My dog died the night before Valentine’s day.
She was a very good dog. Well she was alright, perhaps a little too clever, a little too wilful so in the sense of being ‘good’ maybe she wasn’t high up on the treats for Christmas list. But then who cares about being good when you’re the best? She was a yellow lab and we got her when I was 9 years old, the only Labrador in a kennel full of spaniels. She was a little thing, smaller than average and with a wild tendency to vomit in moving vehicles. The first time I saw her she was busy chewing her way through a cardboard box, making happy munching and grumbling noises as I promptly burst into tears, which she immediately came to check on. Over her long 16 years she worked with my dad as a farm dog / gun dog, spending her days running round fields chasing birds and mice, attempting to hunt down any prey type possible and failing terribly. She really was a useless hunter, and actually a pretty useless gun dog as she had a tendency to howl with excitement as the birds came over, ensuring that not a single one would come anywhere near her and my frustrated father. What she lacked in skill though she made up for in enthusiasm, energy was not something she lacked, day in day out she’d run laps of the farm chasing sights and smells, when she was a puppy we used to put her in a sheep pen and wind her up before jumping in and seeing how long we could last with this fluffy ball of pure energy bounding off us. She was a full on lesbian, and proud, with several girlfriends around the South of England. We couldn’t go on a walk without her trying to shag any other bitch that came near us, no shame, no introductions, just ‘oh hey you’re a girl, lets do it’. She loved sitting on the sofa, even though her hair would get everywhere when she was moulting. She had a penchant for dirt, tracking it through the carpets despite my mums loud protestations. As a puppy she would do forward rolls for absolutely no reason other than for the joy of it. She never really got ‘personal space’, happy to lie right on top of you at the most inconvenient times. When she got chilly she’d tuck her nose under her paw to keep it warm. And on and on the character traits and quirks list could run, forever and ever I could describe different and brilliant aspects of this ridiculous animal. I knew that dog better than I knew most of my friends.
And that is the point of a dog isn’t it? That’s why we get so cut up when they go.
It’s pertinent that the Opportunity Rover was labelled as ‘dead’ by NASA on the same day as Holly died. Oppy took off on 8 July for Mars, six months after she was born and 16 years later they both died together. Love has been pouring out for the death of a little robot up on a planet thousands of miles away, something that was never alive, that most of us never experienced or met and yet there’s been genuine sadness that this little robot’s lights have finally blinked out, its last words ‘my batteries are low and it’s getting dark’. It proves to me that humans will pack bond to anything when it shows a little soul. So when, on the day that Oppy died, my dog died too, one long-lived inanimate object switching off and one long-lived old Labrador going with it it was no great surprise that my heart broke apart. If people are able to pack bond with a robot they’ve never seen then is it any wonder that when a dog passes, when a hairy, voiceless member of your family passes away that it cuts us so deeply? Because that’s what they are, for 16 years they’re part of the family, to them we’re their pack, we’re their entire world and for us they’re a permanent companion, unconditionally providing love and joy whether you need it or not.
Dogs are always ready to party, Holly was especially. She was ready to go, all you had to do was get excited and she’d match you 100%, even in her twilight years she’d do her best to chase you, be chased, or just get hyped from her bed when she was too tired. Dogs are always happy to see you, there’s not a family dog out there that doesn’t get excited the moment they smell, see or hear one of their family members coming home. Holly would always be there, standing at the door, tail at warp speed, trying to push out to say hi so that we couldn’t get through the doorway into the house and we’d all have to give her a pet first. Dogs love to work, Holly was working right to the last month of her life, even when she couldn’t really walk for very long or see or hear that well she could still smell and she still loved nothing more than being able to wander around out in the countryside with us, having a sniff for a downed bird or looking for a rat in the undergrowth, even though we’d probably have had to put it in her mouth for her. In all though and at the core of their lives, dogs always want to be with you, never bothered needing to have ‘time alone’, time alone for a dog is time alone together. Holly had a bed in every room, just in case we were in it. She’d always wander in and join us, her claws clicking softly on the hardwood floor, bumping her way through a door left ajar in anticipation of exactly that and she’d settle down on her bed with a soft sigh, first doing a quick scan of the room to check for any dropped crumbs. She’d jump into the back of the car as soon as we opened the door outside just in case we thought leaving her behind was an option. If we were in the garden she’d be out too, chasing a ball, chasing my little brother, chasing butterflies, rocks (something else she had in common with Oppy), birds, socks and shadows, or just lying quietly in the sun, so long as she was close to us she was happy. In all, Dogs just love to be with you.
