A World Without Ziggy

 27th August- 8th September 2023

We had a wedding, a big family get-together, a funeral, two birthdays and then - Ziggy died.

He'd been diagnosed with heart failure one month previously. Tests showed his heart to be massively enlarged. He rallied with his initial treatment but it didn't last. He wasn't in pain but he was stressed and uncomfortable and things weren't going to get any better. Hannah made the decision that it would be unkind to try and prolong his life. 

Ziggy was a smashing wee dog, so full of character. He had many friends. But Hannah was his number one, and he was hers. We will all miss that little fellow, the Zigster, Zigatron, Wiggler, the best boy there ever was. 

Roy

It was March five years ago when Roy came to live with us. He'd been Bert's Aunt Nessie's dog and after she died he continued living with Nessie's partner Paddy. Now Paddy was dying and needed homes for all four of his dogs. One went to Paddy's carer, two went into council care and we got Roy.

I wasn't even that enthusiastic. I'd never met Roy but Bert was keen to give him a home. He felt he owed it to Nessie. We went to collect him. When Paddy went into the hospital, his carer had taken on the job of feeding the dogs daily but they were still spending most of their time alone. I stayed in the van while Bert climbed over the gate and opened the front door and two dogs ran out. The smaller one just sniffed around a little, the collie (our new dog) was thoroughly delighted to see him, jumping up, his tail whirring like a windmill. I gazed at our new dog, the one that I was only mildly interested in and thought to myself, "I love him!" Love at first sight.

Close up, he was shaggy and smelly, rather worried. He'd never travelled in a vehicle before. We got him home. Introduced him to Judy and Jess who weren't impressed. Fed and watered him. He settled in.

Roy liked people, food, dogs, cats and lying just outside the door watching the world go by. Roy didn't like vehicles, collars and leads, walks, upstairs, balls.

As he became even more settled he learned to enjoy treats, herding pigs and walks.

But walks had to be on Roy's terms. There were rules. Only the back lane and woods. If he was spoken to on the back lane he would turn and go back to the house so we learned to pretend not to notice him. If he got as far as the woods he'd go off and do his own thing and then come back at a time of his own choosing.

We took him to Donegal once. Obviously, he did not enjoy the journey and when we got to the caravan he refused to go to the beach and spent the entire time either in the caravan or just outside it. That was his one and only trip away. Afterwards, the only journeys he ever took were occasional visits to the vet's surgery.

He never ever went upstairs. He wouldn't play fetch or chase balls. He was just Roy and he did things his way.

Y'know he wasn't even that old. Around eight when he came to us he must have been thirteen when he died. In the last year he stopped being able to jump up, wasn't able to get on the sofa any more. Even his tail didn't whir so much. He still loved his comforts, first in the queue for supper, had his favourite visitors, Les, Ben, Mel. Harassed Bert for walks in the woods, me for treats.

And then, this Tuesday past his legs just stopped working. They'd been wobbly for a while and he'd been taking arthritis medication. Bert tried to help him but he kept collapsing. Zoe said he seemed bewildered. Yesterday morning, first thing, I called the vet to request a home visit. We made the decision to have him put peacefully and gently to sleep.

He is the fifteenth dog to be buried here.

Polly, Molly, Danny, Penny, Chip, Jock, Rosie, Peppy, Paddy, Charlie, Bonnie, Holly, Maeve, Frank and Roy.

Nine family dogs and six belonging to friends

We'll never forget you, Roy..

Bonnie's Stuff

Bonnie, March 2009

Bonnie came to us as a neglected and unloved dog who had lived her life on the end of a chain. Her collar, a stiff, cracked old thing, had chafed all the fur from underneath her chin. She was matted and smelly and very timid. The first thing we did when we knew we would be keeping her was to give her a bath. Afterwards, I wrapped her in old towels and covered her with a woolen blanket. She seemed baffled by the attention but not unhappy. As soon as I could I bought her a new collar, soft leather, and bright red. She seemed pleased with it and wore it the entire time she was with us. I kept it for a long time after she died but eventually disposed of it.

That was her first possession. She never 'got' balls. Her thing was squeaky toys. She loved them even after she had carefully detached squeaker and eyes. I kept her stuff in a straw basket and every night she'd take them all out item by item. And the first thing out of the basket was always the plastic Santa Claus. Bonnie really did like her stuff.

Bonnie, in January 2012. 

Contains Spoilers!

Tesco in Ballymena have a charity book stall that raises funds for diabetes and, when I'm in there, I usually have a rummage through it. I'm afraid that it does not show Tesco customers in a very good light as the books available are pretty poor. Too much Cecilia Ahern and Dan Brown and not enough Good Stuff. However, I struck lucky the other day and picked up a copy of Louis de Bernieres' Red Dog which is something I've always wanted to read. So much so that I already have a copy, somewhere, some place. It might take me a week to find it for long gone are the days when I categorised my books by genre and the novels by author. Far easier to plop 50 pence in the collecting tin and start reading immediately.

When I got back Bert spotted it straight away.

What's that about?

It's about a dog. Set in Australia.

Does it have a happy ending?

Unlikely. When does a book about dogs ever have a happy ending?

Five minutes later I find him reading the book. The last few pages. One of Bert's strangest habits is that he reads the ending of a novel before the beginning.

Well? Happy ending?

Nope! It's at the vet. Got poisoned with strychnine and is being euthanised as I read.

Thanks for the details. Not!

And that's the true thing about dogs - they die far too soon. To love a dog is to store up a future sorrow. I've written about this before. 

Right now I have friends whose senior dogs are giving them a lot of worry. We're thinking about Frank and Tycho and hoping that they'll both be around for a few years more.

