Not just “man’s” best friend.

Two weeks ago my new Max Factor waterproof mascara endured the ultimate test as I experienced, for the first time, the pain and grief of losing a loved one.

At 23 years of age I’m one of the fortunate few who still have all four grandparents, both parents, my only sibling, and all aunts and uncles living and breathing.

But on Friday, Jan 20, I lost a friend. A best friend. A childhood friend who had been a huge, integral part of my life since I was ten years old.

At 13 and a half, it was time for old Monty to say goodnight.

Those of you who have never had a dog will think I’m being melodramatic. And that’s fine. But unless you’ve had a dog (or perhaps seen Marley and Me), you will never understand just how much you grow to love your pup and just how hard it is to say goodbye when that dreaded day comes and he/she is no longer a pup but a very old and sick man/lady.

Monty used to like to run; he loved to play; if there were ever any balls around, he’d burst them; he liked to piddle on lamp posts, (and sometimes the occasional dog), he loved snow, sticks, smoked sausage, tuna and Bakers Allsorts.

He was a bit of a celebrity in Airdrie’s Moffat Mills and would proudly wag his wee stumpy tail when out a walk as passers by and playing children stopped to say hello, often proclaiming “AHHH, MONTY!”. He was one of the Mill’s most popular dogs, and I’m not going to lie, this made me proud as punch.

He especially liked to go walks with his papa who’d take him to run and poo in the wild grassy fields of Airdrie on trips “doon the bing, an’ roon the moss”, and his sister Mandy who’d take him, well, everywhere really, including hikes up the occasional mountain.

Over the years the bold Monty accumulated more than a few nicknames: sludgebeast, Montgum, Mr thighs (I was 10…), four-leggedy-beastie, and soggy doggy to name but a few. I’m not sure if this is normal? But he didn’t seem to mind.

He developed a love to sing along to the clarinet when I was practising for my Higher Music, liked to sit on the driveway while my dad washed the cars, and would run up the stairs to lie on my mum’s lap every time she turned on the hair dryer.

But the inevitable happened and come 2009 his big squishy face was overrun with grey hairs and he could no longer keep up with the young things on the Falkirk Wheel Boxer Walks. By the time 2011 swung around he was balding, wetting himself, and no longer enjoyed running or playing.

He still enjoyed tuna and smoked sausage and Allsorts, however – these he ate in abundance. Turned out our poor wee sludgebeast had contracted Cushing’s syndrome which brought – as well as the balding, incontinence and over-active appetite – continuous panting, an undying thirst, and barking…constant, exhausting barking.

By Jan 2012 he was wetting himself about five times a day, would dig his paws into the monoblock if you tried to walk him further than the end of the driveway, and rarely even got up out of his bed to say hello when anyone came home.

When the 20th arrived, friends and family dropped by throughout the day to give out cuddles and say tearful goodbyes. Later, I skipped class in favour of joining my sister Mandy in taking the auld yin to Morrisons (he waited patiently in the car) where we bought him a feast of chocolate moose, a mars bar, sardines, smoked sausage, cheese and Allsorts.

Then it was 6.30pm. We decided we’d all go to the vet – Monty, me, Mandy, mum, and dad. It was strange, it was as though he knew what was coming. He usually loved going to the doctors, all kisses and wags for Mr Robb. But that day we had to haul him into the surgery room, tears tripping every one of us – even dad, big John.

I miss wee Monty and am crying as I write this now. But I think myself lucky because I’ve not lived at my parents’ house for three years now, so I don’t have to go home every day/night, to a house with something missing. My mum, dad and Mandy don’t have that luxury and I know they’ll miss him every single day when they come home to a half empty home (thank goodness for wee Oscar our 1-year-old boxer pup).

I hope you’re peaceful wee sludgebeast and have all the water and sweets and smoked sausage and tuna and sticks and clarinet music and snow you could ever possibly want or need up there. I’m sorry I didn’t walk you more.

Sweet dreams wee puppy.

 Oh, and by the way, the mascara miraculously passed the test…

Tags: boxer, dogs, old dog, pets, put down, put to sleep