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R.i.p. Flog. May Your Sticks Be Short And Thick

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Katdogs

Katdogs

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http://www.smh.com.au/opinion/society-and-...00410-rzpj.html

R.I.P. Flog. May your sticks be short and thick

ANDREW DADDO

April 11, 2010

For ages, I've joked around with the kids about the dog being old. Really old. I've suggested they should keep an eye on him to work out his favourite spot in the garden because that's where we should put him.

Forever.

I used to laugh, maybe to soften the blow. They'd kind of laugh. I was preparing them for the inevitable conclusion that was looming for our 15-year-old dog, Flog.

I'm not sure how possible it is for children under the age of 10 to understand that someone who's always been around, like the family dog, may be going away. He's always been there, underfoot, in the back of the car, on every couch and bed, and scrapping about at meal time.

He was the perfect newly married accessory; a bit of practice for the real thing later on.

Here's the theory: the gestation period of a baby is nine months because that's how long it takes for most of us to get our heads around the reality of having a baby. Why most of us are still painting the baby room when the baby comes home is another matter.

Then, according to the theory, everything in baby land happens relatively slowly, so we can get used to what's going on. There's good reason to fear the nappy of a two-year-old meat-eating monster but no reason to worry about the nappies of a newborn. We learn by degrees. Gently, gently. Mustard to seeded mustard to it's-time-to-potty-train-NOW!

Our dog was the seeded mustard of family life.

In fact, Flog was the completely nutty mustard, the way most Staffies are. Maybe it was our fault for calling him Flog. Flog the Dog. We thought it was so funny and cute, but 15 years on it means something completely different to what it did then.

On Easter Monday, Flog died.

The end was mercifully quick. Unfortunately, and I'm not sure there's a lot of fortunatelys when the family dog dies, he was at my sister's place as we were visiting the rest of the family interstate.

I'd warned her but hadn't really believed it. He'd been slowing down for a while, was eating intermittently and not drinking much. Grumpy. I suppose he was grumpy. But then, as my 102-year-old grandfather said before he died, "You'd be grumpy if you lived this long, too."

I just didn't think he'd go; not without us, anyway.

We'd told the kids he wasn't well but then, he hadn't been well before. One of the girls suggested sitting in front of him and clapping. "That always makes him feel better." I'm not sure it was part of the vet's repertoire.

"You're not going to put him down, are you?"

"You mean put him to sleep?"

"Is it the same thing?'

I nodded.

"Are you going to put him to sleep?"

Lie or not? Not. "Only if it's best for him."

That's when the tears started. But these tears were nothing compared with those that came with the news that he'd died under his own steam a few hours later.

I wasn't surprised by the emotion, more the intensity of it. Sometimes kids can get their heads in a tailspin and not be able to find a way out but this was different. This was finally falling asleep and waking up to cry again. And again and again. We wished for a bigger bed so we could all fit together.

Eventually, the five of us went outside to find a star. A Flogstar. One especially for him. Of course, the kids all wanted to have their own Flogstars, which we were more than happy to concede. Clouds came and tucked the stars into bed, so we finally retired as well.

"What do you think he'll find in Doggie Heaven?" It was a great diversionary tactic from my wife.

"New teeth."

"Clothes pegs, but meat-flavoured. You know how he likes to have one hanging out the front of his mouth all day? Well, if they were meat-flavoured it'd be much better. He could smoke them all day."

"Fleas?"

"That's Dog Hell, and he's not going there!"

"Bones."

"Sticks but not long pointy ones. How about the time he chased that stick and it went straight down his mouth and got stuck there? Remember? The vet said he should be called Flog the stick swallower!"

"That happened twice."

"He was a bit of slow learner."

"Lots and lots of trees to pee on."

"A plate full of scraps. Warm scraps. Straight off the table."

"And no rangers, so he could walk around without being on a lead. He could poo wherever he likes and no one would be there watching him wondering who would pick it up. Dog Heaven is a place where dogs could poo in peace!"

"Did anyone say teeth?"

"Real teeth, not falsies like Pop!"

And we carried on like that until the kids invented a home as good as the one he had left. Until we all knew he'd be OK, that he'd never have to eat a full bowl of onions again because he thought the chickens would eat them first.

That was funny. He literally ate a whole bowl, watching the chooks who hung about like feathered hyenas.

In fact, he was funny in that Staffordshire terrier completely nutty way; and that's the way I think we'll all remember him. The kids'll make sure of that. We fell asleep talking about all the other family dogs he'll be seeing up there; it actually sounded like he was up for a pretty good time.

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PRADA68

PRADA68

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That was one of the most beautiful things I have read after the loss of a dog. Sad but humerous. What a lucky dog flog was to have such a wonderful family that loved him or is it the other way round a lucky family to have such a wonderful dog. RIP Flog. :laugh:

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