In my mind I have a picture that I took two years ago today of my late, beloved Oscar, trotting off happily in front of me into the woods in his park. He had been a little under the weather of late with pancreatitis that grumbled from time to time after his emergency operation in Hong Kong a few months previously, just before he’d flown home. He huffed and spluttered a bit, too, through possible laryngeal paralysis. No-one really wanted to investigate that because it was thought too invasive for a dog of such a great age.
On this day I took him out without his buggy and he was strong enough to trundle the 4km around the park, finally descending on a wodge of used tissues that someone had thoughtlessly discarded. I’m sure Oscar picked up tissues to taunt me, because he knew I hated him eating them. He’d hold my eyes with his steady gaze while devouring them, bit by bit. On this day we had a battle of wills: he held the filthy wad between his teeth and would not let go, finally swallowing it.
The previous night he’d vomited a lot and I’d arranged a vet appointment for the afternoon, but the walk lifted his spirits, as usual. A flatcoat who had reached such a venerable age was revered at the vet’s and he trotted happily in to the consulting room, his tail wagging all the time he was examined. The vet told me that it was probably a good idea not to offer him any food and see if he regained his appetite in the morning, with the possibility of bringing him in again for rehydration the next morning if necessary.
Of course not feeding him that night meant that he would not take the powder to loosen the fluid on his lungs, and he lay in his woollen bed coughing. Worried, we sat with him and even Raffles watched over him, with obvious concern.
John came down to him during the night as he was coughing, but managed to settle him. The next morning I found him lying on the kitchen floor, unable to reach his water bowl, unable to move.
I still don’t know how I summoned the strength to drag Oscar’s inert weight out of the house and up into the boot of the car. At one stage I let go of him and he slumped onto the pile of shoes in the hall. I apologised profusely as he gazed at me and told him that the vet would make him better. When we arrived I opened the boot and he lifted his head, his trusting eyes meeting mine. I assured him that he’d feel better soon and at this stage I really believed that a little hydration would revive him.
By this stage it was thought kinder not to interfere and by 10am he was no longer with us, sedated and passing into peace. I stroked his beautiful soft face and told him how much we loved him and wished him safe travels and he was gone.
And I can honestly say that I have never known grief like it. I was absolutely beset with sadness. Floored and unable to function for days. You can explain the magic of dogs forever to people who have never felt it, but they’ll never understand it.
I loved Oscar with all my heart and I still miss him dreadfully. It turns out that I could not find the picture that’s so clear in my mind so maybe it does only exist in my head. But I took this one above today as a reminder. It doesn’t contain Oscar though, as he lives in my heart.
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