It was not an auspicious start. As my daughter and I stood chatting to the woman who had been fostering Mr Wags, he bit her cat. Half an hour later, he went for her dog. But by then I was in love with him.
Mr Wags was 12 years old, a papillon cross, and very cross. He turned away if you got too affectionate and he lost it completely if you sat close enough to touch his tail. His first visit to our vet featured a muzzle and $3,000 of tooth extractions. We often rued the day that they had left him with three teeth. One was a canine that sank numerous times into the fleshy pad on my right hand. My daughter suggested we offer them extra to take it out, but I wouldn’t hear of it. We were sort of co-dependent, both of us having had a hard life.
Mr Wags had started out as a pet bought for children, who outgrew him long before he was surrendered to the Forever Friends shelter in Latrobe, Victoria. He became a bit of a folk hero at the vet’s and among our friends for his hair-trigger responses, but over time they happened less often. He sat on the sofa, pressing on my thigh, if I was reading. If I was at my desk on the computer, he sat next to me. When I moved, he moved. Velcro dog. Except at bedtime, which became a complex ritual involving turning the lights off in the right order, picking him up at a certain point between the living room and the bedroom (and no closer) and gently placing him on his special pillow – the one next to mine. I went to sleep to the sound of his snoring. Every now and then I would reach out to touch him. I still do.
He was very sprightly for an older dog, despite his atopia – an all-over, itchy skin allergy that must have given him hell, having being untreated for 12 years. His ears were also prone to infection, and when they were cleaned out and we took him to a farmers’ market, it took us ages to figure out why he was cowering. The sudden noise was all too much.
He needed to visit the vet every Saturday for ear drops because he wouldn’t let me do them. We soon learned that I could not accompany him into the consultation room. He howled until we were all tearful. The vet told me I was Mr Wags’ last line of defence. His favourite veterinary nurse saved all the tiny bits of liver treats for him each Saturday.
One day, five years after we got him, he seemed bored with his food. Who could blame him? He left it and continued to do so; within three months he had lost half a kilo. Blood and urine tests showed his kidneys working at 20% capacity, a heart murmur and liver problems. It seemed to happen so suddenly. Two days in hospital on doggie hydration helped enormously, but it was complex and slow because of the heart murmur. It was also very expensive. I asked myself if I was keeping him alive just to watch him turn 18.
I made the decision not to continue hydration therapy. He had so many problems, and I couldn’t bear the thought of him suffering. I made the appointment and spent half an hour that evening justifying myself to my daughter. I was so close to changing my mind.
Come Saturday morning, we were up early. We folded his favourite blanket, had spaghetti sauce for breakfast, and went to the park. He was allowed to sit on my lap in the car and to walk on the grass. Our magnificent vet gave him what Australians call “the green dream” as we held him, although his bolshiness required a sedative before the euthanising pentobarbital shot. It was as good a death as could be. We stayed for an hour or so, and his favourite nurse picked him up and took him away from us.
Mr Wags is in doggie heaven now. But you know the best thing about doggie heaven, right? In doggie heaven, Mr Wags has a full set of teeth.
