Pet bereavement leave

I WAS watching the BBC news channel one morning last week, and a news item regarding bereavement leave for pets was being broadcast. I watched with slight interest, but wasn’t overly immersed in the story. It was about a woman who had been sacked when she was too upset to go to work when her dog died. Little did I know, just 24 hours later, I would be utterly devastated when my dog Cookie was taken ill and died within hours.

Cookie was special, very special. She was a chocolate Labrador, and had always been utterly thick and stupid, but absolutely hilarious with it. She was born in the Welsh valleys, and came with me when I moved to Spain. She loved the pool, and if nobody was looking, she’d be in it like a flash, doing her best Tom Daly impression from the side. She also had a bit of a toilet roll fetish, which was rather a pain if you had left the bathroom door open. I would arrive home to a wagging tail and a ‘look what I did!’ happy face. She was always happy, a loveable teddy bear, and slept beside me on the bed with her own pillow.

Each night, I would give her a cuddle, and say “I love you right up to the moon and back” before she slowly drifted off to sleep and dove into the world’s biggest snoring sessions. I didn’t care about the snoring, I loved her. She was my connection to my daughter in the UK – we went to collect her and named her together. When my daughter was little, I used to read her the book ‘Guess how much I love you’ by Sam McBratney. I read it to her every night, so once Lauren grew up and I moved to Spain, my bond with her was connected by our joint love for Cookie. It was only natural that I said the same words to Cookie each night.

Cookie was literally bombproof, any illness, she would shake off, wag her tail and carry on. This year wasn’t to be however. She developed cancer. Only in April she had a huge operation to remove a large tumour. My vet gave me the awful news that it would return, but he didn’t know how long – it could be months, it could be years. Little did I know that exactly sixteen weeks later, I would lose her.

It was a normal day – too hot to go out, so we waited until dusk and went for a walk. She loved her walk, and would plod along sniffing every piece of grass possible, drinking in the different smells. It took ages, but mañana mañana, this is Spain, I didn’t care. Usually, we would stop halfway to visit the neighbours, who are crazy cat people, she would either be as good as gold or chase everything in sight. And if their gate was open, she’d go and dive in their pool too, and come back wagging her tail furiously while we all shouted at her for soaking us as she tried to dry herself on our knees. I would have a glass of wine, and continue home. This is exactly what we did, and we went to bed earlier than usual that night, at around 22.00.

At 04.00 Cookie woke me, she was pawing at me, again and again. I turned the light on and she was holding her front leg in the air. She couldn’t put it down. I got up, got dressed and checked her again, no, there was no difference. I waited an hour, she tried to lay down, the pain was too much, she just simply sat with her leg in the air. It then dawned on me – the cancer had gone into her leg. I knew, I just knew. Weirdly, I had been having excruciating pains in my leg for a few days, sharp jabbing pains (which have now gone), so I don’t know if I was actually psychically connected to her, but to me it now seems that way.

I called the vet to the house. It was time. My heart already had a hole in it and I had a huge lump in my throat, but I had to keep strong for Cookie and not reveal any bad emotions. The vet arrived, took a long look at her and regrettably agreed that there was no hope. He was so empathetic, so kind. Cookie had by this time managed to lie down, and was back on her pillow on my bed. He gently administered an anaesthetic to make her sleepy, and as her pain began to subside, she wouldn’t stop wagging her tail. “See, mummy told you I would make it better. I love you to the moon and back”, I said. She slowly drifted off to sleep and Nico, the vet, injected her for the final time. It was so peaceful, so beautiful, and equally utterly heart-breaking. My baby, my princess, was gone forever. My soulmate, my love.

And yes, I went to pieces, I couldn’t function, I couldn’t think, I was absolutely distraught. How was I going to carry on without her greeting me, without our special cuddles?

I got through the day, and didn’t do any work. I just couldn’t. It wasn’t about her; it was because I could not concentrate on anything apart from grief.

Grief is a terrible thing, and whether you lose your husband, wife, child, best friend or pet, it has the same effect, and now I understand why the lady in question asked for a day off as bereavement leave. I never realised how much I loved that dog, and when people think “Oh, it’s just a dog”, it’s not. It’s your life, the same as losing anyone dearly loved.

Run free over that Rainbow bridge Cookie – one day you’ll be waiting for me to run up to you again and say “I love you right up to the moon – and back”.