My Fur Baby Has Left and I am Still Crying a Thousand Tears

Goliath, my “Choochy” pooch and the love of my life, came home today. There was no stopping the delta of tears that wound their way down my wrinkling face as I opened the royal blue satin bag that he arrived in. Inside sat a silver cannister, smaller than a can of premium dog food, that holds the remains of my beloved moodle. He came with a certificate that offered comfort that he was “individually cremated”. I wondered about that. It would not have been the same if he had been group cremated and then returned to me with two parts cocker spaniel, one-part rottweiler and a whiff of grey hound.

My heart is broken all over again. My “Oodle Doodle Moodle” has left me in body, but never in spirit. He will always be with me, in my thoughts and liberally, and forever, sprinkled through my conversations. No more will I enjoy his physical presence. I will never again hear his barking demands for his chicken wing dinner to be served on the dot of 4 pm every afternoon, not one minute before or after. He will never again be scolded for trying to dig holes in my bespoke coral sea floor rug. I will never again suffer his disdain because I made him fly interstate sub-economy, in the freight holding of a jet. He will never again crisscross Australia harnessed in the front seat of the car next to me and with fresh water and a snack within easy reach on the coffee console between the leather seats. And, he will never again suffer the indignity of having to sleep in one of his dog beds because my partner now occupies the premium sleeping space in our bed that was once Goliath’s exclusive domain.

Goliath was no ordinary dog. Except for the fact that he looked like a dog, barked like a dog, hid his bloody bones in the most disgusting places and liked to chase the odd moggy, he lived a near human life. He was my son, my baby, my big little man, and my best, most loyal, tolerant and resilient friend all in one. I was his Mummy. We were a team for 11 years, 2 months and 2 days. We did everything together. We went everywhere together, the movies, supermarket, music events, the office, doctor and even a truffle festival, sometimes with him carefully disguised as a human baby. We adored each other and could barely tolerate even the shortest of separations. When I did leave Goliath with a trusted friend, I would phone him each night, even from overseas, so that he could hear his Mummy’s voice.

We meant everything to each other. Then Goliath’s undiagnosed liver cancer crept up on both of us and, quite suddenly, snatched away his life.

Goliath, in his cute puppy mischievousness, taught me how to love. Until this little ball of white fluff came along, I never knew that I could love that much. I never knew that I could love unconditionally. And, his teachings on forgiveness, were professorial, especially after he chewed the spiked heel of my never worn French designer boots or when he deposited a “how dare you leave me on my own for five minutes” poo on the kitchen floor. He was always in charge, despite my best efforts to assert my parental authority. Even when we went to the beach Goliath was captain of the ship. I did the dog paddle while he stood on my back and navigated us to shore.

The sadness I feel for Goliath’s loss is beyond what I have ever felt for the passing of any other loved one.

Goliath came into my life in the darkest of days. Back then, I awoke every day disappointed that I wasn’t dead and dreading what horrors another day of being alive would bring. My successful world had literally fallen apart in a heartbeat post global financial crisis. I felt doomed as the consequences of my perceived professional and personal failures hung like a noose slowly but surely tightening around my neck. I struggled to find a reason to live and was desperate for relief from the unrelenting emotional torture that was slowly killing me.

Goliath’s understanding of my predicament and sensitivity to my needs was extraordinary. I cherish those times when I was completely overcome. From my lap, he would pivot onto his back legs and reach up to place his front paws on my chest. He would then lick the tears from my sobbing face as if to say, “Everything will be alright”. His love for me was true. I was his “everything”. And slowly, knowing that I was also my little man’s “everything”, I began to take the responsibility that comes with that honour very seriously.

In some ways, I feel that I am here, on this earth, because of Goliath.

On Goliath’s last night, I gently rocked him, like a baby in arms, and softly coo-ed, “Mummy’s here”, as he took his final breaths. He summoned his last bit of strength to part his front legs so that I could tickle his tummy as he ascended for his next life. He passed on his own terms. And, he passed when he was assured that his Mummy would be quite alright without him.

Rest in peace little man. You will always live on in Mummy’s heart.

I love you.