May 2010

[Sweder]

I ended the month of May with a whimper and in floods of tears.

There are folks who don't see the significance of pets, who decry those who would bestowe human qualities on animals. I make no apology for feeling bereft at this loss of, to us, a dear family member and a cherished companion. Gypsy was a faithful hound. She ran with me to Blackcap, and to Ditchling, hundreds of times in her ten short years. Always pleased to see me, always first up to greet me as I staggered in from work (or the pub). She had this funny way of snorting, shaking her head and peeling back her lips to offer a comical canine smile. No matter what ugliness might have blackened my mood on any given day that welcome always warmed my heart. At night, as I lounged on the sofa falling asleep to a procession of dross on the gogglebox, she'd rest her chin on my outstretched toes, happy and content at her master's feet.

Since February we'd struggled to keep weight on Gypsy's slender frame. Despite visits to the vet and a variety of tests and drugs she continued to shrink before our eyes. I took her in last Monday and saw a different vet. Rather than send us off on another expensive series of tests she gave it to me straight. She's an Aussie, so that should have come as no surprise. She felt certain that Gypsy had a form of cancer, probably lymphoma. This explained the continued weight loss despite our best efforts to feed her up. We agreed that so long as there was a quality of life we should do all within reason to keep the old girl going. I'll know when it's time, I said.

Following a lethargic trudge to the Dewpond and an alarming bout of vomiting, we rushed her in on Thursday afternoon. Sophie was waiting, clearly worried by the rapid deterioration. The prognosis was poor: we had a decision to make. Gypsy sat slumped on the surgery floor, exhausted, her protruding ribs rising and falling with the effort of drawing breath. She hadn't run since Tuesday, was no longer greeting visitors and could hold neither food nor water. Left alone for a few minutes we considered the options through silent tears. The best we could hope for would be to get her through the weekend. Then we'd be back here facing the same terrible choice.

Sophie returned and I gave our decision. She smiled gently, nodding. She'd have done the same in our position. She went out to get the permission form - Gypsy's Death Warrant. I spent a moment holding that bony face, looking into those worried, dark-brown eyes, telling her (me) that this would end her pain, that it would all be OK. She looked back at me, sighed and slumped, an act of resignation that broke my heart. Mrs S held her hand over her mouth, stroking Gypsy's skeletal frame, her own body wracked with violent sobs. I signed the form and held Gypsy's head as the needle went in. There was a fair amount of the viscous blue liquid required and halfway through she turned to look right at me. I held her gaze and stroked her head as the light faded from her eyes. Her chest rose and fell one last time, and she was gone.

It's churlish to make comparisons between people and animals, distasteful even, yet the parallels to me are clear. I loved Gypsy as a companion and a member of our family just as I loved Moyleman as a friend and running inspiration. Both ran with me over many a mile and each could kick my arse without really trying. I'd like to think that my two running pals are even now dashing through the Elysian Fields, bounding through the high grass together under a gentle sun. Those fields were said to be 'the final resting place of the souls of the heroic and the virtuous.'
Sounds just right to me.