Euthanasia ....Dognitas

Last year, early July, the weather in central Macedonia was in a state of turbulence, worthy of scenes from the allegedly cursed ‘Scottish play’ by Shakespeare. H. decided it was time for another dog – a sign he had begun recovery from the devastating loss of Alex, his canine soul-mate, the previous January. They say cats find you, but I think Ivan found H.. From the Internet his picture reached out to us, his dark, soft eyes telling us he needed a home. I was concerned, with Ivan being of similar race to Alex- an English collie - he might be too much of a reminder.  But ….. he made his way to us , anyway.

His story was that he’d been found tied to a large rubbish collection bin.  Previously owned by a shop-owner, he was used to being chained outside during opening hours, and locked inside the shop at night.

 When he arrived his limp was evident - broken bone, self-healed, joint no longer flexing.  His coat was matted and oily; he was unkempt and understandably unsure of us. We expected him to start exploring our large garden but he seemed to be slightly agoraphobic, preferring to stay quietly on the balcony. At nightfall we left him there, wondering which of the four kennels in the yard he might choose as his own.

There was nothing Terrible about Ivan – Timorous might be a more appropriate epithet- especially that night when a violent thunderstorm broke out. We heard desperate pawing at the front door; when we opened it, this large dog, his fear palpable, shot in and cowered under the low coffee table, trembling! In his first week with us, as the weather remained very unstable, I was afraid the poor doggie thought he’d arrived in the House of Hell. Nothing could quell his fear of thunder claps – Thor was someone he’d decided he didn’t want to meet!  Gradually as the weather grew calmer, so did Ivan. Despite my initial attempts to render him a Highland ‘Iain’, with his dark colouring, strong frame and presence, he solidly remained a definite Ivan. 

                                                          

Early on he was found chewing decomposing morsels carefully selected from our rubbish or from the organic, garden compost pit. This behavior seemed to be a reversion to a previous time when such foraging was a survival strategy. He grew out of it quite quickly and instead learned to come to the breakfast table for flakes and peanut-butter before going walkies! As H. fed and brushed him regularly, he flourished. He began to show affection, coming to us to have his cheeks rubbed, his ears fondled, and his now-silky coat stroked, leaning against us for ‘closeness’. He derived comfort in finding dark, hidden places, little floral bowers he’d dig into, seeking out cool, damp soil in the heat.

                       

                  

Growing more courageous, he challenged birds; at dusk he assumed sentry duty, forbidding them to roost too close to the house! He went for longer forays into the garden, scenting out lizards, but never actually hunting them. Clearly, this garden had become his!  He became friendly with Daisy, the next- field-dog , exchanging brief kisses with her over the garden wall or at her gate as he went with H. on their morning and evening walks.  He’d never learned to play, so balls thrown to him remained where they landed, while he in turn threw a quizzical look , as if to say, ‘Why did you throw that at me?’  But if you clapped, jumped, and said, ‘Bravo, Ivan!’, he got excited and would often ‘take a daft turn’, rushing round the garden at great speed - gammy leg and all - in great  high spirits.He was sociable, welcoming family and friends warmly.  He had strength of character and great dignity.  He also had determination- he managed to do what none of our other three dogs had done – wangle his way inside the house! Attempts to chain him outside, in the hope he would become used to sleeping in the kennel at the back door, were in vain.  On the 3^rd night when it began to rain, his plaintive yelps weakened our resolve: he was brought in and remained a permanent resident from then on. He also learned that a paw pulling on the back door handle had an ‘Open, Sesame’ effect – he could now gain house access whenever he pleased and whenever loud scary sounds sent him scuttling for inside security.

 

 This spring he developed little nodules which rapidly united and became large lumps, ultimately causing pressure, making his breathing labored. He lost his appetite and began to waste away.  Last Saturday we decided to take our beloved canine companion on his last trip – to the vet’s surgery to put him out of his misery.  When it was time to say our goodbyes, he’d managed to go down the balcony stairs and we found him reclining in the shade of the conifer tree, stretched out by the side of the pool. That was one long journey he’d made from the original rubbish bin!

