ONE LAST WALK...

Zara Thustrasia

When I was much younger than I am now (a child in fact), I subscribed

to the notion of 'best' friends. There's an irony in the concept of course,

because a best friend isn't someone who is necessarily 'better' than other

friends, but is instead merely one whom we like more than the rest. Over

the years, I'm sure I've been a better friend to some people than those

they'd regard as their 'best' pal, but I'm never going to be eligible for the

position. (Not that I'd want or even try to be.)



What a poseur

So, I long ago

abandoned the notion

of best friends - as far

as people go. However,

anyone who has ever

owned a dog will know

that the only species on

the planet fit to qualify

for such an accolade is

the canine one. Dogs are

genuinely happy to see

us every time we come

home, never bear a grudge

for however many times

we've scolded them over

some doggy-misdemean-

our, and their chief delight

in life is to lie at our feet or by our side and simply bask in the pleasure of

our company. (Wish I could find a woman like that.)



My dog passed on to the great 'Kennel Club in the sky' over thirteen years
ago. ZARA was her name; a black and gold German Shepherd of the
most placid temperament imaginable. She lived for twelve years, seven
months, and I can still remember the sound of her, near the end of her
days, trying to drag herself up the stairs to my room simply to be with me.
(Whenever I heard her, I'd go down the stairs and carry her up.)

She had cauda equina, a condition which 'fused' the nerves in her spine
together, sometimes making it difficult for her to walk. I had noticed it was
getting worse and mentioned it to the vet when Zara was getting her yearly
booster jags. "Och, she'll be fine for years yet!", he'd said. A mere seven
days or so later, she could hardly walk at all, so I took her back and the
first thing he said on sight of her was: "That dog should be put to sleep!" I
reminded him that only a week before, he was saying she was in fine form.
"A lot can change in a week!", he muttered. X-rays revealed that she had
also developed some internal tumours, for which nothing could be done.

I explained that, as long as she wasn't in any pain, putting her to sleep
wasn't an option I was prepared to consider at that time. He gave her a
course of tablets, but said that they would only be of short-term benefit. A
fortnight later, for the first time, she had difficulty breathing. It was the night
of November 25th, 1998 and I had hoped that Zara might see another
Christmas at the very least. I fetched the Christmas tree down from the
attic and put it up in the livingroom, switching on the tree lights so that
she could watch them twinkling in the gloom.



Zara as a pup

When morning came, I called

out the vet and then carried
Zara up to my room,
placing her on my bed to
make her as comfortable as
possible. When the vet
arrived, Zara lifted her head
to look at him - then looked
at me, licked my hand, and
laid her head back down with
a sigh - almost of relief.
After examining her, the
vet confirmed it would be
better to put her to sleep. I,
still clinging to some forlorn
hope, said that if there were
any alternative options,
regardless of expense, I would prefer to explore them first. He shook his
head sadly. "No, it's time", he said.

I had to sign for the lethal injection, which the vet then went out to his car
to fetch. When he came back, he said: "Her circulatory system is 'down',
so I'm going to have to inject straight into her heart. It isn't going to be
pleasant - you might want to leave the room." I was holding Zara's paw and
stroking her head and was determined to be with her to the end. It was the
least I could do - she had always been there for me. "No, I'll stay", I replied.

The vet administered the injection and stood back and watched. After a

while, he said: "I'm sorry, this has never happened before - she won't die."

Consumed with guilt, I protested that if she could resist a lethal injection,

then perhaps something could have been done for her after all. "No, she's

got a strong heart, but she needs more than that to survive", he replied.

Finally, he had no choice but to fetch another lethal injection to administer.

Zara eventually breathed her last, to the sounds of 'Walking In The Air'

from a wind-up Snowman doing its slow, circular dance close by.

I then had to help the vet put Zara in a bag and carry her out to his
car. I had arranged with him to have her privately cremated in a place
called 'Elysium Fields', but it couldn't be done 'til after the weekend. On
the appointed day, a friend, who was a minister, ran me through, and Zara
was laid out on display before me. She looked like she was sleeping, but
she was frozen solid. I stroked her fur for one last time, before my friend
said a few words and read a poem over her, and she was then taken off
to be 'attended' to.

Having fun in the back garden

What I hadn't
realised was that
the process took
about two hours,
so we went and
sat in a cafe 'til it
was over. After
collecting Zara's
ashes, I was
struck by how
warm they were
and for how long
they retained
their heat - almost
as if, in some strange way, life itself still lingered. It took me four years to
gather the resolve to scatter her ashes in the back garden, where her
spirit probably runs around snapping at wasps to this day.

In fact, I probably shouldn't divulge this, but on the day I scattered
her ashes, I first looped her lead through the handle of the bag they
were in, and took her for one last walk around the places she had known
and loved when she was alive. I don't know if anyone noticed me taking a
carrier bag on a lead for a stroll - I'd no doubt have got a few strange looks
if they had, but it was something that I felt compelled to do. If you've
ever had a dog, you'll understand. If not, you'll think I'm completely
bonkers. (Not that I was dragging the bag behind me, mind you -
it was by my side.)

 Two best friends - in one last walk together. What could be more fitting?

******

ZARA THUSTRASIA ROBSON

May 3rd, 1986 - November 26th, 1998

******

 "Well! I've seen men go to courageous death
In the air, on sea, on land!
But only a dog would spend his breath
In a kiss for his murderer's hand.

And if there's no heaven for love like that,
For such four-legged fealty - well!
If I have any choice, I tell you flat,
I'll take my chance in hell."

From "Rags" - by Edmund Vance Cooke.