Mourning my best friend: Losing pets is brutal

OPINION: No matter how awful the world gets, I can never lose faith in humanity completely. After all, dogs like us. 

Anytime I read or see something that makes me curse my own species for a pack of feckless jackasses (so, about three times a day lately) I remind myself of this furry-faced saving grace. We haven't got much going for us, but we do have dogs. 

Take Rosie, a border collie with a monumental capacity for joy. Rosie was one of the best things about me.

Rosie was the perfect doggo and I miss her every single day.
KYLIE KLEIN NIXON
Rosie was the perfect doggo and I miss her every single day.

She loved life with us like it was her job. Like there was an end of year bonus depending on it - there was in the form of a lamb bone leftover from making the Christmas Curry. 

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She was a bit messy - her long black and white filaments would turn up everywhere, including sometimes in my home-made lunches, and on one bizarre occasion inside my knickers since piles of clean washing were a favourite snooze spot for her. 

But that mess was a constant reminder that I wasn't alone. Bad hair, bad breath or bad break ups, I had a pal who loved me come what may. Plucking her fluff out of my tuna melt was just another way she reminded me of that.

Exceptional company, she taught herself and then us how to play fetch (she was wicked smart), although she never got the hang of walking on a lead without yanking my arm out of its socket. I think she was just so eager to get where ever she was going.

She had still moments. Sitting on the couch or sleeping at the end of my bed, where she would wait for me to put down my best cushions for her to flop onto. Rosie was a lady and ladies do like to sleep on plump, comfy cushions, donchaknow.

That was our nightly routine and it got so the sound of her settling for the night, with a contented sigh and smack of her chops, became synonymous with safety and rest to me. I can hear it even now, the true sound of peace and contentment. 

It was also the sound of Rosie not barking any more. Oh, the many and varied ways she loved to bark. At you, with you, near you, to rouse you from the deepest slumber, or just to scare the bejesus out of you as you crept to the lav in the middle of the night. I think it was her number one pastime, barking.

I wrote about that once comparing her endless yapping to The AM Show's Mark Richardson endlessly trying to rark up the country with his opinions. But Rosie's voice wasn't quite as annoying as all that. It was just... persistent. 

"She'll see a rogue leaf flitting past the window, or she'll hear another dog yapping somewhere up the valley and feel she has to let rip herself," I wrote. Let rip is an understatement. That girl was loud as, which is fitting since I've always had a soft spot for mouthy broads. 

Piercing though it was, her bark was the first sound I'd hear when I'd come home and she'd race to meet me. It was sometimes the nicest thing anyone had said to me all day. 

Rosie the dog, a border collie with a monumental capacity for joy.
Kylie Klein Nixon
Rosie the dog, a border collie with a monumental capacity for joy.

Rosie, the love of my life, died in November. She was 13. 

I'd give just about anything to hear her bark one more time.

This wasn't supposed to be a sad story about how my best friend died and now everything is terrible, because Rosie would bloody hate that. To paraphrase DH Lawrence, I never saw Rosie, wild thing that she was, feel sorry for herself. 

Not even on her last day, when she was so ill she couldn't walk but still managed to prick up her ears and haul herself onto her haunches, eyes bright and excited because we were going in the car, and I promised her it'd all be all right soon. Sick as she was, I think she would have hauled herself all the way out to the driveway after me if I'd tried to leave without her.  

Rosie lying on my eye-wateringly expensive European pillow covers.
KYLIE KLEIN NIXON
Rosie lying on my eye-wateringly expensive European pillow covers.

Right to the end she wanted to make everything easier for me. But we carried her because she was our baby and it was our job to take care of her, however much she thought it was the other way around. 

(Sorry, I lied, this is going to be a sad story. Unlike Rosie, I have no problems feeling sorry for myself and everything is crappier without her.)

It was supposed to be in support of employers treating their  staff with kindness when they lose a pet, as financial services firm Flexigroup has done by introducing paid "paw-rental" and bereavement leave for their pet owning employees. Because we really bloody need it. 

Rosie's death, the first of any loved one I've witnessed, wrecked me so badly I can only just write about it three months later. And even then I've had to stop twice to walk around the office, blinking furiously and doing those deep breathing exercises pregnant women  do, to stave off the tears.

Rosie was my baby, the closest I'll ever come to having one, anyway. For a while I felt embarrassed about grieving so hard for her. I apologised a lot for bringing it up, for tacitly treating it the way someone would grief for a human being. But Rosie was so great, so great, I'm not going to feel embarrassed about crying over her any more.

Some of the negative comments on the Flexigroup story suggest we've got a long way to go to respect that deep and abiding love we have for our companion animals. That is a real pity. 

Losing a pet can suck in ways you never expected, and that you might not be prepared for. You might need more support than you ever anticipated. 

When Rosie died, I was fortunate to find myself surrounded by people, including my bosses, who did understand the intensity of those feelings. It was a huge weight off my heart to know they got it. We need a lot more of that.  

So I dedicate this column to my darling Rosie, and to all the furry companions we've lost, who are waiting for us over the rainbow bridge in those endless flowery fields of long grass; chasing small furry things, curious smells and warm breezes; dozing under shady trees and gnawing giant, fleshy lamb bones. 

Sleep well, sweethearts. 

 

Sunday Star Times