Who knew my favourite person wasn’t even a person?
On Sunday, we said goodbye to my precious boy, Elwood. Except it wasn’t really goodbye. All he ever brought was joy, interspersed with farts, and made a difficult few years markedly better just by being him.
Elwood joined The Firm (not the Grisham novel) in December 2018. He was a rescue dog with a criminal past as a hare courser, who was abandoned when the fuzz arrived. But he adapted well to our witness protection programme. He never troubled the law again, though he wasn't averse to stealing the odd empty halloumi packet from the kitchen when our backs were turned. His delighted sprint to his bed always gave him away. The art of misdirection was never his strong suit.
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The gap he leaves is Grand Canyon-like. He was a gentle giant who never snapped at anybody. He helped me cope, and his presence acted like a mental reset. Adopting him was one of the best decisions we made, and the life we gave him was a vast improvement on the one he'd have had if he'd clung to his recidivism.
It was in April that we learnt he had heart failure. The feeling that phrase stoked was bleak. Thankfully, his condition could be mitigated by medication, which eventually meant taking eight tablets a day. Our week was governed by endless timers to ensure no pill was missed. And the cost of veterinary care being what it is meant they weren't cheap. But despite slowing down and his heartbeat being all over the place, I don't think he felt too bad for the most part. There were frequent ups and downs, and he lost a lot of weight, but I don't think he felt too unwell.
That said, there was more than one occasion in the intervening months when I thought we'd lose him that day. As with many of the things in my life, I started to measure the change in Mostly Comedys. A little secret tradition we shared happened at the end of each show day, when I came home. A few minutes after carrying my various bags and cases through the front door, he would come downstairs to see me. I'd give him a big fuss and a few of the treats I kept in my right-hand pocket throughout the show. It was a moment of love and connection that got me through the harder parts of the day.
For the first few months, and particularly when his general health was at its most erratic, I found myself hoping he'd still be with us for the same post-show tradition the next month. However, as time went on, and at his lowest points, I started to realise that this thought was selfish. It was around August when my brain shifted, and I told myself that I'd only want him to still be with us if that was best for him and not just for me. I'd rather say goodbye than have him suffer for his presence to make me feel better.
Thankfully, that low point was swiftly followed by some improvement. But my wife and I knew this would only be for so long. The vet had made it clear that there would come a point when the medication would lose its efficacy. Still, we hoped that time was far away.
Since the summer, when he had a sudden fit, I'd slept on the sofa most nights to be with him in case things worsened. Though the reason for them was bad, I enjoyed our little sleepovers. They recalled how our relationship began, when the animal shelter we got him from suggested sleeping in the same room initially to help him settle (this was when we lived in a small flat with no space for him to sleep on the bed). In a way, we'd come full circle, despite the circumstances.
Now, I just wish I could turn the clock back. I miss him so much. And I'm still carrying those dog treats. I also have the name tag from his collar in my pocket. Touching them still grounds me, though it feels bittersweet.
While I wish more than anything that his heart wasn't struggling, that heart still made him him. And he'll be in mine forever. I'll miss the walks I used to describe to him as our adventures. It's no adventure without him.
