Suzanne Harrington: The dog died. She loved everyone — even fascists

Suzanne Harrington. Picture: Andrew Hasson

The dog died. She has — to use that gag-inducing term created by a grief counsellor in Oregon — crossed the rainbow bridge.

People say this to visualise their beloved animal frolicking carefree in animal nirvana, but you have to admit it’s a bit sickly. I’d say the dog herself would have rolled her eyes.

She would have been 14 in February — 98 in dog years — which for a German Shepherd (or indeed anyone) is ancient.

And while I’m not in the habit of writing dog obituaries, it’s cheaper than grief counselling, for what was the most unconditionally uncomplicated relationship of my life.

The dog loved everyone, and everyone loved her.

Because she was so easygoing, she came everywhere with us. Holidays, camping, road trips, festivals, horse riding, restaurants, other people’s houses — she was always welcome, unfazed by everything from the London Underground to paddle-boarding.

She was a veteran of protest marches, charming everyone at Extinction
Rebellion events, making friends at Black Lives Matter rallies, barking at fascists (not really — she loved everyone, even them).

The only thing she hated was fireworks. No amount of doggy calm-down spray ever worked.

In recent years, although semi-retired, she still liked a daily outing — on what turned out to be her last day, she’d had a gentle stroll around town and a sit down and a sausage roll at our favourite coffee shop.

Until later, settling down to watch the football together, she fell over. Clunk. She got up, and fell over again, in a circle.

And again. Like she was drunk, or on a boat in a storm.

I think the dog has had a stroke, I tell the vet. When we get there, we are directed not to the usual consultant rooms where, over the years, she has been treated for everything from sore paws to a hysterectomy, but to a different room at the other end of the animal hospital. A room with a sofa, candles, a box of tissues, and a soft dog bed in the middle of the room. Urns on the table, and leaflets about cremation.

“Uh-oh,” says my daughter. “This looks like Dignitas.”

“Dognitas,” I whisper, in case the dog overhears, even though she’s been deaf for years. We are both trying not to cry.

The vet says that while they could possibly patch her up with meds and send her home, she has indeed had the dog version of a stroke, and would be feeling awful.

The idea of the dog feeling awful for even a second is unbearable.

It’s time to say goodbye.

She breathes out in our arms, as we cry all over her.

Her heart stops. She is no more.

“This is how I want to die,” says my daughter through her tears. “Why can’t humans be allowed to die like this?”

Then the vet asks if, for the price of a family holiday, we’d like her ashes turned into a diamond, and I swear I can hear the dog snort in
derision from beyond the rainbow bridge.