My Dog Missy - Portrait of a Lady

 

I’ve had lots of dogs over the years and loved them all in my fashion – some obviously more than others. Susie, our amiable Golden Labrador, was certainly up there with my favourites. She was part of our children’s early years. Missy took over in their teens and saw them through to adulthood and off the premises. The bond I shared with Missy was stronger than with any animal I ever had. Over the years I travelled a lot and so was not attached as much to our previous dogs as were Diana, Sally and Cass - who were with them constantly. However, the arrival of Missy coincided with my decision to abandon the corporate world and move into the art world where I was able to do my writing and dealing from home. Thus I spent most of the past 14 years constantly in her company – apart from a three-week spell in the USA (where I worried about her constantly to the detriment of my holiday).  She was also cherished and looked after lovingly by the rest of the family but they would all agree about our special relationship while still admonishing me for my flagrant favouring of her over Shyla our other dog.

Missy was a cross-breed but had pedigree royalty on both sides. Her mother was a gorgeous Red Setter and her father a Bernese Mountain Dog. Both had been acquired with a view to continuing illustrious lines within their breeds. They lived on neighbouring farms outside Virginia in Cavan and an illicit encounter between these aristocrats produced a litter of beautiful pups. My daughter Cass searching the Internet for puppies saw a photograph of them and next thing I knew I was en route to Cavan. The owners were a farmer and an artist and they introduced me to the straying mother who greeted me by planting her front paws on my chest and giving me a warm welcome. We were smitten by her and her gorgeous litter and headed back to Dublin with our bouncing puppy. There was much debate about a name but given her lady-like demeanour we settled on Missy.

She was the first dog I ever trained properly. I took her on a DSPCA course in Rathfarnham (10 consecutive Saturday mornings – there’s commitment) and this inculcated in her a life-long ability to keep at heel and return when called – not to mention a healthy respect for  commands of “wait” and “sit”. She scored 95% in her end-of-course obedience test – a matter of great pride to her owner although I suspect that the female examiners were so in love with her and her sweet nature that this result may have flattered her. All was not perfect however, she had one expensive flaw – she fought fiercely against all attempts to groom her – either by us or by professionals. She was a shaggy dog and her luxuriant tresses needed annual shearing. The first time I took her to a groomer the female groomer, myself and my two daughters could not hold her still enough for the operation to proceed. At one stage the four of us and the determined dog were all on the floor struggling. We gave up and she departed haughtily with just a few clumps missing. So we evolved an expensive annual strategy to deal with the issue. Every June, en route to a holiday in Schull, we stopped at Skibbereen where an amiable vet called Jerry McCarthy gave her a mild anaesthetic and while she was knocked out the local groomer gave her a radical shave. Jerry also carried our the other routine maintenance dogs require. The bill was usually around €500/600 - more than I spend on my car’s annual service but worth it to see her freed of her winter wool and swimming and gambolling in the summer sun.