 To put our dog to sleep was a logical step to take, a rational one.  We were responsible for his well-being, he was suffering, so we were morally obliged to bring that to a close.  Emotionally, though, that step was a huge one to take: to knowingly snuff out the life, the breath of a fellow-creature, especially one dependent on you.  One cannot but feel guilt and overwhelming grief.  Yet, this is an unquestionable act of love.  While respecting life, and loving our gentle-dog, this was our only option: Euthanasia … Dognitas! 

 Man must have similar options available to him in similar situations!

Our one regret is that we delighted in his company for only ten short months. We laid him to rest in a shady place by the garden wall, along with his favourite biscuits and a sprig of lilac.

Tania requested I write another poem on the blog. Here is a Haiku-type one in honour of our doggie:

Our Ivan has gone

All around us nature mourns

In sweet shades of mauve.

 

We loved him dearly

He brought sunshine to our lives

….. kalo tou taxidi !

 

Spring has sprung and ...there is a JCB in my vegetable garden!

Apologies for delay in new posting. Two things came up : getting the veggie-patch up and running and last-minute preparation for the US university-entrance SAT examinations coming up on Saturday – good luck to all who are sitting them now. Anyway, everyone would have been otherwise involved in the wedding celebrations…..street parties, sarnie and char get-togethers, tissues at the ready! I’m so glad she didn’t agree to ‘obey’.

 Thanks to those who have, in the meantime, become followers  - welcome! J - or who have left comments - I will be getting back to you very shortly.

Spring has arrived and with it brought to mind a poem, an anonymous one featured in Arnold Silcock’s ‘Verse and Worse’. The following version, complete with Yiddish elements, I learned as a kid in the Highlands:

Spring is sprung

The grass is ris

I wonder where de boidies is?

De little boids is on the wing

 Ain’t that absoid?

-De little wings is on de boid!

In the Cottonfields we prepare for planting. Fortunately, following ten years of working the soil, it no longer requires the back-breaking, leg-jarring digging into compacted clay. Our neighbour is kind enough to come and surface-plough the overgrown weeds and grasses. Certainly, they need to be cleared, ready to  rotavate.                

But what about these olive trees in there? They’re in the shade of the conifers and, in turn, they block sunshine from the vegetable plants. They need to be moved. Which is where the JCB comes in. The driver can only come once his ‘day-job’ is over which is why, one mid-April evening, at dusk, this noisy monster invades our vegetable garden. The driver’s cabin is versatile and rotates, depending on which tool he wants to use : the great digger shovel or the robotic claw – the latter to be used on our unsuspecting olive trees. The space is limited so a great deal of delicate manoeuvering is needed to arrange the claw in the right place and at the right angle to best scoop at the soil to engage with maximum rootage. The skills of coordination required of the operator must be tantamount to those of airline pilots and the deed is done deftly and swiftly.  Like some great dendro-dentist, he tugs the molar-tree free from its base, levers it into the cradle of the claw and scoops it up to its new pre-prepared cavity. So, to continue the dental metaphor, this is a plant replant rather than an implant.

      

                                                         

The whole procedure was done so smoothly, although we’re talking really heavy equipment , and it was operated with such dexterity, that it appeared to be almost choreographed. I will now perhaps have to review my perceptions of Greek drivers! What I had not expected and what took my breath away was the gentle, caring way this huge claw turned itself inward and patted the tree into its new resting place.  A mechanical, yet maternal and majestic , final movement in this arboreal arrangement or, rather, rearrangement.

We were, however, left with huge craters and deeply embedded tread marks in our garden, which has to be re-rotavated. Then we can begin the planting of peppers, tomatoes and cucumbers.                             

                                

                                                     

    In the final shot you can see how we recycle old toilet roll bases to stop nasty, underground beasties eating the succulent young stems. You can also see doggie …………help with the watering!!