When one grows up in rural Ireland, it’s almost inevitable that at some stage in life, your family will include a dog. As a child, we had various dogs and cats. They were all loved, respected and well fed.
When I married and had a family of my own, we also had dogs. Our first was a lab cross, Kerry. He was a beauty, with the most gentle nature and adored children. Unfortunately, before he was three years old, he suffered a fatal road accident. We were so sad, but later, we got Rebel. He was a great Pyrenean Mountain dog. A gentle giant, protective of the children, and wouldn’t harm a fly. At the age of twelve, he developed cancer and was euthanized. Once again, we were heart broken. We vowed to never again keep a dog. When my daughter was in her teens and trying to decide her path in life, she was given a little bundle of black curls, a poodle that would fit in the palm of your hand. He was well bred; his mother Sophie was a teacup poodle, his father Fred, a miniature poodle.
As we’d never had a house dog before, this was a new venture for us. We decided to call him Paddy. It seemed like a good strong name for such a small little chap. It was also my favourite tipple at the time! He was such a good clean little dog. Poodles never shed hair, they just grow dreadlocks! His hair cuts cost more than mine did. Inevitably, my daughter moved on to start her life away from home, leaving Paddy behind.
He settled in to family life like no other dog we’d had, quickly establishing himself as the alpha male, and truth to tell, we allowed him. He was so cute and handsome. His antics amused us greatly. We were probably the worst pet owners ever. He got away with just about anything. He slept on a throw at the bottom of our bed, refusing to stay in his own bed in the living room. Paddy simply hated being on his own. I had my own business at the time, so he came to work with me.
Unfortunately, he later developed a real dislike for travelling in the car, so he would have to stay home. If he saw me brush my hair or put on lipstick, he’d start to cry. It was heartbreaking. Getting ready to go out became a secretive affair. And even though I knew I should never sneak out without him knowing, I wouldn’t tell him goodbye until the last second. He’d sit on the back of the couch and watch me leave.
My late mother loved him. He’d take possession of her lap the minute she’d arrive, and stay for the duration of her visit. He abandoned me whenever she stayed, and slept on her bed. He would do the same when my daughter visited. I’d joke that he was a fickle male! He’d growl fiercely at my son if he bent to kiss his grandmother hello or goodbye. When my son left home and my husband worked away, we were home alone, just the two of us. Sometimes at night he’d sit up and growl at the bottom of my bed, terrifying me! He’d have heard a cat or another dog in the distance.
When my mother passed at the age of ninety, she was waked at my home. Paddy was in the thick of it. He sombrely greeted all who came to pay their respects, family and friends alike. It was almost like he knew what was happening. I’m sure he did, as he didn’t create any havoc for us at all.
As he grew older, he became deaf, and finally blind. We watched his character change. He no longer knew when he was fed, and sometimes couldn’t find his way back inside the house when he went outside last thing at night before bed. He finally drew his last breath on November 5th.
I have struggled greatly with my feelings on his passing. I immediately thanked God for the good health and welfare of my loved ones and gave thanks for the amazing, wonderful fifteen years and more that we had as part of Paddy’s life. Because we didn’t own him, we were his from the moment he arrived. To have felt such unconditional love for all of those years is indeed a privilege and an honour bestowed on my family like no other.
Testimony to the wonderful man I married thirty five years ago is the fact that he made a beautiful wooden box, painted red and lined in black as Paddy’s final bed. We buried him two days later under the apple tree in our front garden. Never underestimate the power of a loving pet.
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