Farewell to a beloved dog

It's taken me a week to write it. Mr. Darcy is dead.

My beloved cavalier King Charles spaniel. The first dog I'd ever purchased and raised on my own, my dog rather than a family pet. Companion of so many trips, living hot water bottle on countless nights, the adoring eyes that followed me for hours. Gone.

Admittedly, this wasn't a surprise. Darcy had just turned 13; that's 91 to you and me. He was blind, deaf and diabetic, kept going by twice-daily insulin injections, glucosamine tablets and what must me the world's most expensive dog food. (Anybody want to buy a case of Hills Science Diet, diabetic formula?) This adventurous little spaniel, whose head had hung eagerly out the car window through so many trips, had scaled back to a life of sleeping on the couch, with occasional forays to the back garden and the food bowl. The decline had been slow, so I hadn't noticed just how much he'd plummeted until my mother's 3-year-old Datchet arrived in the house and presented a stark comparison.

Last Monday morning, at 3:30, it was the younger dog who woke me with a sharp bark. Downstairs I found Darcy trembling with violent seizures, which went on for half an hour before he finally slipped into what we now know was a diabetic coma. I held the little guy to my chest and tried to make it better while Piers tracked down the 24-hour vet. By the time we arrived at their offices in Winchester, I knew ... and was ready for ... what was coming. Thus my work week started with heartbreak in an examining room, and ended with me picking up a lovingly-wrapped little packet of ashes from a crematorium in the Hampshire countryside.

It's not a story I could have imagined in June of 1999, when my mother and I went to visit a new litter of cavaliers. Much as I wanted one, I wasn't at home enough to take proper care of a dog. Nonsense, my mother briskly decided. You work close enough to your house to get home for lunch, and you make enough money to get a dog walker. You've lived by yourself long enough. You need a dog. I went into that meeting with my resolution strong. Despite the adorable appeal of cavalier puppies, I thought I'd make it through. The breeder put two puppies in my lap, and one in my mother's. That one looked over at me, got up, walked across laps, pushed his brother and sister onto the floor, curled up and looked up at me with a heart-melting gave. My only response at that point was "is there a cash machine nearby?". Mr. Darcy was coming home with me.

He was a stalwart road tripper from the beginning. We'd already booked a holiday to Ireland that month and the breeder couldn't keep him. So he came in a French market basket, hiding (and mostly sleeping) through pre-booked hotels and tourist attractions that didn't allow dogs. Over the years he wandered the moors of Devon and Somerset, the beaches of Norfolk, the highlands of Scotland, the hills of the Lake District, nearly every corner of the Cotswolds and the vineyard towns of the Mosel. (He almost made it to Italy, but he couldn't stand hot weather, so we spared him that one.)

Even as a youngster, however, Mr. Darcy was never the most energetic of canines. Though our destinations were often famous for their long walks, he usually trotted along grudgingly. His favourite bits were lounging by b&b fires and using his floppy ears and huge brown eyes to beg scraps from anyone susceptible to his charm. His record: the farmer's market in Stratford-on-Avon, where he managed to get free sausage from all five gourmet vendors hawking their wares that day. He appears to have been fondest of the venison, though duck scored high tail wagging as well. For me, the best parts of those trips were often just his quiet companionship. He used to sprawl across the front seat, head propped on the arm rest, staring at me adoringly for hours at a time. It is very hard to have bad day when something that beautiful and good loves you so completely.

With every joy of dog ownership, however, goes the pain of saying goodbye. It is one life's great tragedies that they live so much less time than we do. Who knows. Maybe it's all part of a master plan to teach us the lessons of love and loss before we graduate to humans. I once heard of a man who refused to own a dog, because he couldn't face the idea of losing it. No matter how much pain I felt last week, I'll never be able to understand that attitude. Yes, it hurt. Yes, I've cried a lot over the past seven days. But for 13 years I've had a faithful, constant companion who gave me nothing but love, and made my life better every time I paused to stroke his head. That's what dogs do. It justifies any pain that comes at the end.

Mr. Darcy, you were worth it all.