A Farewell To Holly

Today was a very busy day for this retired lady of leisure with three entries in the diary. In the afternoon I had a dog delivery to make. Ziggy was to be returned to his owner after his regular Monday to Tuesday sleepover. His owner Miss Hannah and I had a coffee date and, as his habit, Ziggy remained in the van and got the hazard lights going to alert all passers by that it would be seriously hazardous to their health if they should attempt to steal his vehicle.

The evening brought the boys to our house for Music Night. I served them home made sausage rolls and chocolate fairy cakes. They particularly enjoyed the fairy cakes.

But, before all this, we had a dog funeral. The Wee Manny's dog was put to sleep last night. Holly was really Mrs The Wee Manny's dog and she was devastated to lose her but Holly had a good long life. She was a black Labrador cross, a rescue dog that they'd got more than a dozen years ago. The Wee brought her round this morning to be buried in our garden. The list is growing. I wrote about our pet cemetery back in 2008.

Friday, October 31, 2008

Dowsing For Dogs

...dogs we know are buried there are in order of interment:-

Polly: sweetest little Jack Russell cross. Given to Pearlie soon after she was widowed. The girls never forgave us for parting. She only lasted a few months before succumbing to the horror movie that is the Dreen Road.

Molly: Died February 2004, Springer spaniel just arrived in Nellybert's yard. Unknown to us she was riddled with cancer. We kept her six months. I adored her. We spent a fortune at the vet. Eventually had to have her put down.

Danny: Best. Dog. Ever. Nellybert's first beloved pooch. Committed suicide under the wheels of Bert's van sometime in 2004. He was nearly seventeen.

Penny: She was Pearlie's dog. Died on Christmas Eve aged around fourteeen. Her demise marked the beginning of Pearlie's decline.

Chip: Not our dog but Danny's mother. Eighteen when her owners had her put down. They had nowhere to bury her. We had all the room in the world.

Jock: Not our dog either but the beloved pet of the Wee Mannys.

Rosie: Died October 2008. She won't be the last but she was the first to have a dozen or so narcissi planted on her grave.

And since then....

Hannah's rats - Rocky, Pepe, Polly and Meka. They have their own special plot in front of the green house. It's teeny.

Five more dogs.

Peppy: Belonged to our friend Rod. She was a frequent visitor to our house. He still stops by her grave.

Paddy: Died February 2012.

Charlie: Died June 2012.

Bonnie: Died June 2013.

Holly: Buried today. Much loved pet of Mrs The Wee Manny.

Holly and her companion Rocky. 

Charlie Died

Well.

Charlie died. He was killed on the road near to the entrance of our lane. Last night, just before midnight I let all three of our dogs out to pee. Bonnie and Judy usually do their business, mooch around for a few minutes and come to the door to be let in. Charlie does some rounds of the garden and yard and will either come in willingly or he might need to be persuaded. I had gone to bed so Bert was the one doing the persuading. Charlie did not respond so Bert called me and I grumpily got up to try my cajoling magic on him. I shouted, I called, I hoped, I prayed. No Charlie. I took a torch to the bottom of the lane and shone it around. No sign. I decided to take the car out. I'd only turned it out of the lane when I saw him lying at the side of the road. I got out and picked him up. He was limp and light as a feather.

This morning when I carried him from the shed to his grave he felt much more of a burden. I suppose that is what people mean when they speak of a dead weight.

Judging by the amount of blood on the road Charlie did not die where I found him. Someone, most likely the driver of the vehicle that killed him, gathered him up and placed him where no other vehicle would drive over him. I'm grateful for that.

Scruff

I have just received some very sad news. Scruff, my sister's dog, died today in a freak accident.

Scruff was one of those wonderful dogs that everybody admired. He stayed with Nellybert on several occasions and every time he walked into our house he immediately assumed the status of pack leader. Did I say 'walk'? That should have been 'strut'.

It was only a couple of days ago that Bert remarked, "I don't suppose Scruff will ever stay with us again?" and I agreed that he probably wouldn't as he was getting old. He was thirteen. He might have had a few more years but they wouldn't have been his best. And he died doing something he loved - out walking the hills and valleys with his beloved Brendan. He'll be missed.

From Nelly's Garden October 2008 when Rosie died.

Loving dogs is bloody hard sometimes. Which is why the French call them bêtes de chagrin - beasts of sorrow. For they break our hearts - they die too soon.

Bêtes de Chagrin

Rosie and Bert in the Mournes

Team Dirty Rotten Scunging Devil-Dog is no more. Rosie was killed this morning in the road just outside our house. One of Pearlie's helpers left the door wide open and the pair of them, so well guarded by Hannah all weekend, saw an opportunity and made their escape. We think Rosie was struck by a car moments after leaving the house. Due to her injuries we're sure she died instantly.

We'd had her for twelve years. She was at least thirteen years old. Until she met Paddy she was a home-loving girl but there was something about the effect those two had on each other. Every chance they got they were off after rabbits and foxes. We really did our best to be vigilant but they always had their eye on the main chance and the left-open door.

We always gave our dogs extra 'pet' names. We had Danny for teens of years and I think he had about twenty other names by the time he left us. Bert called Rosie the Bitcher, or The Wee Special Bitcher or, a recent favourite, Scritchy.

Rosie was a great favourite with the old girls. Pearlie, Matty and Bert's Aunts Lizzie and Sally all liked her best. Bert loved her best too. Today was the first time I ever saw him with damp eyes.

Loving dogs is bloody hard sometimes. Which is why the French call them bêtes de chagrin - beasts of sorrow. For they break our hearts - they die too soon.

One consolation is that she died before old age truly took hold of her. At least we're all spared that. She'd have hated not to be active.