Mingo.Life

Content warning note: This is a highly emotional and personal blog post that discusses a dog attack involving a young child, injury, blood, animal surrender and unresolved pet loss.

It was only a photograph that set me off. An empty dog kennel.

A kennel we used to have in the back garden for Buster, our black and tan crazy little Jack Russell. I gave the kennel away for free after he was gone. At the time, I just wanted it out of sight. I was still in shock and it felt easier to remove the reminder than to constantly stare at it.

Years later, a photograph of that empty kennel popped up as an “On This Day” memory, and it hit me like a punch in the chest (thanks Facebook for reminding me why I despise you).

Buster had been with us for a long time. He had been by my side for 2 house moves, 1 child and a wedding – I remember him keeping me company as I slept alone the night before the wedding as is tradition. I would tell him of my anxieties and my ambitions. He would look at me blankly, lick his lips and curl up to sleep. Yet it was somehow still comforting to me.

I cannot even place his exact age now. He must have been easily over ten, perhaps twelve or thirteen at least. He was getting older, possibly before his time – we were informed he was the “runt of the litter” afterall. His knees seemed stiff. He had a strange lump growing on his back. His behaviour had begun to change slightly, too. And he began eating his own uh, yeah. That. Not good.

The thing is, dogs cannot sit you down and explain that something hurts. They cannot tell you that they are frightened, confused or no longer feeling like themselves.

Buster had always been difficult around other dogs. After he was attacked by a Staffordshire bull terrier and badly bitten around the neck, he became even more wary. I paid for the vet to stitch him back together, and we brought him home with as much love and care as we could muster.

To people, however, he was usually wonderful. Whenever somebody visited, he would jump all over them until they gave him the attention he believed he deserved.

He loved affection. Cuddles, tickles and being close to us.

I worry now that I did not walk him enough. Some days he stayed inside with us. Other days he pottered around the garden. Some days we went on hikes and he played in his favourite stream. But during it all he usually seemed quite content.

As a pet owner, when they leave you, you always find yourself asking… Could I have done more?

Life became particularly complicated after our daughter Poppy was born. Poppy was extremely premature, severely disabled and required an extraordinary amount of care. Splitting my attention became difficult, and Buster did not always receive the time I wish I had given him.

But we did have adventures.

We went on long walks through the hills. He climbed Cheddar Gorge with us. He would pull relentlessly on the lead until I finally released him, and then he would bounce through the long grass as though he had just been granted freedom for the first time in his life.

I would stand nearby, waiting for him to select the most inconvenient possible place to have a shit.

Those are the moments I miss.

Not the extraordinary moments.

Just an ordinary walk with an old friend.

Sadly, the end of our time together was far from ordinary.

During a holiday in Cornwall, in the close confines of a caravan, Buster snapped at Poppy. We believed he had mistaken her fluffy hair for another animal. He pulled some of her hair out, and she cried, but she was otherwise alright, thankfully.

Emma and I had a very long conversation that night. We considered what to do, but ultimately decided to keep him.

We gave him another chance.

I will always wonder whether that was the wrong decision.

Some years later, while we were staying with Emma’s parents, 150 miles away from home, Buster attacked Poppy.

Poppy was crawling beneath a coffee table. Perhaps Buster felt cornered, perhaps he had just finally lost his mind and turned senile. We’ll never really know.

I was not in the house when it happened. Emma pulled him away from Poppy. When I returned, I angrily put Buster outside and shut the door, before scooping our bleeding daughter up and sprinting to the car to get the nearest hospital.

The last time I ever saw him, he was standing on the other side of the glass sliding door, looking up at me with the same innocent, dutiful expression he had always had.

Then,  I had to drive my little girl to the emergency department.

Poppy was only two or three years old. She was still using oxygen. When we arrived at A&E, blood was coming from small puncture wounds in her neck. The department was rammed, and nobody initially came to examine her despite her wailing and our cries for help.

In desperation, I laid her on the floor right there in front of the check in desk, pleading for assistance, and tried to dress the wounds myself with whatever clothing and material I could find. Emma was shouting at the clerk for somebody to help us urgently. A panicked Mother protecting her Daughter.

Eventually, a doctor and nurse came out. Poppy’s wounds were cleaned and closed.

Half an hour later, she was trying to crawl around and play with the toys in the children’s area. Our resilient little miracle.

Children can sometimes move forward far more quickly than their parents.

Poppy still has a scar on her neck. I see it when I help her dress, and it reminds me of what happened. It reminds me that we gave Buster another chance and that the consequences could have been far worse.

Had the bite been deeper, or slightly differently placed, I do not know what would have happened. And I don’t want to think about it.

But today she is as happy as ever and, thankfully, seems to have zero aversion to petting any kind of animal, including dogs.

Buster was taken to an animal shelter in the Midlands. Emma’s Mother took him there. I signed away ownership via an email, and made a healthy donation.

We were never told what happened next. Apparently it’s the shelter’s strict policy.

Perhaps he was assessed and rehomed somewhere without children or other animals, living out a peaceful retirement. Perhaps his age, health and history meant that was not possible and the inevitable came earlier.

I do not know.

That uncertainty has followed me ever since, but equally I’m not sure that I want to know now.

I always imagined that when Buster’s time finally came, we would have one last day together. I would feed him a McDonald’s cheeseburger, take him to the sea or a river and let him swim. We would go for one final walk, and I would say goodbye properly.

Instead, our goodbye was through a glass door while my daughter was bleeding.

I was not a perfect dog owner.

There were times when Buster stole food from the table right in front of me and I lost my temper. I might have grabbed his scruff. I shouted. I probably frightened him. Looking back, I now feel like I behaved in ways I regret and would not repeat.

But I loved him.

Both things can be true.

I could have been more patient. I could have walked him more. I could have recognised the danger sooner.

And I could still have loved him deeply.

One night, sometime after he had gone, Emma and I both woke after dreaming about Buster. Strangely, at the same time, if you believe in that sort of thing.

In my very vivid dream, everything was white and filled with bright light. Buster came running towards me, happier than I had ever seen him. He greeted me one final time and then quietly trotted away.

When Emma and I spoke, we realised that she had also dreamed about him that night.

Neither of us is particularly superstitious. I cannot explain what happened, and perhaps it does not need explaining.

I simply felt that he was gone.

We cried. We held each other.

And we remembered our boy.

Giving Buster up was the only safe decision left to us. Once he had seriously bitten a vulnerable child, he could no longer remain in our home.

Protecting Poppy had to come first. Always.

But doing the right thing does not always feel good. Sometimes the right decision leaves behind grief, uncertainty and an empty space where an ordinary part of your life used to be.

I do not know whether we will ever have another dog.

I do know that I still miss Buster.

I miss the pulling on the lead. The jumping at visitors. The stolen food. The muddy paws. The cuddles. The long grass. The ridiculous amount of time it took him to decide where to go to the toilet.

I miss the ordinary days.

He was not simply a pet who did something terrible.

He was an old friend.

Except he was more than that. He was family. But he was also clearly quite unwell toward the end.

And despite everything that happened, I hope that somewhere, somehow, he knew that he was loved.

I miss the ordinary days.