I have always been a dog person, but for the past 15 years I have specifically been a Scout person. He was a mini-schnauzer/Jack Russell combo – a chatty, bearded little gentleman who loved swimming, chin scratches, children of all ages and dinner at 5pm sharp.
When he died a few weeks ago, I felt utterly unmoored. If you don’t share your life with a dog this possibly sounds melodramatic and embarrassing; otherwise you understand completely and dread the day your own dog dies.
Photo: Eleanor Black
At first it felt like I cried most of the time, thumbing through photos on my phone, hugging Scout’s blanket and sniffing his collar to catch a whiff of his sweet, grassy smell. I was so sad I couldn’t concentrate on anything, forgot conversations as soon as they happened, shuffled from room to room without purpose.
Now I have stretches of normality punctuated by awful moments of remembrance, when I automatically go to fill his water bowl or mistake a heap of laundry in the hallway for his sleeping form.
I work from home so while my husband and children head off into the world each day to interact with other people, I am mostly alone and grieving for my dog.
This is what bothers me most about a post-Scout world.
1. The house is unnaturally quiet. I miss his tippy-tapping on the wooden floor, his contented snoring, the thip-thwap of his dog door as he dashed outside to yell at the magpies. I miss his talking most of all – Scout was a great communicator. He greeted everyone who came to our home with “hello” barks which varied in intensity depending on his relationship to the visitor.
The most-loved people would get shrill yelps of joy. His “danger” and “peeve off” barks were directed at birds, cats, meter readers, posties, and his biggest foe, the National Bank horse. From the time he was a tiny pup, Scout watched television and as soon as the urgent strains of Vivaldi’s “Autumn” sounded, he would lunge for the screen trying to catch that damned horse. It was honestly a relief when National Bank was absorbed by ANZ in 2012.
Photo: Eleanor Black
2. No-one needs me the way Scout needed me. I was his bitch. I fed him, walked him, washed him, played with him, took him to the vet, gave him his medicine, administered shonky haircuts, clipped his nails, picked up his poop, cuddled him during fireworks displays, bought him a plastic staircase so he could reach the bed in his old age, and got up in the night to help him when he developed dementia.
In return he shadowed me like a bodyguard, curling into a meaty lump near my feet wherever I settled. When I took him for a drive he would ride shotgun and gaze at me as if I were the most wonderful creature on this earth. When I left him home alone, he would follow me to the door and eyeball me, to make sure I was coming back. I feel less of a person without the constant glow of his admiration.
Photo: Eleanor Black
3. I have stopped taking daily walks. For a decade and a half I followed Scout’s fluffy bum around our neighbourhood, along beaches, through bush and wetland, past houses and shops and offices, countless kilometres shared. One of my favourite things ever was watching Scout gambol across the dog park off-lead like a spring lamb. Walking without him is so… ordinary.
4. We have lost the third parent in our house. Our boys have never known life without his love and protection. As soon as our first son came home from the hospital, Scout took up a post under his cot. When our son started walking – soon running – he and Scout raced everywhere together, a dynamic duo who embraced every opportunity to make a mess and would taste anything they found on the floor, literally anything.
When our second son arrived, Scout was initially overwhelmed by the responsibility. He disappeared under the bed and sulked for a couple of weeks. Then he got busy, supervising nappy changes and trotting in front of the buggy as we walked around the park, shielding his baby from other dogs and anyone who seemed like a meter reader. Our boys have learned so much about love and loyalty and gentleness from Scout.
Photo: Eleanor Black
5. Now I feel sad about beanbags. Scout had three bean bags and one fancy “orthopaedic dog bed” that he didn’t like nearly as much as his ratty old bean bags. He would hop onto a bag and ostentatiously scrunch its beans between his legs, then flop with a sigh, head slightly elevated and tummy fully supported.
A few days after we lost Scout I went around the house and packed away the bean bags, washed and put away his dishes, and threw out his medicine and a half-eaten tin of dog food. I took a load of rubbish out to the bins and as I headed out the door, I automatically looked to the spot where he used to stand to farewell me.
Goodbye, Scout. You were the best boy.
