My Fred, My Love.

My Fred. My Love. My Dog. He is gone.

My boy is never coming home again.

He didn't eat his dinner for the first time in his life, last night. I checked on him and his tummy seemed bloated and his gums were pale. His face was cold to touch and he was struggling to breathe.

I rang up the emergency vet and was warned it might be Gastric dilatation-volvulus (GDV). It would be a $170 consultation to go in on top of any work to be done, but it would an hour's drive to a different Vet, as the one I was speaking to didn't have the equipment available.

I tried a second Vet who said if it was GDV, Fred would have been gone already, as he'd had his breakfast. And I was noticing these symptoms at 9pm at night. He suggested perhaps it was gas or water, as Fred had drank an entire bowl of water the night before. He said keep an eye on him, and see how I go in the morning, as chances were if it was something like GDV, it would sometimes work itself out on its own.

This morning he seemed a little better, his face was warmer, but the bloat was still there and his gums still pale. We drove him in to see another Vet who opened earlier than the one I spoke to last night, who then sent us onto another Vet, as they said Fred would need an x-ray and warned that Fred was sick. The tell-tale sign being the white gums.

The next Vet suggested a variety of reasons and was keen on doing blood tests. But after checking his bloat suddenly said, no, we'll do the x-rays first. 

Fifteen minutes later we were called back in and told that his spleen had burst and blood was seeping into his abdomen - hence the bloat. We had the option to operate and remove the burst spleen but was warned that it was a messy affair, and the last time they did this operation, it was not a success. Based on Fred's age, it was going to make things even more complicated. So the smart choice was to put him to sleep.

I stood there in that consultation room, shocked and devastated to hear the news. It was not what I was expecting. 4 months after getting Ginger, I have to say goodbye to Fred.

It was not what I was expecting when the Vet had given Fred his annual check up and told me that he was doing well for his age and seemed to be in fine health.

This vet tells me that it's very hard to see a tumour on a spleen as it's buried within other organs in the middle of the dog, and in wolfhound crosses with deep chests, it's almost impossible to feel it. The only chance we would have had was if we'd done CAT scans on a regular basis. Which is not something you would regularly do on a dog.

We said goodbye to Fred in the consultation room. We had time to say goodbye, and he came up for cuddles. He even gave me a lick as the tears rolled down my face.

We sat on the floor as the Vet and nurses arranged him for his needles. I watched as he slowly slumped down as if to sleep, and as the second needle went in, I knew he was going. I stayed with him, my hand resting on the bridge of his nose, after he passed, and eventually lay on his side. His body was still warm to the touch, 5 mins after he had passed.

Wolfieboy has buried him up on the hill beside Elsie. He has a lovely view of the mountains and valley, and wolfiepup and I helped lay down rocks on his cairn.

It is still taking time to hit me. I keep on seeing things in the corner of my eye, and I turn around expecting to see Fred only to be reminded that he is gone.

As I told wolfiepup, "We only have one dog now. Fred is gone." She is repeating what I'm saying to her, but I don't think she feels the emotional impact. She just takes the words as they come and accept them. Ah, to be 3 and innocent of all of this.

I am sad that she will not be old enough to truly remember what a sweetheart Fred is.

But I am more sad that I can no longer spend time with my heart. My love. From the moment we brought him home, as he sat in the back seat with me, his head on my lap, to the first few nights when he followed me around the house, even pushing his nose through the toilet door to stay near me, Fred has had my heart. I was always his Boss, and he was always My Dog. 

My big woofer. 

The last few nights he's been coming up to me after dinner, pushing his big boofy head and wet nose into my stomach and asking for cuddles and love. I obliged but didn't spend that much time. I was touched by his affection, but didn't think anything of it. If I had known, perhaps I would have spent more time and thought. It is so easy to fall into complacency and take them for granted.

And then, one day you turn around, and they are gone.

No longer will I come home to a waggy tail and a wet nose making a beeline for me as I get out of the car. No longer will I get the thump of a tail as I walk by. No longer will I have big round brown eyes staring at me in love. No longer will I simply have to raise my eyebrow in order to have Fred obediently sit. No longer will I get the sandpapery foot licks and the big shaggy footrest at nights. The big thwump as his body hits the floor and he turns around for a tummy rub and scratch. The frustrated whuff as he moves his head from side to side to get a better angle on his neck and head scratches, or in protestation as the scratch on the bridge of his nose stops.

I miss my boy with an ache that is unspeakable. Indescribable. 

He's been with me for 9 years and it's hard to say goodbye. It's so heartwrenchingly hard to say goodbye. 

He's had his moments. 

The icy morning I was awoken to the stench as he vomited out god knows what on the floor beside me. I still remember the icy shards of cold that went up the soles of my feet from the slate floor as I dragged him outside. 

The morning he went wandering chasing down a roo or wombat, and I came to collect him from my new neighbour, to discover the gashes down his chest where whatever had got him, had nearly cut through skin - but didn't. I remember the horror as I uncovered those marks.

The night he threw up what was possibly aged sheep intenstines across the living room floor.

The first few months, when he was still small enough to squash himself into a deck chair.

I remember when he was at the in-laws and found a hard bone, and helped himself to it, only to somehow lose a tooth in the process. It never bothered him though.

And all the snuggles we had. The cuddles beside each other.

He was the first real dog that I had on my own. I was there when we adopted him, and I was there when he left 9 years later.

I loved that he had 3 white socks and one plain. I loved the tiger stripes he had before we desexed him. The stripes we named him for - Fred Flintstone. I loved the white tip on his tail, and the shaggy eyebrows and the white stripe down the the bridge of his nose.

I wish we could have had more time together. But I also know that he had a good life. For a boy who found himself at 6 months or younger on death row, he landed pretty much on his feet. 

As wolfieboy would say, he ended up living a life of love, with 3 wives (Rosie, Elsie and now Ginger), and had his share of car rides, beach visits, and wanders through bush, chasing kangaroos and all manner of wildlife.

He had a love of tissues that I never understood. He'd pick them up delicately before plonking himself down and happily tearing into it between his paws before munching on them and swallowing.

He was a quiet boy never prone to bark. The few times you heard him, it came deep and low from the chest. A big baritone wooooooooooof. 

He was Bottom Dog. Always. 

40+ kilos of mass, who dragged me across the street in an attempt to get away from a barking maltese terrier that he could have squashed flat with his paw. He ran behind me when a small Jack Russell Terrier tried to show some dominance. He whined and made a grand palavar when Elsie joined us, and whimpered and circled the coffee table 3 times before retreating to under the coffee table when wolfiepup arrived on the scene. 

He was a big pillow with feet who was friendly with everyone. Dogs and people alike, and was gentle with wolfiepup, suffering no complaint no matter what she did. But given the chance, he would simply remove himself from her presence.

In the last year since Elsie passed he seemed more withdrawn. Refused to walk off without us. Whereas he used to range while Elsie stayed home and close. He now waited for us and wouldn't go far without us. There'd be afternoons when he'd only go for a walk when I came along, and he'd hang close.

He had his moments with Ginger, but I think the dog love of his life was Elsie, and he was never quite the same after she left. They were mates, and he seemed a bit lost and sad without her.

Fred, my boy, my love. I'm going to miss you. I feel your absence like an ache in my heart. My house, my life, my heart is out of balance without you in it.

I love you, Fred.

I miss you.

You were my Good Boy.