Our last Goodbye

Last week passed in a blur of visits to the vet, visits to the out of hours vet at all hours of the night, emergency surgery on Saturday and finally the phone call on Sunday that had us racing across Cornwall to say our last goodbye. Grief is a language that I learnt nine years ago. It comes back far too easily: the agonising pangs that take my breath away. The troughs and peaks, the hollow in my chest, where someone has ripped out my girl and left a raw gaping hole, with exposed nerve endings jagged to the too bright light. At other times, this fades to a constant ache in the gut. You learn to carry on, try and eat, drink, go about your everyday business, acknowledging that this pain is a part of having enjoyed a great love. There’s no quick fix, I remember now. No way to ease the fact that Moll just isn’t there. As I said to the Tooth Fairy (now the Moll Fairy for the amazing care and support he’s provided during the last week), tackling grief is, I find, best done head on. Like surfing. Imagine you’re down on the beach, see waves that are bigger than you had bargained for. You can’t turn back and run, or the waves will simply break over you, drag you under, spit you out god knows where. The best way is to take a deep breath and dive underneath them. Face them head on. You can then swim until you come up the other side. It won’t be easy but it’s a better option than the first one. The chances of survival are better. It doesn’t last quite as long. But my flat isn’t home without her. It’s a silent, empty shell waiting for her to bounce up the steps, bringing life, joy and warmth. To make it feel home again. Now the flat is characterless, a dark sterile place I want to avoid. There’s no warm body at the foot of my bed, making my feet too hot, growling at me in the night when I get up to go to the loo. When I come home, there’s no one to greet me joyously - no one at all. I’ve had to put her bowls and toys away so I don’t see them. Give her food and treats away, while her lead hangs forlornly by the front door. I can’t hide that. Mornings are too quiet without the happy panting excitement of the day ahead, while she bounced off the bed, running along the corridor in a never ending hope for more food. I miss the impatient pattering of her paws as she followed me from room to room to see when and where I would settle. If there was a treat involved. Walking is a pleasureless pastime compared to the walks with Moll. I used to say, “Where shall we go today, Pop Pop?” and she would bounce off the bed, panting in happy anticipation. We’d get into the van, head off, spend a happy hour meandering around. She’s no longer waiting outside the door when I have a shower. There’s no Moll in her bed in the van when I drive along. She doesn’t sit by my side when I eat. I stumble round the flat like a visitor trapped in the wrong place. That first night, lying in bed, the flat felt cold, hostile and frightening, and I really wondered whether I could carry on living here without her. Despite being surrounded by the most wonderful, loving friends, with my dear best friend round the corner, I have never felt more alone. It is the first time in 40 years without a pet, let alone without a Moll. I’ve always had a furry creature to love and cuddle. It struck me forcibly, when I had a walk with a friend yesterday, that I’m the odd one out now. I no longer am a member of that wonderful Dog Owners Club (albeit temporarily) and that is really hard. She was my last link with Pip. She connected him and the Tooth Fairy, latterly the Moll Fairy. She saw me through so much and for that I am profoundly grateful and honoured. Looking at the many, many messages I have received, I realise what an extraordinary dog she was - and how incredibly privileged I was to have those 15 years with her. I am also so relieved that this didn’t happen in the early months of lockdown. Trying to deal with this alone, and those endless trips to the vet last week, to the out of hours vet 5 times, including picking up a very stressed Moll on Friday night at 11pm. Whereas C just said, “Of course,” getting his car keys. “Let’s go and get her.” So I feel incredibly grateful for the love and support I have. My friends are wonderful, and let me cry all over them. I take one hour at a time, cry over my computer, cry over my friends, cry in bed, on the phone, watching telly, reading. But someday, before too long I hope, I really look forward to having my next dog. (C is already looking up puppies despite me saying NO Pups). So if anyone hears of someone needing to rehome a Moll sized dog (I only have a small back yard, not a proper garden), at some point in the future, please let me know. No one could ever replace Moll but I would love to have another four legged friend to complete my life, to love and share walks with again. In the meantime, bear with me if I’m blotchy faced and red eyed for the foreseeable future. It’s nothing personal. And if anyone in Falmouth needs a dog walker or dog sitter, just let me know….