Booker Bickering

Bookish feathers are flying as learned souls recover from a perceived downgrading of the Booker as an accolade for high brow, if impenetrable literature. Indeed the chair of judges is a mere writer of spy thrillers. Dumbing down must come naturally to her. Never mind that Stella Rimington is also the former director general of MI5. She has been subject to vilification for prioritising readability as a vital determinant of a book's worth. Rimington wants people to read and enjoy Julian Barnes's novella The Sense of an Ending, rather than simply admire it. Committee member MP Chris Mullin was also pilloried for commenting that books had to "zip along" to be worthy of consideration.

Reg

He is small, black and white and most of the time very sweet. When you talk to him from afar, he cocks his head as if to say “Oy, what are you sayin’?”

“If you leave me, can I come too?” is his motto. And if you do leave, he sits in the hall, cocks his head: “Oy! Where you goin’?”

When visitors arrive he barks fiercely just for a moment, then caves in and begs for a cuddle. He barks at birds too, when they dive into the garden, teasing him, egging him on. They are bullies, those magpies. They sit in trees, laughing at him. They set his crooked little teeth on edge.

He cries with joy when the lead comes out of its hiding place. Yes! A walk! He trots along, sniffing and peeing. Doggy heaven is a nature strip with a bush or two.

He growls at the vet who faces him head on with a poke and a giggle. He also growls when it’s bath time. When I take off his collar he has been known to chase me around the house, teeth bared. This little guy thinks he’s a Rottweiler. But he’s just a mutt, eight years old and topping the scales at seven kilos. As vicious as a marshmallow.

Lately he has thinned down and when we walk him, he retches. He cocks a leg but only gets lucky sometimes. He used to sit and stare at the fridge, dreaming about scoffing the contents. Now he wanders away at dinner time. I have been worried for a while. So has his other mother. Every living thing should be shared, I believe. My friend knows this dog very well.

Time stopped for a moment when the call came. Grief hit hard like a balled fist straight to the chest, leaving me gasping, speechless. The catastrophic details went in one ear and straight out the other. But I got the vital bit. Cancer. What now?

“We could investigate further. Do tests But nothing can save him.”

Stunned silence.

“If he was your dog, what would you do?”

I don’t want expert opinion. I need help from an empathic human being.

“I’d take him home and care for him there. We will keep an eye on him and help you decide when he has had enough.”

No treatment. Oh that dealing with sick people could be as straight forward. Heaven knows this family has had its fair share of the cancer epidemic. Three close relatives lost in the past few years and one in active treatment right now. A toddler aged just three with a brain tumour. What’s goin’ on with that? Please explain! I am completely bamboozled.

“There are Nobel prizes there, but it won’t happen in our life time” says my wise Dad.

Puts the sick dog in perspective I suppose, all those sick people. But nothing will assuage our sadness. No logic or rational thought will ease our pain.

In between bouts of blubbering, I call and email members of a special club where membership is open to those who have dogs, or simply know ours. I know they will respond the way I want them to.

And here are some of their outpourings:

“I understand how sad and heartbreaking it is when our dogs are so ill and leave us. They are such a major part of our families. They never answer back! We adored our Jack and were all heartbroken when he was so sick and died.

But we were all with him in the room and hugged him the whole time. That was comforting afterwards. He went around to each one of us saying goodbye and then lay on the floor. He knew what had to happen and was ready. They have an amazing sense of themselves.

What a lucky dog to have been part of your family and loved so much. He will feel that and know it.”

“Reggie is NEVER 'just a dog'! He is your faithful protector who aggressively and unconditionally terrorizes anyone who feels bold enough to venture through your front door... Scary dog then lovingly melts, once he is reassured you are happy that the person is there to be with you! Such loyalty and devotion doesn't come so lovingly in a constant package in a human being. I understand the gaping hole that he will leave.”

“We lost our cherished 15-year old Lab two years ago. She had cancerous tumors and dementia and the vet recommended putting her down six months before she eventually went. When the inevitable happened, just as the vet predicted, I felt emotional overload as my children’s childhood came to an abrupt end. We gave her one last slow walk up the road, this time to the vet where we sat around her on the floor as she was put to sleep. It was very peaceful. We loved that dog and we know she loved us. Be gentle with yourself, it’s a big and painful loss.”

Friends related their stories with lumps in throats, remembering long ago details about the day their beloved pet died. For some, Reggie’s predicament triggered memories they had thought lost.

It has been a surreal weekend. We spent it all together which is a rare blessing these days. The grown up kiddies cancelled their engagements. Social life was put on hold as they sat with him around the kitchen table or on the couch watching garbage TV, patting him gently and rubbing ice blocks around his parched mouth. His peeing is a barometer and we have stalked him mercilessly as he heads out to the garden, tail down, trudging across the long grass like a little old man.

“Did he do anything” I ask nervously, constantly.

“Nuh.”

We talk about what we want for him and mercifully there is agreement. No treatment but no suffering. But how to get it right? We have a delicate situation here which must be managed. There is tension. It’s bloody hot which doesn’t help. We have a eureka moment when we discover that a cool cloth over his skinny little body and a cosy spot on the bed under a fan works wonders. He snores and we all smile.

Late on Sunday evening: a tiny break through! Chief dog sitter, 19 year old man-child deduces dog that hasn’t eaten for five days is hungry but has a sore throat. Man-child chops up half a sausage into micro bits and…dog eats! Then trots to dish and laps ferociously. Trots outdoors and pees! Small mercies, small miracles. We remind ourselves we can’t save him but we feel sweet joy nonetheless.

It will be a grim week. I have butterflies in my stomach and I will wake up at 3 am feeling wretched, just like last night and the night before.

But for now he sleeps. And that's a blessing.