Good Fryday and bad times

This is not the Fryday I intended to write. Nor is it a Fryday I wanted to write. Perhaps it is not even the Fryday I should write, but you must be the judge of that.

Earlier this week I lost one of the two dogs my wife and I owned. The dog was eight years old and succumbed after a protracted battle with cancer, lasting many months. When she was diagnosed we were told that even with the best treatment, we could at most expect her to have another year with us.

Death is the domain of decisions.

Our first was not to subject her to invasive chemotherapy for the sake of a year. We instead opted to put her on medication that would for a time protect her from the worst excesses of cancer.

For many months the medication did just that and was only recently--the last few days--that her deterioration became evident and inevitable.

It was then that I took a second decision: to take her off the medication and have her die as peacefully as she could at home.

When her last day came, I think she knew it. There were a few things out of character: a slow circuit of the property boundary stopping to watch the sheep on one side and the children playing on the other. There was an attempt to get back to the house, but she never made it more than half-way. My wife and I carried her the rest of the way and put her in her bed next to ours. It was there she died that night.

I have lost dogs before, but it never gets easier. And I don't wish to single out dogs--all pet-owners feel the same range of emotions and have to deal with them and can be excused for dwelling on them.

And nor is it just pets. I spoke to a farmer about this and he said that he feels the same about every working dog he's owned.

Laila led a charmed life. Her world was one of adventure. She was a boxer, named after the most famous female boxer in the world Laila Ali. Our Laila charmed most who met her and made everybody, even those she couldn't charm, feel that they were the most important people in her life.

She loved going to the vets and being poked and prodded--even in those last days when she could barely wag her tail, her whole body shook with pleasure as we entered the vet clinic.

Yes, she had issues. Boxers tend to have a few--ask any owner.  She was never good around smaller dogs. Yes, she stole apples from our tree so frequently that we had to let it go and turn a blind eye.

And, yes, she did adopt an air of "It's all about me". And, of course, it was.  However, as long as she could also make you think it was all about you. That was okay too. You had to love Laila for that.

And we did.

For that...and a whole lot more.

Going to to the dogs

I have nothing against people who dislike dogs. It’s just that many of them seem to be intolerant of those, like me, who do like dogs. I have become aware again of this Holden v. Ford chasm since taking delivery of two dogs on Boxing Day—one aptly a boxer. For my wife and I they have replaced most everything, except each other, as the loves of our lives. There is no doubt they are challenging, hair-tearing, frustrating and their toiletry habits and remains reminds one of those dreadful minefields that blight our world and history. But they are also lively, lovely, cute and adoring. Despite being different breeds and with an age and size difference they get on well together and they have taken to their spectacular new home and to us with alacrity and unrestrained joy. Our border collie is called Luke; our boxer is called Laila, after Mohammed Ali’s daughter—herself a famous boxer. Luke and Laila will offer little to you as Fryday reader but they offer a lot to me. And they are offered here as record of their presence rather than any precursor to the unrelieved tedium of my always talking about my dogs. Don’t you hate it when people do that? Almost makes you want to dislike those who love dogs, doesn’t it? No. :-)

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