for yourself? This last point is the most difficult one for most of us to sort out, but it may well be the most relevant.

Other Things to Consider

You may find that everyone feels free to tell you what to do, but the responsibility for this choice is yours. This can be more difficult if you have a significant other who’s also attached to your dog, and you disagree about the next steps. However, it can still weigh heavily on a single person.

People often say, “You’ll know when it’s time.” In many cases that’s true, but not always. But remember that no matter what people tell you, choosing euthanasia is not “playing God” any more than providing medical treatment to save a life is.

Your veterinarian is trained to save lives. That’s what they do, and that’s why you go to them. But all they can do is delay, not prevent. No vet should make you feel guilty for choosing not to pursue treatment, even if you can afford it.

If your vet is advising euthanasia and you’re reluctant, closely examine your own motives and see if they’re for your benefit or the dog’s. Most people believe it’s better to euthanize your dog a day too early rather than a day too late.

Euthanasia ensures that you’ll be able to be with your dog at the moment they pass, so they’re not alone. While you don’t have to be present, dogs turn to their beloved humans most when they’re fearful. It may be quite traumatic for your furry friend if you’re not with them.

That said, it may be best for kids or those who cannot remain calm to not stick around. Otherwise, they may make a stressful situation even worse for a frightened dog and other humans who are present.

Make a List or Two

Before your dog gets to the point where euthanasia is a consideration, and you’re still fairly calm, write a list of what gives them a good quality of life. Decide how many of those points they can be without in old age and still enjoy their life.

  • Eating. Will they still be able to enjoy food, or even eat on their own?
  • Play. Can they still play games like fetch?
  • Walks. Will they be able to enjoy fresh air or any form of exercise?
  • Petting and affection. Can they still enjoy pets from you or from strangers? Do they recognize people, or do they act fearful?
  • Going outside. Can they go potty on their own when and where it’s appropriate? Or are they unable to control their bodily functions at all?
  • Being social. Does your dog still like to be in groups of people and dogs? Or do they easily feel exhausted and defensive?
  • Car rides. Can your dog still get in the car and stay comfortable on a ride? Can they stick their nose out the window?

How many points do you think your dog needs to enjoy life, even if they’re not in pain?

If you believe they can maintain quality of life with four of those seven, then you know it may be time to consider euthanasia if they lose the ability to keep three of those points.

Promise yourself that you’ll consider other factors, such as pain, the kind of senility that causes fear, and a lack of bodily function and control that may cancel out any items on the list.

Next, decide how much money you can afford to spend on veterinary care. Make a decision, write it down, and stick to your plan when your emotions are off the chart.

If your dog is suffering, then they’ve already lost most of the joy that comes from being a dog.

The emotions surrounding this decision are mixed and complicated. To do what’s best for your dogs, you need to realistically assess the criteria without allowing emotion to overwhelm the decision-making process.

Have you ever decided when to end your dog’s suffering? How did you make your decision? Let us know in the comments below.

Complete Article ↪HERE↩!

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Nurses allow dying patient to spend final days with his cat

— ‘My brother’s cat Hugo was the most important thing in his life, and we were so grateful to be given special permission to bring him for a visit with Larry’

By Chris Dawson

There is a special bond between a pet and its owner.

A group of nurses from the North Bay Regional Health Centre recently recognized that.

Larry, was in the Palliative Care Unit at the North Bay hospital under the care of registered nurses Linda Michaud, Rachel Winstanley, and registered practical nurses Marsha Belanger, Carol Brouse, and Erika Jodouin.

Larry’s family was thrilled at how the staff showed such care, understanding, kindness and compassion.

That included the staff recognizing the special bond between Larry and his pet cat.

“The staff involved in his care went above and beyond to ensure that his final days were the best they could be,” the family said.

“My brother’s cat Hugo was the most important thing in his life, and we were so grateful to be given special permission to bring him for a visit with Larry. After a few visits, his nurses set out to see that his final wish to have his cat stay with him was granted.”

