Goodbye, my dog, I love you

When I came into the kitchen in the morning Blue the dog was lying in the doorway. He did not get up. He had been getting old and frail of late, slow and stiff, eating less and drinking more, reluctant to go for walks. In the great heat of two weeks ago I thought he might die.

I made coffee, refreshed his water bowl and still he didn’t move. But when I went to the toilet he heaved himself up and tottered after me, circled at my feet and collapsed, panting.

I fetched him a bowl of water and he drank some. I lay next to him a while, then got up and coaxed him back to the living room. He staggered like a drunk, veered into walls. In the living room he sank down on a rug beside the sofa, a place he often lay. I woke my partner.

We sat with Blue all morning, stroking his neck and flank, his soft old ears. I ran a thumb up and down the bony groove between his eyes. He’d always loved that.

We talked quietly, remembering the day we got him from the pound at five months old; how, when the cage door opened, he ran up and down and up and down the concrete walkway unstoppably thrilled by freedom; how he loved to play tug; how the earthquakes overturned his world; how during the year of aftershocks he spent more time in the car than in the house; how he was left with a terror of thunder, fireworks, loud motorbikes, even rain on the roof; how he would lie with his back legs stretched out behind him, like a spit roast; how he would chase the wild peacocks on the hills to make then squawk and fly; how the whole of his body would squirm when he greeted visitors.

As we spoke, sometimes his dim old eyes would open. Sometimes at the mention of his name his tail beat weakly on the carpet. When the vet arrived, Blue didn’t stir. To my surprise he let the vet shave fur from his front leg. He had never liked people to toy with his legs or paws. But when the vet applied a tourniquet and sought a vein Blue remembered his nature and he curled a lip and snarled.

The vet gave him a dose of sedative and I could sense him resisting its drowsy waves, fighting to stay alert. But in the end his head slumped and his eyelids fell and he offered no resistance as the vet found the vein.

I stroked Blue’s head and flank. ‘‘Goodbye,’’ I said. The vet pressed the plunger. ‘‘Goodbye, my dog. I love you very much.’’

It took an hour to dig his grave up behind the house. We had to soak the baked clay to get a spade in it. We lined the grave with peastraw, then wrapped Blue in a candlewick bedspread and carried him up the slope.

We furled his legs to make him seem at ease and put his tug toy in the shroud with him and we kissed him on the head and ears and flank and laid him on his side in the grave. His right eye was open and I closed it softly.

We cut some roses and laid them on his chest. We closed the shroud over his face, covered him with more straw then shovelled the clay back in. No more earthquakes. No more thunder. No more hail on the roof.

He was 12 years old. He died on Valentine’s Day at noon.