Days you don’t forget

Why is it, the mind stores bad days, so much better than the good ones? Take my wedding day, it went in a blur, and though I can remember plenty of it, nothing is clear and vivid to the point of taking me back, conversations forgotten and no odd details stick out. But when I think of bad days, I can recall what I wearing, what I was doing if the day suddenly became bad, words spoken and stumbled over, peoples expressions, and all the details that felt so unwelcome. And they stay so clear.

Or maybe that’s just *my* mind. That’d be about right, getting stuffed in the memory stakes.

Today isn’t a good day, though I guess it’s not as bad as the one that’s coming. And as I keep telling myself, it’s not like a person died, and I knew this day would come. I’m just not ready yet.

Which is kind of ironic, as I swore I’d never feel like this again. Never let myself get so attached to a dog, that their demise (not even occurred yet) makes me sob.

I think for the first few years I managed to stay distant. I think that’s why Ryker’s so obedient, always trying to please. Because I wasn’t a very nice mom in the beginning. Not that I was nasty, I just held back and didn’t love him as much as I could.

In fact maybe it was for more than a few years. I lost my last dog, Simba, just after he turned seven, and his death hit me really hard. Ridiculously hard. And I remember breathing a sigh of relief when Ryker turned eight. He wasn’t Simba, and he wasn’t going to die so damn suddenly on me.

And I realised I was glad he wasn’t Simba. As much as I loved my last dog, he was a bugger. As a puppy he was always getting car sick and I was always apologising to people for the way my car smelt. Then there were the walks – though ‘walk’ may be stretching it, as that bloody dog used to take off at high speed the minute anything interesting appeared on the horizon, he didn’t give a damn whether I was chasing or not – he was the boss.

But not Ryker. Four months of dog training every Monday evening, and the snip, gave my new dog a new attitude. And me. In his life Ryker has twice threatened to walk in the other direction when on a walk; the first time he was a tiny puppy and wanted to join three little dogs playing, but they were a closed group and turned on him when he bounded up. Even today I can laugh at the memory of him hurtling back and past me, tail between his legs and yelping, to the safety of the baby buggy! The baby (R) wasn’t in it, but the buggy had a tray on the bottom, that when he wedged himself in, it offered protection.

The other time was a just a couple of summers ago; Ryker was pissed off with me because we got to the beach late and you have to be off by 10am, so the walk was all of ten minutes. I headed back to the car, but in a moment of defiance he ambled the other way, pretending he didn’t hear my calls. But he shifted pretty darn quick when I started the engine and began backing out the car park!

Now Ryker’s eleven, but it seems he won’t make twelve.

I suppose I should be glad of the warning, and being given the time to say goodbye. Except I’m not. Because this time, the decision’s falling on me.

Not that I plan to make it. The vet said kidney failure wasn’t painful, so I don’t see why I should have to put him down. In fact, it seems downright absurd as to why the vet would suggest it. And then my mother suggested it. It seems strange to me. Surely that’s what you do, when all else has failed? Anyway I’m not going to dwell on that, after all, if the day comes when I feel I have to make that decision, I guess I’ll have reasons to be considering it.

We’ve started him on tablets. For cats. I have no idea why, just doing what we’re told may give him a few more months. And he’s taking human stomach ulcer stuff, and I think that’s to help with keeping his food down. Poor old sod is looking like a bag of bones. But at least he ate tonight; half a tin of some non-protein stuff the vet gave us, warmed and on a plate (as I have a theory he likes being treated as a human ;o))

The children have been told. R asked stupid questions, though they probably weren’t stupid, just irritating when you’re trying not to cry. P recounted some gruesome stories about other peoples’ family pets, to the point where I had to tell him to be quiet. J bit her lip in an effort not to giggle, right up until she realised I was ultimately saying Ryker is about to die, then she said she’d say a prayer and not stand on him anymore. S sang. And I let her. If it bothers her, she’ll grasp what’s going on when it happens.

Goodness, I’m tired tonight. So tired I’ve even stopped crying. How silly is that, to weep over a dog. But then, I realised something today, Ryker and I spend more time together than any other members of this household.

Have I ever mentioned he suffers from separation anxiety? He was diagnosed before he was a year old, and I giggled when the vet told me. Sounded ridiculous that dogs could suffer from something so human as anxiety. But we did listen and adapt to the advice, mostly because we were heartily sick of the destruction Ryker caused when left alone. Two lino floors, two sash windows, back seat and seat-belts, dog cage, several sets of remote controls, numerous door frames and doors, and the camcorder. I’m not counting the shoes and underwear as we couldn’t keep up with the count. At first we tried drugging him, same sort of stuff they give hyper-kids, but he still destroyed things with the added bonus of him peeing everywhere too.

So instead we adapted. Never left the house without him, and chose parking spaces based on shade value. He follows me everywhere, though he knows to wait outside the bathroom and bedroom.

What will it be like when he’s not there? I must remember he’s just a dog. I keep looking at him thinking there must be some mistake. He doesn’t look that ill! He looks tired is all. And skinny, he’s much too skinny. Hard to imagine it was just a year ago I was thinking he looked tubby. But then I think that every Spring, due to the mixture of less walking time and my baking fests, which I don’t tend to do in the summer. Not that I feed him many treats mind, but he’s a great vacuum-cleaner and smart enough to follow the children around when they’re eating. The summer popsicles just don’t have the same fat content.

Blimey I’m going miss the old fart. Though maybe not the farts. Then again, who will I blame now?



That was a joke by the way. Honestly, it’s very rare I’m that ashamed.

That was also a joke.

I like jokes when I fee like this. My humour changes and I find myself amused at the silliest things. Guess I should take that as a good thing, laughter cures all and all that.