The family was so touched by this, that they reached out to the Hospital Foundation and Golden Heart Awards were handed out because of that special care.

“Special thanks to Marsha Belanger for recognizing how much Larry’s dying wish would impact his final days and for taking the initiative to see that the application to grant his wish was submitted,” said the family.

“Special thanks to Linda Michaud, who ensured that Larry had everything he needed to make his wish as good as it could be. Special thanks to Rachel Winstanley, Carol Brouse, and Erika Jodouin, who were always on hand to support and comfort both Larry and his family. They were always available to answer questions, explain things, or just to listen.”

The family says it took a team of people working together to make his final wish possible and for his last days to be comfortable and pleasant.

“They are truly a remarkable group, and the hospital should be very proud to have such a competent and caring team that understands their patient’s needs and are willing to go the extra mile,” the family continued.

“Granting Larry’s wish brought him peace and comfort and gave him a new will to live, which meant his family had more time to spend with him.”

These exceptional staff went above and beyond for a patient at the North Bay Regional Health Centre, inspiring a Grateful Family donation to the Foundation.

The Golden Heart Award is given through the Grateful Family donation where a staff member, physician, volunteer or department is recognized by a patient or a patient’s family.

Those honoured through the donation are recognized at staff meetings through the hospital’s social media and are awarded a golden heart badge for their name tag.

Complete Article ↪HERE↩!

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What is a dog, then?

— On the unbearable death of my dog, Polly

Robert Dessaix’s partner, Peter Timms, and their dog, Polly. ‘Our tiny mortal family. For a moment in time, together and happy.’

After 14 years, Polly was a part of Robert Dessaix’s family. One day after her death, the writer grapples with grief and what it is to love a dog

By Robert Dessaix

We are a threesome. The most wonderful thing in the world for me – the most joyful, vivifying, meaningful, precious thing in the world – is my tiny family: Peter Timms, the dog and me. We are the only family any of us has. The dog is not a child, of course, nor a mere companion, nor even our “best friend”. The dog is our dog. The dog is our anchor. We love each other, Peter and I, anchored by our dog (we’ve had four). I can see that now. It has taken me all my life to see this. And I held out my arms in front of me in utter impotence with my fingers touching to try to hold us all in.

Polly died yesterday, you see. It is unbearable. I am not saying this for the sake of it: I cannot bear the acute sadness. I cannot bear the memories of yesterday before three o’clock or last week or ten years ago or 15. I cannot bear saying goodbye to Polly Timms forever. That’s the point, as it is when we kiss or wave or say goodbye to any loved being: it’s for the rest of time.

So you will forget, while frantic to remember everything forever – the rattle of her bowl, the bed she was asleep on every morning, how she turned that corner over there every morning on her walk, squatted on that lawn, pricked up her ears at “tummy rub” and “people coming”. Yet remembering any of it causes acute anguish.

I have to say this next thing (sorry) because it is at the heart of my grief today. Polly had stopped eating – a prawn here, a biscuit there, and even a sliver of salmon three days ago at a restaurant up on a hill above the sea where you can sit outside if you like, with your dog. But really she had stopped eating. And she was retching now and again. And tired easily. I thought we could cajole her into eating. But we couldn’t. Love is not all we need at all.

So when the vet said we might want to consider if it was time to say goodbye, I started bawling. How unmanly. I was shocked. Polly was right there, bright-eyed, I stretched out my hand, she wagged her tail and came over to me. She was given two weeks if we did nothing. I had to leave the room. I sat outside the room where Peter waited with her, crying loudly and disturbing everyone in the waiting room just round the corner. And when she was being led away past me, she turned and looked at me and gave me a last wag of her tail. And then she ceased to exist. Forever. Forever. In a second.

Robert Dessaix’s dog, Polly, in front of the couch.
Robert Dessaix’s dog, Polly, in front of the couch.

This memory is unbearable today. You know why. It makes me feel sick.