My daily routine with Missy started first thing in the morning when she came down to our bedroom to say hello - either scratching on the door to be let in or walking right in if the door was ajar. She would come over to the bed for a pat and a hug and and and then head back to kitchen to be let out and to be fed. She was never overly affectionate at any time of the day - a quick lick on the hand, a rummage between your legs and she was off about her business. When in a playful mood she would bat you with her great paddle-like paws – a tendency that required a speedy reaction if you were at her level as she had formidable nails. She was a very unfussy eater right up to the last 6 months of her life (when she became very finicky and needed cooked mince or boiled chicken).  Around 11 am everyday we’d go for a walk on Killiney Hill, Dalkey Hill, Killiney Beach or around the large open areas in Shanganagh – bordering Woodbrook Golf Club. Occasionally we would go out to Wicklow, to Knocksink Woods for the wild garlic or up to Kippure to play in the snow that she so adored. In latter years (during and after Covid) we discovered the gorse covered paths of Roche’s Hill that flanked Killiney Golf Club. There we always stopped to sit and look across to Bray Head and the Wicklow mountains. There was a convenient rock-pool nearby where Missy liked to have a drink – the murkier the water the better. Then I’d go back home and settle down to do the three or four hours work that was my daily lot – and Missy would settle at my feet. If I was eating (breakfast, lunch or dinner),she was under the table just below me. In the evening when we stayed in and watched TV we had a standard routine. I would sit in my favoured arm-chair and Missy would  lie beside me on our sofa – giving my hand a lick before she settled down. She always began facing away from me, but at a certain point she would stand up and precariously execute an about turn to face me and lay her head on the arm of the sofa adjacent to my armchair. This was to facilitate the occasional rubbing of her ears that accompanied our evenings together. Before bed I’d take her and Shyla for a walk down our cul-de-sac and she’d often enjoy a fruitless fox chase. Until the last days of her life she liked her own bedroom (our dining room) and would, unlike her companion Shyla, never sleep in our room. She did sleep there for her last two nights – as if she was making the most of our company before she headed into that bourne from whence there is no return. Her delight at our reunions after even the briefest of separations was one of her most touching attributes. If I left home for an hour, a day or week she would greet me with unfettered delight, barking and jumping up on me – making a fuss of me.  But she wasn’t just a pet – there was a utilitarian side to her as well. She was a very big dog with a deep-mouthed bark that would be set off by any stranger arriving in the vicinity of our house. Significantly over the duration of her life we were one of the few houses in the neighbourhood that wasn’t broken into. Both our immediate neighbours suffered significant robberies.

Now as I go on my walks it has become like the Stations of the Cross, a via dolorosa. There’s that bench by the nearest green patch to our home where we used to rest during her last brief walks; There’s that throne-like rock on high overlooking Killiney golf course where we spent so much time just taking in the panoramic view; There’s the spot on Dalkey Hill (near that ugly communications tower) with its glorious view of Killiney Bay; And there’s the walk by the dog pound in Shanganagh where she barked indignantly when we brought her in to meet other dogs (apart from Shyla she was benignly indifferent to all other dogs); There’s the patch of grass on the way to Killiney Beach where she liked to perform her morning office; There’s the  bush where she collapsed on our way back from the beach one sunny day and had to be carried on a sleeping bag by a press-ganged group of helpers (thanks Jeff, thanks Joe); and there’s the bench on the path overlooking Killiney Bay and Bray Head where we sat in harmony as we took in the view – the tip of Dalkey Island to our left.

Her last 5 or 6 months were grim and it broke our hearts to see her so diminished. I took her to the vet during this period to have her put down. So sure was I of its inevitability that I  took off her collar and brought her down by the sea to say goodbye - to the site of our many walks there. But the vet, seeing my distress, said we’d give her a course of steroids and see how it worked. She lived on for 7 or 8 more months.  But gradually she was weakening and there were a few alarming collapses where she needed extreme pharmaceutical assistance to continue. She had trouble standing up as her back legs wouldn’t support her although the steroids helped this for a period. Her delight in rolling on the grass when we took her to a field was no more – she just plodded along morosely. Her joie de vivre was going. For the last few weeks she couldn’t even climb up on the sofa beside me without some serious support by us. Our daily walks got shorter and shorter as she panted furiously at any venture – even the brief one up and down the cul-de-sac.  Occasionally there would be a collapse where she would lie under the table and ignore all food and drink and appear very distressed. These episodes were the worst. Finally I rang the vet and said that we were going to have the awful deed done. When I asked him about the disposal of the body, he suggested bizarrely that I dig a hole in the back garden and place her there. I was shocked at this -  I wasn’t keen on be reminded of her demise every time I looked out the window. However, it sowed the seeds of an idea. My daughter’s partner’s family have a fine estate near Cong which has a beautiful sunken garden where they bury their dogs. They are hunting, fishing, sporting folk who appreciate their animals. I made the request and they were happy to oblige (thanks Peter). One of their workers (thanks to the other Peter) dug a fine deep grave and there on a lovely sunny afternoon we lead the poor creature to a blanket placed by the lip of the grave and the vet did his business. We get to pet her for a few minutes while the sedative took effect before she slumped down and he administered the coup de grace. A final, feeble, heartbreaking wag of the tail and she was gone.

