A Special Partnership

My 60th year was an annus horribilis. I lost my job, told I was too old. So I went overseas to visit friends, but while away I learnt that a careless burglar had set my house on fire. Everything was lost. It was a hard time.

A year later I’m in a newly built house in a fenced and gated garden. I was alone and a little scared. ‘Perhaps now I could have a dog,’ I thought. Soon after came the offer of Kelly, a ten-month-old black kelpie pup who had failed dog training. A friend brought her to Melbourne and handed over dog, basket, rug and toys.

So began my training as a dog owner. I booked a Sunday morning session at the local dog school and arrived along with half a dozen other first time dog owners. The trainer took us through a pattern of exercises in dog handling: walking, sitting, staying and so on, all rather chaotic, as most owners and dogs were new to the experience. Not however Kelly. The trainer ended the session by gathering the group in a circle to offer comment to each owner. He began with a particularly difficult dog and told the owner, ‘My advice for you is to get rid of that dog as soon as you possibly can. You will never be able to train it.’ There was better news for most of the others and when at last he came to me he said, ‘Madam, the situation between you and your dog is 60/40 in favour of the dog.’

I hoped that by continuing lessons we could even this out. I had not realised that farm training of cattle dogs begins early for pups and Kelly had already been through most of that process. I became aware of this one morning when setting out down the driveway with Kelly on the lead at my heels. We come to the street pavement where the choices are left or right. Kelly stops. I say, ‘we will go left’ and she promptly turns left and heads up the hill. I was stunned.

We went on from there for over 15 years. If I gave Kelly a home, Kelly gave me so much more. She did not particularly like men, but enjoyed meeting children and women, making them welcome to entertain me. It took me a while to realise that this pathway was a pathway to enjoyment. At the dog school I learned how to throw a ball for Kelly to catch and bring back; she later became a great fielder at back-yard cricket. We practised on the back lawn across the 20-metre width of the block. In no time at all she saw what was needed: chase the ball, bring it back, put it at my feet and receive a dog treat.

So for years afterwards, when I came home, I parked the car in the carport, greeted Kelly at the gate, closed that behind me to follow her to the back lawn where she brought the ball and put it at my feet. Midday, hot or cold weather, late night under the stars, or in the rain, we met to play. One evening I was particularly tired. We went through the ball throw ritual a few times and then I stopped, took a deep breath and said, ‘I need a cup of tea’. Kelly promptly left the ball, walked to the back door and stood awaiting its opening. She did this time and again, anticipating what I thought I wanted, most notably when visitors came to complain.

One particular afternoon a staffer from an organisation where I was a volunteer came to visit. She sits on the sofa with her back to the window. I give her a cup of tea, pass the time of day and then she comes to her subject, which is to complain about something I said at a recent team meeting. I treat this with the utmost politeness, saying very little. It goes on and on. Meanwhile Kelly is lying on her rug in the far corner of the room under the table, nose to paws, listening. The conversation becomes more difficult. Silently the dog gets to her feet, comes out from under the table, pads softly across to me and puts her nose on my knee. Not long after, the visitor left.

The sharpness of Kelly’s senses meant safety and protection due to her acute judgement of who or whatever might threaten me. Could I say that Kelly took on the role of partner, on my side, always a support? She made home a special space. Such partnership as I have not experienced since. Throughout my adult life Kelly has been the only one with whom I shared a home. Now it is 15 years since she died and she still is the only one.

I have not had another dog or pet since Kelly died in 2011. She had several seizures and lost a lot of strength. Finally I had to summon the vet. Now a small, polished box containing her ashes sits on a side table in my living room, the table that was rescued from the house fire years before.

A Lament for Kelly

She cried. Kelly cried. On the morning of the last day of her life, Kelly cried.

She cried. Sad high-pitched cries. Nothing like the sharp brisk barking of the working dog, keeping us all in our place.

For three days she had taken no food, hardly moving.

Now she licked drops of water from my fingers, and she cried. Outside a cold rain soaked down.

I picked up the phone to make this the last morning of Kelly’s life.

The rain eased. The sun warmed the room, warmed the rug and the basket where the black dog lay, drifting into sleep.

The vet came and we kept our voices low, held back the tears, to save the dog distress.

I held Kelly’s head while the needles went in.

Before her breathing ceased, one perfect tear slid from a half-closed eye into the soft dark fur.

Shared grief for mortal life. Shared grief for shared life lost.