Mister, Mister – An Open Letter

I remember the day before you left to go to Tasmania with your Mum and brother; I didn’t know the next 24 hours were to be our last moments shared in this life.

I wish I’d had some idea.

 

I was really tired from lack of sleep; your Mum and I had been packing and I had been working a lot, which was not unusual.  I was always working.  It took its toll on all of us.  I was knackered.

I needed a rest, we all did.

I shared my bath water with you, it was a healing bath with epsom salts, apple cider vinegar and essential oils,  so I told your Mum to put you in with me, once it had cooled down a bit.

Your joints had been playing up on you for a while and we were already treating you with holistic herbs for your heart and other vital organs to ensure the rest of your days on earth were as comfortable and enjoyable as possible – you were getting old, so we were preparing ourselves to be without you – we had discussed the issue of your quality of life at length, but because you still had so much spark, so much energy, your mind was still active and your mobility was mostly fine we decided we would monitor you and promised we would let you go once it was obvious that your diminishing health had a direct effect on your well-being.

We weren’t ready to let you go Mister and you weren’t ready to go.  It wasn’t your time, your time was stolen and in effect – our time with you was stolen from us.

You made me laugh so much, I think the depth of the bath scared you a little and you wouldn’t get off me to begin with.  You were like a tiny little seal when your wooly coat was wet, soft and smooth, glistening in the late afternoon sun coming in through the bathroom window.  Eventually with the aid of the rubber ducky I coaxed you to relax and try to enjoy the bath, you were so happy, swimming around chasing it, I could see the healing powers taking effect and when it came time to get out you looked up at your Mum and refused, you were so defiant, so communicative.

You were something special, a wooly little empath, who I was proud to co-parent for the short time I was given the honour.  But I didn’t want to get attached to you, I resisted for as long as I could, I didn’t want to love you, because I knew, I always knew that by loving you it would hurt me so much to lose you.  I was right, it hurts, so much – worse then a lot of the pain I have already experienced in this life, and I have plenty to draw from.

But I grew to love you Mister and it didn’t take long, even with my resistance in motion, I fell in love with you slowly and then completely.  You made your way into my heart with your funny little ways, the way you would hoard all the treats so Biggie wouldn’t eat them all on you, the way you would expect us to go to bed when you were ready – coming out of the room after having gone to bed and staring at us in the kitchen from the hallway, then retreating back to the bedroom, only to come out 5 minutes later and bark in frustration.  You were entertaining alright.

Such a pleasure to know and love, such a blessing to all who were lucky enough to make contact with you – in just a year you pried open my heart and taught me how to love unselfishly.  A loyal friend to your Mum for 13 years, Mister your love and support was unconditional and without judgement – I can only imagine how heavy her heart is right now and the level of pain and torture she is feeling.

I can only imagine because I am not there to comfort her, I am not there to wipe her tears or to blend mine with hers, I am not there to hold her and listen to her talk about the beautiful memories you two made or reminisce about the ones we shared together.  I am not there because just two weeks ago she packed her car with her things and took you and your brother to Tasmania.

I thought it was a good idea, I thought that time spent at a quiet place by the beach over Summer would do wonders for you both, your Mum had been in poor physical and emotional health for a while and she really needed a break, away from the city – with access to the ocean and fresh air.  So the plan was set in motion, but I was wrong.  I was so wrong.

Had I been aware that I was inadvertently sending you to your death I would never have allowed the move to go ahead, I wouldn’t have sent you to a place where there was potential for you to come to harm and had I been made aware, you would have stayed here, where you were safe.

On Christmas day, only 13 days after I drove you to the ferry terminal and said my goodbyes and see you soon’s you were bitten on the face by a dog much, much bigger then you – you didn’t stand a chance.  The injuries caused to your tiny little head were irrecoverable and you had to be euthanised.    In defence of the dog in question your Mum said to me “it’s a dog thing” – you know your Mum she is kind, she is forgiving, she gives chances – and you know me.  I would have stabbed that bitch with a kitchen knife upon seeing your suffering.

My argument is, dogs are instinctual by nature, a dog who acts instinctively also acts knowingly – a dangerous dog, however acts maliciously.  A large dog acting instinctively would know that in order to protect its territory from a much smaller animal it would take only a bark and a change in body language, a dangerous dog acting out of malice – would bite.

That is my argument.  And it is a good one, but it won’t bring you back.

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