Bye bye, my barking BUDDY
The day before my beloved golden retriever Nigel died was a glorious May day – with unseasonable sun and warmth – and the garden was blossoming as never before.
He seemed as well as any almost-12-year-old dog could be. Confined to home by Covid-19, I only left to take the dogs for a daily walk in the fields. Nell, a smaller retriever, can wriggle through the tightest fence or gap, and will go on a cross-country ramble while I assume she is merely pottering in the garden.
But not Nigel. He might have stood at the gate to look longingly at the fields, but he never took himself off for a walk. His was a life of sleeping in the sunshine, ambling briskly through fields and following me round the garden.
He was sweetly gentle and affectionate. His appetite was good and there was not a glimmer of discomfort.
Then, at 1am on 4 May, he had a major seizure. We held and calmed him, but he did not appear to know who we were, and seemed to have lost his sight. The fits continued all night – terrifying, violent and exhausting for him. I confess I wanted him to die in my arms so it might stop. We took him to the vet at dawn.
That day I was filming for the BBC and, between takes, the surgery rang as each successive level of treatment failed. By 8pm there was nothing left to do, so we agreed he should be gently put to sleep. They asked if I wanted to see him first. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t want my last memories of Nigel to be of him attached to tubes on a gurney.’
Throughout it all, the vet could not have been more kind. The fits were probably caused by a brain tumour, although we will never know. I was filming Gardeners’ World over the next two days, which meant we couldn’t bury him – so they kept Nigel in their freezer. After filming – the first without him for nine years – we collected him. The virus restrictions meant that we stayed in the car while he was carried out in a box. Though frozen solid, the big bear lay sleeping, his auburn fur ruffling in the breeze.
We buried him in the coppice with 50 yellow tennis balls, his bowl with an extra big helping of food, biscuits and a bunch of the best flowers the garden could provide. I’ve buried five dogs now and the worst bit – the bit that rips through you – is that first shovel of soil over the body.
But it was done, with a socking great stone set above him with foxgloves, anemones and primroses planted round it. Then there’s the slow, hollow grief of losing a dear friend, and the raw process of getting used to the expectation he’ll come plodding round the corner or be lying in his bed. The emptiness.
We received hundreds of cards of condolence. Through social media I had hundreds of thousands of messages. It was extraordinary. But I was not wholly surprised – Nigel was truly loved. Every Christmas he had many more cards than the rest of the family. There was never a dog like him and never will be. Dear, noble, beautiful Nigel just happened to find his true calling on a TV show.
During filming he would always be around, and directors and cameramen could not help noticing he would naturally find the perfect spot where the light was best.
After a while, he would come to work as a fully signed-up member of the crew, staying for all ten hours, waiting for his call and, without prompt, striking exactly the right pose.
If he felt things were a little slow, he’d steal the scene by wandering in to place his ball in the least opportune place. Viewers never had enough Nigel. He was a star.
Yes, he was gloriously handsome and his guide-dog genes meant he was ideally patient with the snailslow process of filming. But it was more than that. The genuine affection people felt for Nigel was about something deeper. He had an innocence and dignity that shone out. He had life stripped down to the things that mattered to him, pursuing them with quiet focus. He was endlessly loyal and, for such a great big shaggy bear of a dog, very gentle.
For those of us privileged to share our lives with animals, we know the extra humanity they bring out in us. And for us, who lived with him, there is a big Nigelshaped absence in our lives, in the house and the garden. But we feel grateful for a good life shared well. Nellie is lying at my feet now and we have little Patti, the feisty Yorkshire terrier (who adored Nigel and slept on his back), and I may get another dog.
The leaves will fall on his grave in autumn, but the primroses will flower again at Easter time. Life will flow on all around him.