Requiem for a dog

“What’s your story? It’s only a dog,” exclaimed a family friend upon learning of our grief for Laska, our late 11-year-old rough collie.

The end for Laska came suddenly on the first day of the new year. Unable to rise on his hind legs – hip problems are quite common in older collies  we had to have him euthanised, a tranquil death for the dog, but a most painful experience for its owners. Let it be recorded that Laska’s death was marked with heartfelt tears not only within the family, but also among relatives and friends.

Laska was an integral part of our family and a companion on a pivotal chunk of our journey through life. We received him, a fuzzy-haired puppy, as starry-eyed newly-weds. FW de Klerk was still state president; cellphones were yet to become ubiquitous, the Internet was a nascent technology limited to only the hardcore cognoscenti.

He was a spoiled dog. On his first night with us, we had him sleeping in our en suite bathroom, with a hot water bottle for comfort. The idea was that he would learn sleeping outdoors, or at least in the passage. A gregarious hound, he let it be known with a firm insistence that he would be sleeping nowhere else but in our bedroom always near us.

Laska was there when, while I was out, my wife Gail confronted an intruder in our kitchen. The little puppy chased the miscreant out of our house, down the driveway, down the street.

Laska was there when we got our cat, who became his close pal – a great, often hilarious friendship, cut short when the street-fighting cat failed to return home from a night out.

Laska, by now 18 months old, was there when we brought our son Michael home. Instinctively, Laska assumed guard duty over the infant. Till the end, he would often sleep in Michael’s room before retiring to his corner in our bedroom, and then rise to greet him in the morning.

Laska was with us for 12 Christmas seasons and 33 family birthdays. Like Woody Allen’s eponymous character in the film Zelig, he had a knack of appearing in whatever photos or videos would be taken, especially group photos.

Laska was always there. Often he would be taken for granted. If he minded, he never showed it.

After his death, a friend  one of a more sensitive bent remarked: “People always come out with stupid things at a time like this, like: The trouble is, you do get attached to your pets. No, you don’t get attached to them. You get attached to an old toy or a jumper you’ve had for ages. A pet becomes part of your family and when they die, it’s like a slice has been taken out of you.” Nail. Head. Bang.

It goes without saying that we will miss Laska terribly: his effusive greetings when we would return home or when we would receive visitors, his instinctive raising of the paw in a show of affection, his howling along to ambulance sirens (a practice he has passed on not only to our other dog, but that of our neighbours too)  his mere physical presence which now has left a void only a new dog can fill.

Owen Williams is apt to quote an old friend: “When God wanted to create an example of perfect love, he created dog.” Perfect love: unreserved, trusting, loyal, selfless.

As the vet injected the fatal overdose of anaesthetic into Laska, the faithful dog looked up at my weeping wife as if to say goodbye, licked her in a show of comfort, and then went limp. In the circumstances, it was a noble, indeed selfless death as his life culminated in a gesture of love and care.

My friend is grievously mistaken. Laska was so, so much more than just a dog.