Farewell to Brooke
THEY say a beloved pet will tell you when it’s their time to go.
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The hardest thing is getting their masters to agree with them.
Inevitably, love will lead them to leaving that final call until a little too late.
Brooke was never the same happy, energetic whippet after she was bitten or stung in an unknown attack at the tail end of 2014.
She was on a drip for three days and only came home because she wouldn’t take food at the vets. The homecoming was borne of desperate hope that she might recover in the comfort she was always blessed with.
And she did revive; at least 80 per cent of her did, after losing interest in romping with balls of all sorts, and with ‘Mousie’ her favourite fluffy toy.
Brooke was not long back when Piper, her big sister, succumbed, not to the lumps and bumps that were said to be cancerous, but mostly to the fits that her medications finally ceased to fix.
Until she went deaf, Piper protected her sister with a fierce bark, but brindle-coloured Brooke was never heard to bark even once in her 17 years.
Months after Piper was gone, Brooke would do circuits of the house, searching for her, but never ventured near Piper’s grave.
Brooke rarely chewed on bones and declined the dental treats that would have kept her teeth in better nick.
For most of 2016 she had to be fed by hand, but still she had to be coaxed, encouraged and cajoled to eat small amounts of soft or finely chopped food, most of which she would nudge away.
For months I nursed her through good days and bad. Her kidneys were failing, but she was a fighter who rallied, weakened and recovered again, hanging on for dear life.
In her last weeks, her weight tumbled from 9.4 to 7.2 kilograms of skin and bone.
On Friday, Remembrance Day, Nic Pridan popped by. We sat in some rare sunshine, joked and laughed for a while.
We both teared-up, but tried to hide them, as men do, when I told my young friend he should say goodbye to Brookie, one last time.
Brookie had once loved the warmth of the sun, while snuggled into a nest of blankets stretched out on the deck, but she had given up on that too.
I sat with Brooke all through that unhappy night, on a couch at arm’s length from the warmth of bedding on her leather lounge. She slept peacefully; I did not.
Once, she perched her head on an armrest, and with questioning eyes seemed to ask, “What’s so special about this night?” Perhaps even, “Why don’t you go to bed?”
And softly I said, “You won’t eat. You can’t keep yourself clean anymore. You have to be helped into your chair. Your hind legs are giving way. It’s time”.
I tried to call the vet before 9am, but couldn’t muster distressing words. I opted to take the coward’s way out by texting a message, but rang by mistake, sputtered something while fighting the knot in my throat, and managed to be understood.
Brooke hadn’t stirred that morning, but eerily scrambled from her bed the moment the vet pulled up in the drive. She was as good as deaf and could not have heard.
She hadn’t been able to digest the liver snacks she loved, but was treated to her first in months. You can always tell when a dog smiles, with a simple flexing of their ears.
Brooke was kissed, caressed and comforted as the needle slipped in. The vet warned that she might give a last gasp. I was relieved when there was none.
Just whispers: “It’s alright to go, my beautiful girl,” deep sobs … and an empty silence.
Brooke was wrapped in warm, blankets, kissed and cuddled again after the vet had gone.
Let’s get real here. There is no heaven for dogs, just a grave for Brooke in an abandoned vegie patch, buried beside her sister, Piper, for eternity in the ground, but forever in my heart and mind.
KEITH LOFTHOUSE
Stawell