A lock of hair, a small photograph and a collar sit in a corner of my desk. These are my mementoes.
Back come the laughing eyes, sweet breath, and persistent nudges to remind me he’s more important to my life than my work. I help him onto the sofa, his chin on my leg, gently snoring and twitching. Quiet memories of the dog called Yager.
We didn’t formally own him; we fostered him for 12 years. Our son Ben had left Yager behind when his latest girlfriend wouldn’t have a dog in her apartment. Ben left two cats, too. Gill is very allergic to cats but there was nowhere for them to go. So, they stayed until our daughter, Cerian, moved out with them.
Yager was handsome. The body and colouring of a shepherd perched on four collie legs with sprigs of black hair dangling from the tips of his ears. So cute. Strangers would welcome him on the street. Yager couldn’t lift his tail, much less wag it. You knew, though, that he loved the attention.
Yager was consumed by separation anxiety. Left in Ben’s apartment, he crashed through a fly screen when my son was walking from the car park. He chewed the French doors and the bi-fold door in our lounge so that he could look out the window for our return. For good measure, he chewed the trim of the kitchen door to the garage. Oh, and Yager chewed the side gate to get to me in the front yard. He had at one point chewed his way through a metal mesh cage, oblivious to blood and pain. He knew he’d been left home alone.
He was fair minded. Squirrels were always given a head start. The chase was pointless really, yet spurred by some visceral dog-squirrel antipathy, I guess.
He never barked. Wanting to come indoors, he would stand waiting, silent, at the back door. My daughter forgot once and hours later, he was still standing there.
Bruce Pit was his favourite place. He didn’t mix much with the other dogs. Yager preferred our well-worn trails. He trotted ahead, checking back to make sure that I was keeping up, Starbucks and carrot cake in hand. When he lost sight, he would bound tracking back (he never ran). Once, we lost each other for a whole morning. He stayed closer then.
I promised him that I wouldn’t let money or inconvenience decide his future. Yes, it drained the bank. Yes, there were messes. He gave it all back in unconditional love.
Yager had epilepsy controlled by meds. After a fit, he would forget us and the house, wandering off, lost to our frantic yells. Chipped and tagged, he was always found. When he disappeared, there was a hole in my heart.
He had an extra vertebra so his tail stayed down. Walking, he drifted to the right, his rear leg was weaker. Something wasn’t wired right in his brain was the diagnosis, prognosis deterioration. He might have a plethora of problems but the kept trucking.
It was funny yet sad to see his attempts at 180º turns. Full speed then scrabbling to swing back, his weak leg letting him down. This was part of Yager ball. You threw, he chased, caught and dropped the ball at his feet, and waited for you to collect it if you wanted more YagerBall.
The day came when both his legs failed and, for the vet, no remedy. Yager would drag himself towards me. Never giving up. This was not life. So, we made a last trip to the vet.
Yager is alone in the room. We are alone. Sedated, he raises his head to see me. I can’t hold him as he slips away. Dead but still linked to me. No way to hold and say goodbye, to link once more. His body fully fleshed and ready for a car ride home, it seems. I stay until the memories and the warmth of our connection fades, and the tears ease.
A lock of hair, a small laughing photograph, his collar, and a bucket full of memories. Yager Dog.