 

My daughter’s partner and I filled in the grave (thanks Ross) and covered it with sods. I placed a large rock from my mother’s family home on the grave and my daughter Sally painted her name on it. I also bought a good solid bench for the garden where we can sit and remember all those happy days we spent together. I visited it a few weeks ago and was happy to see her resting under a glorious rhododendron bush in full bloom. 

 

It’s now nearly five months since she died (February 25^rd 2023) and, it’s time to write her story - her obituary. Her demise has enhanced my awareness of the brutal finality of death. Happy memories folks are not enough. It is painful to realise that I will never see her again, never walk the fields and beaches with her again, and never again revel in her unbridled joy at greeting me.  I am consoled, to a degree only, by the thought of what a happy life she had and how there was never a moment when she wasn’t treated with care and affection by all of us. From that whirlpool of atoms into which we are all destined to fall I can hear her spirit speaking and can see her beautiful head in my mind’s eye  – she is telling me that she is grateful for all the care and love she received.

John P. O’Sullivan

 

 Dalkey/Connemara

July 2023

 

 

Rancid Ruminations - 12 July 2023

This RTE imbroglio seems bound to lead to a good healthy purge. For many years it was run as a private fiefdom where corporate governance just did not apply. Aside from the financial slackness, generations of the same families followed each other into the station as if by divine right (the Sports department was especially afflicted). Apart from a generally efficient news team over the years, and occasionally Prime Time, its output is fairly mediocre. Ok, I like Nationwide also and Sunday Miscellany and that John Bowman programme early on Saturday – and I’m sure I’m forgetting many other worthy shows. However, in general, the term  “Talent” was at best an exaggeration, at worst a ludicrous misnomer.  It’s most enjoyable and informed radio presenters (such John Creedon, Philip King, Sean Rocks and the entire Lyric team) were not included under this precious umbrella. Fair dues to Tubridy for turning the base metal of his talent into gold but I never rated him beyond bland (and he banged on all year about that bloody Toy Show), nor the annoyingly cheerful Ray D’Arcy, and as for man-o-the-people Joe Duffy, heaven forfend. Off with all their heads I say, or at least curtail their salaries or let them see how they fare on the open market. As someone whose worked in journalism I can tell you that most practitioners find it hard to eke out a living from it. Most would happily settle for any salary that approached or exceeded six figures.

I was mildly amazed by the outpouring of grief on our national media (especially RTE) on the death of Christy Dignam. It was almost Lady Di-like in its coverage. Lead item on the nine-o-clock news, multiple interviews with friends, family and fans, and follow-up coverage of his funeral cortège. Now to be honest I was never a fan, in fact I wasn’t even sure who he was as I had a tendency to mix him up with Christy Hennessy – both tended to play the working-class hero card. I had heard of Aslan but never listened to them much and couldn’t name a single song of theirs. But maybe it’s a generational thing and I’m in the minority here. Listening to his songs and singing I’d say he had a modest talent but seemed to be a pretty sound guy – sincere, articulate, and honest. But he ain’t Prince or even Bono. I suspect that he was a very good live performer and to Dubliners of a certain generation he represented a seminal period in their lives. A generation that now make decisions about content on our national media perhaps. If Bono were ever to die (God forbid) we’d have to close down the country for a week to accord him proportionate respect. 

 

The intractable divisions in the North are getting air time again today. The same dreary stuff. I am continually amazed that nobody north, south or across the water has addressed the major factor that contributes to this tiresome, anachronistic situation. By and large new arrivals to these the two warring tribes are separated at birth and placed in two different educational systems. If the southern states of the USA can desegregate education then surely it’s not beyond our wit to do the same. But where’s the will? Whose brave enough to even suggest it? Where’s the Martin Luther King?