Our beloved Golden Retriever, Monty, died 6 weeks and 1 day ago. He was diagnosed with late stage cancer exactly 4 weeks before we let him go.

Blessed with a really kind vet, he went with his head in Craig’s lap, my face close to his, lying on our outside garden sofa, birds tweeting in the trees and the late South African autumnal sun casting a golden glow.  His was a peaceful, loving death.

Because I’d four weeks to ‘get ready’, I’d washed all his toys, giving those he wasn’t so interested in away.  His brushes and combs were packed in the garage along with his collars and leads.  By the time his body was loaded in the vet’s ‘backie’, I’d packed up his bowls, favourite toys, blankets and cleared out what remained of his food.  Thirty minutes from when he passed, there was no sign that we had ever owned a large golden fluff ball.

No visible sign.

Then the untethering that had started 4 weeks earlier became an unraveling which even now I’m struggling to articulate.  I went to member meetings a day early, forgetting members who I’d booked to see in that time slot. I went to the supermarket with my ability to pay left sitting in the house.  I spent an extortionate amount on a Lions Mane plant and even more on a glazed pot to sit where his food bowls used to be and then while at the garden centre spotted big yellow metal flowers that had to be obsessively planted in what’s now known as the Monty garden.  I furtively gathered the remaining fluff balls hiding near the skirting to add to my large bag of his fluff currently tucked at the back of the wardrobe.  I started sentences, couldn’t finish them, began work that stayed half-done, wandered the house with silent rolling tears, went to meetings, leaving early, listlessly sat in front of the TV, watching all 5 seasons of ‘Six feet under’ (strangely cathartic) in record time.  Craig and I glimpse each other while sitting in the big empty Monty free space and cry.

I can’t articulate, nor understand, the levels of grief I”m experiencing.  I feel ashamed – friends are losing parents and in some cases best friends, and here I am falling to pieces over a dog.

Only he wasn’t just a dog.  My constant companion through 2 cancer recoveries, 3 international moves, Roscoe leaving home, covid, a  house robbery, a sexual assault by a South African Doctor, more hospital adventures as a result and Craig’s constant regional travel,  he was there.  A gentle loving presence.  A being who I talked to through it all when I couldn’t find the words to share with a human.

In these past 6 weeks I’ve been to England and Scotland, to Cape Town and Paternoster and I’m writing this from Tills Beach in Ghana having been in Accra for the past week.

I know I can’t run any longer.  I have to go back to Pretoria and sit in the silence and start to begin to create a different space in which to thrive.

One of my business partners shared the loss of her beloved dog enabled her to reframe what she wanted from her life, creating the guilt-free space which allowed her to exist in a different version of living.

This was such a helpful conversation.

It’s on me now to look to rebuild without the Monty level of unconditional love.  To strengthen my backbone, to glue and stitch pieces of self that have no reason to put something or someone else first.  I’ve not had this opportunity since I  lived in Uganda, over 20 years ago.

And the weeks ahead, while Craig and Roscoe are away on Tartan Army football travels and when Craig returns from the Scottish shenanagins, he’s almost straight off  to Rwanda – these weeks are my foundation weeks.

My experiment of self begins again with no distractions.

Just me, the Lions Mane and the large metal golden garden flowers.