It’s also fascinating how we communicate with our animals, especially as we get to know them and raise them. You never quite realise the depth of your connection as you grow alongside one another and your relationship develops, and create a character that you associate with them. Holly was incredibly intelligent, or at least we thought as much. Her favourite toy was a squeaky bone, she’d carry it with her all day, but god forbid it ever squeaked! We ascribed this to the fact that she didn’t like the noise because it sounded like a puppy in pain, and so she guarded it 24/7, chewing on it very very softly so as to make sure she didn’t hurt it. She did have a tendency to wander off when we took her for a walk around the woods, which was always a pain. She’d disappear right at the end, just as we were getting home as though she never wanted it to end. You’d be shouting and shouting and nothing, so you’d have to go look for her and then when you finally caught her, a yellow streak in a green wood, inevitably she’d be eating something disgusting. You’d shout at her to stop it, but oh no she would not, she’d weigh up the fact that she was already in trouble and so instead of coming back, she’d just eat faster, getting as much in as she could as you ran to stop her because either way she was going to be told off. My favourite habit of hers was that every year at Christmas, just before sitting down for Christmas lunch she would go out and find something either dead or previously digested and roll in it. We assumed that this was because she wasn’t receiving enough attention and to be fair she was a bit of a diva so perhaps that was true. There was no greater sight than my half-pissed dad, outside in the cold, swearing loudly whilst washing the dog down as she smiled happily at him, just chuffed to be a part of things again. She had this really lovely habit of pressing her head against you, if she wanted to sit with you or if you were sitting on the floor playing with her she would wander over and press her head against you until she slowly rolled down and slumped on top of your legs. One of my favourite things in the world was pressing my head against hers, almost as if beaming thoughts into each other’s brains. Usually I’d tell her I loved her, and usually she’d tell me the same.
All these aspects created a character more real than most people were to us. Her personality forged from her quirks and exploits which elevated her far higher than the beasts in the woods. Much like Oppy’s heroic works on another planet earning her our undying love and affection, so too did Holly’s hilarious and heartwarming exploits in our back garden earn her space in our tribe, and earnt our undying love. She was a topic of conversation, a worker, a companion, a source of hilarity and heartbreak, a playmate, a therapist and a best friend. Above all though she was family, and as hard as it is to say good bye to family, it’s important to remember that everything has its time, that in the end we do have to let go and say good bye, and know that their work is done. There’s a story that goes around the internet every now and then that truly encapsulates this which I’ll paraphrase here:
A vet is called to a family home to check on an old dog, he brings the kit knowing it’s likely to be needed and sure enough upon arrival the old girl has had her time. The family’s young son joins them in the living room to say good bye and afterwards the family get to talking about how sad it is that dogs don’t live forever. The vet asks the little boy why he believes dogs don’t live as long as we do. The boy thinks for a second before saying, “well people are put on the earth so that we have time to get to know other people, to know the world and to learn how to love. Dogs come here already knowing how to love everyone and everything, they arrive happy and leave happy, so they don’t need to stay as long as we do.”
Holly arrived loving everyone she met. As she grew she loved us the most and when she died she died happy, in the back of our car, with her family there with her, knowing that she had loved the world and the world had loved her back. Now she’s up on the rainbow bridge chasing balls and mice and rays of sunlight, maybe even a rock or two with her new rover friend, and one day I’ll go find her, press my head against hers and tell her I love her again. Then we’ll cross it together.
