As we head into the festive season, my mind is turning to thoughts of death.
We lost the third of our small yappy triumvirate on Monday. Poppy had adapted really well to the loss of her sister earlier in the year, due to her sunny nature and the company of Goofy. So, we were hopeful of a good few years of stability in our dog family, with Poppy seeming to be in very good shape for a 12 year old. Sadly, it wasn’t to be. She was a bit off early last week, which the vet diagnosed as a recurrence of her back pain from a few months before. However, the pain killers only seemed to make her very drowsy, so I stopped them, but her deterioration continued. By the weekend she had stopped eating and was looking alarmingly frail, so we took her back to the vet. She was admitted to the hospital for fluids and investigations, and on Monday morning they found a large tumour in her liver. She got put to sleep on Monday evening.
I’m on first name terms with our vet Glenn (with two “n’s”) after he has been the angel of death for all three of our cancerous wee pooches over the past couple of years. I’m not sure if he’s ever seen me not blubbing?
I should be familiar with grief by now but its wave-like nature always takes me by surprise. You’ll be absolutely fine, going on like normal, then something will trigger a memory and the sadness comes back. There’s also the existential question that if a person or animal no longer exists that used to love you when they were alive, does that diminish you as a person? Is it a weakness to want to be loved? Is it really better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, or was Tennyson talking through a hole in his arse?
On the plus side of the pet register, Fanny the goldfish, so unwell just a few weeks ago, is looking healthy and strong. Also our daughter and her partner have just got a cute wee cavoodle called George, so life goes on I suppose. Sigh.