The Final Days

Nutty, our beloved Sheltie is slowing down, his life-force draining out of him hour by hour.

The Tinies (aka, the tiny tots, our Bichon Frises) woke me up at 7am rather annoyingly, as I didn't go back to sleep and I didn't have to be compos mentis till 9.30am when Dina was coming up to chant with me.

Nutty slept all night under my bed. He likes the darkness and being in a small area where he can be undisturbed. His breathing is very shallow now. Part of me hopes he will just stop breathing and pass away peacefully and the other part dreads the final moment and the abyss of despair that lies beyond it. I can't bear the thought of taking him to the vet for his final injection and yet I know this may be the most humane option.

He has not eaten for 3 days now. I siphon broth and water into his mouth but he won't take anything solid. He sleeps spread out like a jelly on the floor as if his bones have disappeared. When he does get up he is shaky and uncoordinated, unable to get a grip on the wooden floors and his little blood-stained paws slip about as he tries to get a grip.

The grief is at times so intense I don't know how I will stand it. And then, just when the pain is at it's most intense, it subsides a little, giving me a bit of a breathing space.

When Dina came up I couldn't contain myself. The sympathy of other people just turns on the taps and all my misery gushes out. We chanted for quite a while and every so often I'd start thinking about Nutty, and how much I will miss him, and my chest would fill up with tears and I'd start heaving again. She was very sympathetic and really, the sympathy of friends is the only thing that helps. Of course they cannot really say anything new but just having a warm supportive body nearby makes such a difference.

Then she left and I felt so exhausted I wanted to go back to bed. But it was past 11am and I had to take the dogs out to the park. As Nutty is so comatose I forget that he still needs to pee and might enjoy the feel of grass under his paws and the sunshine on his tawny (albeit scrawny) back.

And so I clipped the leads on the Tinies and put Nutty in his blood-stained pram and off we trundled to the park. There we sat on the grass in the muggy sunshine, the Tinies chasing other dogs and Nutty collapsed, like a jelly, next to me.

I called Boyfriend on a Short Fuse, not sure why really as he is no good in a crisis and hates it when I am emotional. I suppose out of habit and wanting the comfort and familiarity. He was fine though, and came along to meet me in the park. He was grumbling on the way home about one of his recalcitrant offspring who had got some poor girl up the duff. We were chatting away quite pleasantly until we arrived at my flat. I lifted Nutty out of his pram and disassembled it before rather clumsily levering it into the flat and shoving it behind the front door, all the time keeping my eye on the Tinies and Nutty who was staggering around drunkenly on the pavement outside.

`DON'T DO IT LIKE THAT!' shouts Boyfriend on a Short Fuse, grabbing the pram from my hands. `GOD YOU ARE SO BLOODY USELESS. IT GOES IN WITH THE SMALL WHEELS FIRST, HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU!'

He flings the pram into his preferred position, with the wheels facing the correct way, before throwing Nutty inside the door (the Tinies have already crept in, they are terrified when he starts shouting), and storming off, smoke blowing out of his ears at the terrible irritations he must endure.

He never used to be this bad. Until a few years ago he was so much fun, a real cheeky chappy, he could charm the birds from the trees. These days, perhaps it is some midlife crisis, he is always moaning and criticising and has developed an unhealthy obsession with health and safety and following obscure rules to the letter.

After some thought I've realised this is what happens to most men past 50. They become sticklers for correctness, following obscure rules to the letter, eating particular food in a certain way, and woe betide the woman who has provided the middle-aged Fuhrer with a plate with a speck of dust on it or a glass with a whisper of dust. They like the TV blaring all night but become incensed if the radio is on quietly in another room. They will not countenance any kind of music being played anywhere. The sound of anyone using their laptop or cleaning their teeth inspires paroxisms of fury.

I thought it was just Boyfriend on a Short Fuse who was moody, irrational, interfering and permanently furious but there are tons of men like him out there.

I was in the park yesterday about to attend to one of the Tinies who had just dumped a tiny poo on the grass. I had a tissue in my hand and was just about to remove it and put it in the bin. A middle-aged man comes rushing up to me with enough plastic to turn the entire Pacific ocean into a plastic soup (whoops forgot, due to people like him the Pacific ocean is already a plastic soup). `YOU MUST USE A PLASTIC BAG, HERE I HAVE ONE!' he says bossily, pretending he is being helpful but I know he is just being controlling and bossy.

`It's OK', I reply politely, `I have a large tissue'. (I don't go into the whole thing about plastic being far more polluting than poo because he will never understand).

`OH NO, I MUST INSIST YOU USE A BAG', he bosses, primly handing me a slew of plastic, beaming like he is doing me a wonderful favour. How kind!

Of course I take the bloody bag because he is a middle-aged man who will expire with frustration if I refuse it.

The funny thing is that I used to be a big fan of men, I adored my father, grandfather and brother, but to be honest, I'd rather do without the interfering and being controlled. It's definitely an age thing, they are fine up to a certain point.

Calm and harmony was restored this afternoon when Joyce popped in for a coffee and stayed 4 hours for a good old natter. I burst into tears as soon as I saw her, (I am aware my emotional incontinence is irritating, especially to middle-aged you-know-whos), but once I'd got that out of the way felt so much better. Really if I was never involved with a man again but had the luxury of endless girlfriends on tap, within reasonable distance, I would be quite happy.

My pal, B just rang to offer her sympathy. He beloved dog was put down last year, so she understands completely. I explained that I loved Nutty more than anyone, certainly more than you-know-who, which was why it is all so heart-breaking. `I quite understand what you mean', she says, `I loved my dog far more than X (her bossy middle-aged husband). When he came back from work the evening after I'd put my dog down he said, `I don't know why you're so stressed, it's hardly like you had a stressful day'.
They had a furious row with her saying, `I loved that dog far more than I loved you!' And she's barely spoken to him since.