On Grief

Buddy died a week ago today. He was here for 12 years and now he is not. There is a silence where my dog should be. Gone forever, the sound of his sigh as he laid down on the cool tiles. Gone, the rattle of his collar as he shook his head. Gone is the yawn, the yip, the nails tapdancing on my wooden floors. Gone is the pink nose sniffing up crumbs and dust.

James' first words of the day are no longer 'Morning, Mate'. There is no wagging tail against his bare legs as he heads to the fridge.

His lead lives on the back of the door, a walk forever in waiting.

There is no more big dog waiting patiently for a half finished breakfast.

The little two dogs are not eating. They wander round, lost like me. They look for Buddy, as if this is some game of hide and seek and he is suddenly going to appear, bound in from the backdoor and skid to a stop. Press his nose into my hand, his flank into my thigh. To give me his weight, his heft, his warmth. Love.

I took him to the vet, but I did not bring him home. I do not know where he is now. I cannot bear to imagine and yet I cannot stop.

I tried to say goodbye to him, but he was so distressed at the end, so unsettled, that I couldn't get him to look at me. And what would I have said if he could have listened? If I could have made him understand. How do you thank a dog? How do you show gratitude to an animal for being your constant? Stop the clocks, cut off the phone. He was my north, south, east and west.

He was always happy, until those last four days. Always delighted to see me. I've never pleased anyone like I pleased him. He'd put his head on my knee and I'd scratch behind his ears and the noise was a hum of joy. It was a yellow sound. Butter, ice cream, sprinkles, gold. Nothing can recreate it. I watched a video on how they made the noises for Disney films this week, men blowing bubbles in water and huffing down pipes. No foley technique can echo Buddy's sigh of contentment. It has fallen out the universe.

I didn't know, until he left us, how safe he made me feel. I had a Labrador friend called Sandy when I was a little kid. He would pad behind me, a loyal shadow, a protector. Something from a story book. When he died, my aunt and I wrapped his blanket around us and cried. It was the only time I saw her shed tears. In losing Buddy, I have lost her all over again. I vowed when I had kids of my own that I'd give them a Sandy, and I did, God how I did.

I have lost my children's pack leader. He used to bark at anyone who came near when they took him out walking. A deep, resonating, possessive bark. Such a kind dog, such a scary noise.

He was tolerant and calm, gentle and dumb with love. We picked him because the breeder told us that after feeding time, all the pups went to sleep except for one chubby white one, who'd scratch on the door of the family room, wanting to be with his people.

Buddy loved me in all my moods. I never needed to be forgiven. When I was loud and angry, when I was in manic mode, when I was in the fog of depression, trapped under that bell jar, Buddy pressed his nose up to the glass. He lay by my side, always knowing when I was lost.

I said I wouldn't miss the dog hair. I can't bring myself to hover him up.

I said I'd be pleased not to have to walk him. I miss the beacon at sunset, the sound of his loping gallop. I said his tail snapped all my palm leaves. I'd give anything, anything, to have that be my only problem.

We have no one to give the jacket potato skins to, no one to sneak slices of chicken, the soft biscuits at the end of the packet. Grief has made me dumb. Milk in the kettle, clothes on backwards. I booked the cat into three different catteries and then sent James to a fourth that had never heard of Zero.

The vet sedated him a week ago at 5.30pm, took him out back then bought him to me, too big to hold; snoring and calmer than I'd seen him in a long time. I lay on the floor and wrapped my arms around him and held him as they injected that yellow stuff, and I will never not remember how soft his ears were as I stroked him, how the last beats of his heart felt under my palm. I wanted to take it back. Undo it. Make it stop, but the vet told me that he was exhausted. What else could I have done? How do you thank a dog? By breaking your own heart so they are no longer in pain. By holding them as they are put down. By letting go.

I'll take the nightmares, Bud, I'll take the pain. You sleep old pal. I'll see you in dreams and we'll go run 10k's like we used to all those years ago.