Last Saturday on the 9th May, we had to say goodbye to our wonderful dog Murphy. We put him to sleep in the garden he loved while the owls hooted around us.
He had a wonderful life, with only a short illness.
But we are heartbroken and bereft.
We have lost our gentle giant.
We are so deep in sorrow, that our hearts are aching.
It might seem to some that this is an over-reaction in this time of Covid, whilst people are concerned about vulnerable loved ones, and many have lost relatives. Maybe some would say, ‘well he’s just a dog.’
But he held our hearts. He was a wonderful kind and loyal soul.
Lockdown has not been easy for us as a family. Like many, we have lost a loved one. My husband’s mother died last month (not Covid related), but the separation, the inability to hug loved ones and spend time with them, has left us in a sort of limbo, a suspended grief. My mother-in-law was one of the kindest, gentlest people I have known, yet it has been hard to grieve in these strange times that seem to have an altered reality. The normal channels for grief have not been there. But when Murphy died it opened those channels, not only for our recent loss, but a sort of grief, a goodbye to the last ten years. We have been through some very difficult times, but also many joyous times, and somehow they are all wrapped up in our wonderful dog. Saying goodbye to him was saying goodbye to part of our lives.
But it was also saying goodbye to him. He was a dog with the biggest most generous heart I have known. Always ready for hugs or to play. He gave his love to us unconditionally. Maybe it was his huge size that made him such a comfort to hug, but I think it was that he just knew when people needed one. He saw all my children pass through their teenage years…and many times has been a comfort to them and also to us as parents! My own parents looked after him when we went away on holidays, and he loved my dad who died in 2018. So, saying goodbye to Murphy, was losing another connection with my past. He could offer a paw and a hug and yet at other times he could be the biggest buffoon of a dog, completely unaware of his size and strength. If a family member had been away for more than 24 hours, his greeting would be so enthusiastic, we would have to hold onto a fixed surface, to prevent being swept away by a tidal wave of a dog. There was often the yell, ‘watch out! Murphy’s coming!’
He’s been a hero dog too and has given blood and saved other dogs’ lives at the veterinary practice where my husband works. He trained how to be a water rescue dog, to rescue people in the water, though never got to put his skills to the ultimate test.
For me he has been a big part of my writing life. He arrived in our family in February 2011, the year I was first published. He has been my companion, stretched out beside me as I typed stories on my laptop. He’s taken me on walks when I needed to think over plots and mull ideas. I wrote Murphy and the Great Surf Rescue about a leonberger like him, and he joined me on school and festival visits. He has been hugged by Jilly Cooper at Cheltenham Festival, and he had his own badge and hotel room at the Edinburgh Festival. At one school he infamously escaped into the school kitchens, creating chaos and helped himself to sausages in the canteen, while the dinner ladies screamed, ‘there’s a dog in the kitchens!’ to the great excitement of all the pupils. At another school he helped to calm a girl who suffered with severe anxiety. He was great fun and had a big heart for all. He climbed mountains with us, swam in lakes and the sea.
He seems to have always been there for us.
So losing him has been unbearably hard. The house is so empty and quiet. Our collie, Ned, is very subdued. He even sobbed, gulping sobs without tears. I have never known a dog to do that.
But we were blessed to have had him in our lives. For him, lockdown meant his human pack has been home, which is what he has loved most. In the last eight weeks has been with us for long walks, swum in the river, and slept out in the tent with my children.
On the night before he died, he couldn’t settle, and he took me on a moonlit walk in the garden, slowly sniffing all his favourite places. It felt as if he was saying goodbye to the home he loved.
He gave us his heart and we gave him ours.
I have just finished a story about a dog, and it has been so hard and painful writing the final edits, because Murphy taught us so much. His love and loyalty were unconditional. He greeted each day as enthusiastically as the other, always ready to play, to offer his companionship. He had an exuberance for life. He was cheeky too, taking food from the kitchen surfaces when he knew he wasn’t being watched. If he didn’t want to go somewhere, he would just lie down on his side and close his eyes, refusing to be moved. He loved hide-and-seek in the garden. But most of all he loved being part of a pack. Our pack.
The day before he died, I wrote these words into the final edits of my story…and then I cried a river of tears….
“When a dog gives you its love, it is a gift. A gift to be treasured with all your heart and soul.”
