On Monday I tested positive for COVID. On Tuesday my dog died.
It sounds like the start of a country and western song, but I don’t have a horse and my woman ain’t left me – yet.
The virus has been treating me gently and is not a problem. The dog’s death is, his absence leaving a big hole in our universe.
I once was publicly dismissive on television of the extent of grief that is possible over a pet’s death. It ended my role as a fill-in Today Show host.
The lessons in how wrong I was are getting harder.
I’ve already written one eulogy for a dog, our dear Max, the fabulous Dalmatian. It’s effectively the second chapter in my book. And now I suppose I’m writing another, surrendering to the journalist’s reflex action to life and death.
There are major similarities but also large differences between Max and Nixon.
Yes, poor Nixon had to carry that name for 11 years as it was judged the innocent pup looked a bit like Tricky Dicky if you caught him thinking serious thoughts.
The thing that is striking us now though: When Max died, it was, of course, rough, but we still had sons at home so the place was not empty and more things punctuated our day.
With Nixon, we’ve lost a third of our household, a timekeeper and pace setter of routines that subtly measured the day and provided small purposes through it, never mind his constant companionship and the joy that is a happy dog.
The walks together are obvious – an excellent companion, the walk good for the soul and body, a welcome discipline, as walks were with Max – but I’m missing not taking Nixon out last thing for his goodnight piddle.
Doesn’t matter if it was cold, that sometimes there were more things that needed to be sniffed than the weather might have encouraged – it was a meditation to stand, watch and wait for him.
There was a house with a big yard when we had Max. He slept in his kennel on the back veranda and did not require our timely attendance.
Nixon had a good bladder but nonetheless there was a reason not to lie abed too long – there was the warmth of his welcome to enjoy, his celebration of another day of companionable possibilities, or at least his great desire for the morning dog biscuit, something we suspect contains a form of dog heroin.
There’s a cartoon of a dog going to Confession, the pup telling his priest he had lied, pretending he hadn’t been fed to get a second meal. Nixon would do that for another dog biscuit. Maybe he was well named.
Nixon was not a dog given to smoodging, he didn’t seek pats or tummy rubs, but in the morning he would place his forehead against my shin and rest a moment, almost snuggle, saying it was good to see me, glad we had both survived another night. It’s OK.
Nix and Max had different world views. Max was an enthusiast, Nixon more judgemental, more selective.
There were only a few dogs he wanted to be friends with, others were mainly ignored beyond a perfunctory sniff and there was his unfair political dislike of the former local member’s pup.
Nixon wouldn’t play a game he couldn’t win – he didn’t bother to chase birds because they would fly away.
He enjoyed playing the rabbit when he was young, being chased by other dogs – but only if they were slower than him. He wouldn’t play with whippets.
Max thought cats were for chasing – except for that one that didn’t run away, that stood its ground and arched and hissed and stopped him in his tracks a metre away, confused and uncomfortable.
Stupid cat not knowing The Order of Things. We decided it never happened. What cat?
Nixon sometimes thought about chasing cats; in his younger days he might make a little show of it, but he mainly found them curious, mysterious beings that he would like to study, if only they spoke his language.
And Nixon was more my dog, while Max was the family dog. If I slipped away to the study, it wouldn’t be long before Nixon noticed my absence, leave whoever else was home, and find me, making himself comfortable somewhere on the floor nearby, and stay there – unless a particularly rich meaty aroma was coming from the kitchen.
Just about everything I’ve written over the past 11 years has been with Nixon’s quiet advice.
His breed, to the extent that his breed matters, was three-quarters cavalier spaniel, one quarter poodle. Technically a cavoodle, but spanielly, as opposed to the more common Ewok-impersonating cavoodles.
He was a bit taller, longer and snoutier than a cavalier – a particularly handsome tri-colour dog who both shed and required clipping.
But it turned out his poodle genes weren’t enough to avoid a common enough congenital cavalier problem – a heart murmur.
It was there, he was never going to become a very old dog. He had developed an occasional fearsome cough thanks to the leaking valve, but he remained bright and always up for our usual walks, never slow upon the stairs.
Until Tuesday afternoon in my study.
And now as I write it’s late Friday afternoon. Nixon would be stirring, letting me know it was time to be off on the afternoon walk. There are a lot of trees and posts scheduled for visiting.
So this is an indulgent column, written for a small dog, at the end of a bad week.
There was other stuff that was on my list – politics and economics, tax evasion and multinationals – but they’ll still be there next week. Nixon won’t.
Go well.