It is the trust, even “unto death”. She trusted us to do the best thing for her. Why was what we did the best thing? What sort of universe is that? We had to coax her into the car to take her down to the vet’s to her death. The memory is beyond painful.

Nothing is the same today. I have never woken up in this house without finding Polly waiting for a pat. I have never spent a day here without hearing her, seeing her, moving about, going in and out of the garden. Now nothing. Just yesterday we strolled around the block, sniffing things and peeing here and there as usual. The day before she went for a walk beside the river in the sun. The day before that along a wild beach on the east coast (after that slice of salmon at the restaurant on the hill). The day before that … but it is painful to remember, it’s a kind of anguish.

Our family has lost its glue. That’s the first word I said, apart from “No”: “The glue has gone.” Peter and I are left untethered in the emptiness, we have come unstuck, for now we are sickeningly adrift.

We will recover. We all do. Just an ache will be left when we see think of Polly. And then, in some form, it will happen again.

Dogs are not people. A dog may be playful and dependent, not understanding simple things, just like a child, but a dog is not a child; a dog may always be beside you or in the backyard, with nothing to say but with a ready pleasure at seeing you come in the door, at being close, yet is not just a companion; a dog is not one of your friends, you can’t chat – although you can joke with her sometimes – nor share anything beyond the moment.

What is a dog, then? What is this being that is not really a child, companion or friend but … WHAT? Something I now see there is no word for because a dog is a different order of being – not better than a cat or parrot, but different. A soulmate, I suppose. Is that enough? A heart to give your heart to. To lose this soulmate, to surrender her to a needle one Tuesday afternoon, is indescribably painful. There is no remedy. She’s gone. My love, you see, was not enough.

It’s all too short, too fragile – and the ending is incomprehensible. How can a loved being cease to exist? There is hardly time to love a dog as you’d like, as the dog would no doubt like. I must concentrate now on noticing and loving what is present – not live in the present like a blowfly, but focus on what I can see and hear and touch and hold, not worrying about what it will all add up to mean. Magnify it somehow. But how?

Polly was a gentle dog, a self-possessed brown dog found on the street across the river from our house and taken to a refuge. When we went to the refuge all those years ago, what caught Peter’s eye was the independence of this dog in her cage, her take-it-or-leave it attitude to us, not barking or asking for attention or to be taken home, please. The morning after we took her home, before she even knew her name, I popped out of the front door to pick up the Sunday newspaper. She didn’t bother saying goodbye or thank you, she just took off up the street, looking for something more to her taste. No hurry, just determined. I rang after her in my pyjamas in a panic, calling her name, but she didn’t know it. Finally, just before we came to the main road, she hesitated and I caught her and took her home. She stayed till yesterday – 14 years, 14 years of beauty.

We all have these stories, but I can’t bear it.

She never put a foot wrong. She was kind and considerate. She didn’t bark, except at the moon when we were up at the shack in the bush. She was beautiful. She bound us together.

I am beside myself with grief, to be honest. What grief does is split you open, letting all sort of other sadnesses and dreads spill out. For instance, I don’t know what today is for. And I am crying over Peter’s coming death as well as my own, not just Polly’s death. The universe didn’t even notice my dog. Why would it? It doesn’t notice us. I can see that. We are each of us utterly of no account. I can hardly breathe.

She knew about thirty words. She wasn’t Einstein, and said nothing back, but for a moment in time we were three beings tethered happily together, knowing what the other two were feeling and wanting.

I have two photographs in my study here where I’m sitting that show Peter and Polly and, in one of them, me with them. Our tiny mortal family. For a moment in time, together and happy. I’m looking at them now.

Everyone goes through this kind of raw misery, I know, not just on battlefields but in the house across the street, and much, much worse. Nobody escapes. I first went through it when I was a toddler and a butcher-bird killed my canary in its cage on the front verandah.

Mortality and love. But I never seem to learn.

Thank you, Polly. I know you can’t hear me. But thank you from the bottom of my heart.

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