REX
No number of words will ever be enough to
suppress the pain of losing our angel, Rex. If the quota were ten million, I’d
write until my fingertips bled if it meant holding him one more time.
No concoction of words will have the power
to bring Rex back in the flesh, but if there were, I’d experiment for the rest
of my days trying to find the right combination just to be able to kiss his
sweet little cheeks again.
Rex (or Rexy as he was affectionately
known) was a gift sent directly from God. He was the most handsome German
Shepherd (right up there with our first loyal angel, Prince) who graced us with
his presence in 2002 – when I was fifteen.
Following the loss of Prince – my best
friend for nine years of my childhood, it was two years until I was ready and
willing to embrace another dog again. Little did I know when first laying eyes
on Rex that we would be blessed with his sweet face for a surprisingly generous
amount of time – fifteen years (yep, that’s 93-141 years old in human years,
depending on your source!). In his final moments, I would look to him as a god.
I believe there is a reason ‘dog’ is ‘god’
spelled backwards. The dictionary will convey multiple meanings for ‘god’, one
being ‘the Supreme Being, understood as Life, Truth, Mind, Soul, Spirit,
Principle, and Love’. Rex gave us infinite love every single day of his life,
and in return, received it from every member of our family every day.
It is hard to say whether five people
giving Rex love is equal to the love Rex gave our family. Both versions are
unconditional, but I believe a dog’s love is extra special. It’s untainted.
It’s pure. No words can do justice to the unique gift that is a dog’s love.
Rex was a loyal dog. He guarded our home
and family every day, standing watch at the front gate: pricking up his ears at
the sound of the distant postie on his bike; standing up quickly with ears
pointed high towards the heavens, eyes wide and a big smile on his gorgeous
face when he’d see one of us walk up the driveway at the end of the school/work
day; barking at the neighbourhood cat that enjoyed taunting him from under the
parked car on the other side of the gate, until one of us would back him up and
shoo it away; barking at Eddie across the road every time he led his dog onto
the back of his ute before driving away (Dad would tell him to stop barking,
because it was loud and constant. I, however, would form a possibly unwarranted
distrust for Eddie because my perfect angel Rex is never wrong and I trusted his
judgement).
Rex always checked to see if we were ok. When
we’d let him stay indoors, he would calmly make his way around the house, room
to room, until he’d identified the whereabouts of each family member. He
wouldn’t stay long in the room –only long enough to smile at us, maybe receive
a pat and quick cuddle, before moving on to check the next family member. Once
he’d located everyone, he would turn around one, two, sometimes three times
before sitting down in the hallway, at the spot in front of the living room
door, where he was close to everyone and could easily keep tabs on us by sight
and sound.
Rexy was also a ‘food bully’ – and we loved
his about him. If Rex were a human, I reckon he would have been a bit of a
foodie like me: not someone who takes photos of food for social media purposes,
but someone who just adores food, food, food. Whenever mum was in the kitchen
preparing dinner, Rex would be alongside her, standing and staring, hoping for
treats (plural). Before he got too old to sit properly, I remember we would
hold a treat up and say clearly “Sit! Sit Rex! Good boy…” before gently handing
over the offcuts, which he would either take from us gracefully, or if it
looked as though it might slip out of our hands and onto the floor, snap at it
with lightning speed.
On the rare occasion we were tired and
super hungry after a long day’s work, an annoyed reaction was not uncommon -
but getting annoyed at Rex felt like a sin, and I’d often find myself giving
him extra treats to make up for it.
In later years, he’d become so bold as to
sit on his hind legs beside me, and tap my thigh with his front paw. But
because we hadn’t had his nails clipped in a while, the tap would hurt, earning
a “YARGH!” and a minor scolding. But again, that feeling was short-lived,
because that face showed no signs of malice, ever. No signs of selfishness,
ever. Only joy, affection, love and kindness. Anyway, how smart was he to do
what a human would likely do in that same situation if they could not use their
voice? What a great, miracle boy he was.
Something my husband noticed while perusing
photographs I’d chronicled of his life was that Rexy was unique in his love of
baths; this was probably because Mum would fill up the big blue plastic shell up
with luke warm water, and lather his coat with his special skincare products as
he lay in the tub, nodding off in a relaxed state. He would lay there as a king
while Mum massaged his now seal-like body, falling asleep in the warm sun
despite it being winter. He loved it,
and even let mum get in between his toes! Watching as he’d (reluctantly) leave
the tub, we’d all give sufficient space for what we knew was to come: the grand
shake-off from head to toe, before trotting back to us happily with freshly
washed fur that shined and glistened in the sun.
Only days before Rexy passed away, I’d spent
some time loving him with cuddles and kisses and giving much attention in the
backyard. As I walked up the stairs to go back inside, I found myself stopping
at the backdoor and turning around, expecting to see Rex staring at me and
smiling – and he was. I realised in that moment that we had so many
‘traditions’ and ‘habits’ as dog and human: I knew to turn at the right moment
and he knew to wait until I’d turned so we could give each other one last smile
and a few more air kisses before I went inside. I suppose after fifteen years
together, this was something we did without a second thought. I’m so grateful
for that moment.
Two days after Rexy had passed, I remembered
another common habit. Rexy was often sat down by the front gate guarding our
house, so we would call him from inside the back door to save us a short walk.
Sometimes however, we wouldn’t even have to call out, as the subtle click of the sliding screen door was
enough to have him trotting up the driveway enthusiastically. We could hear his
paws gently trotting up the cement, and then we’d see his angelic face pop out
from the side of the verandah, just past the agapanthus. “Hey, Rexy!” we’d
squeal, before letting him in. He knew the drill.
Listening to the click of the screen door
now feels empty and odd, as if I’m waiting for something to happen – like I’m waiting
for Rex to appear. Opening that back door now encourages the ‘bargain’ stage of
my grief: “If the screen door clicks, Rexy might just come running up the
driveway again…” It’s a damning thought.
Dusk was a very funny time for Rex, as it
was the time of day where he’d go completely nuts! There was something about
this time of the day that made Rex very frisky and playful. We had so much fun
with him at dusk, throwing a tennis ball, a deflated football, or a chewed-up
shoe before chasing him for it. He’d not only run away – he’d sprint faster
than a greyhound. He’d not only jump up on the sleeper boxes – he’d fly.
He would somehow appear to be laughing and
smiling during the entire workout, despite his humans losing breath within the
first minute. When we’d no longer pursue the broken shoe (or lead him to
believe we weren’t), we’d give him love, attention, and the tummy tickles he so
loved. He’d roll onto his back, writhing back and forth with a massive smile on
his face, and his legs would kick in circular motions if you got to his ‘tickle
spot’. It was such fun! Then we’d stop, let him have a moment to readjust, and
steal the shoe when he least expected it! Running away, it was game on all over
again.
After Rex’s passing, my husband spoke so
highly of my angel and of our family. He acknowledged the love and adoration we
all showed Rex throughout his life, and how happy Rex was every single day for his
fifteen years. He said “As far as dogs, pets, even humans go, how many can say
that they were loved and adored every single day of their lives? Food was his
thing and he was showered with treats all the time, right up until the day he
died. He was so loved that even when he took the chicken off the plate in the
kitchen, or snuck onto the lounge to sleep when he thought you weren’t looking,
he didn’t get in any real trouble because he was just so good! He was loved so much each and every day. Think about
it. He never had a bad day in his life because he was so loved! He absolutely
NAILED LIFE!” It’s true. He really did. And he taught each of us something along
the way.
In an attempt to counsel myself before
Rex’s passing, I Googled ‘What happens to the soul after it departs the body?’
I like to read about different perspectives on the topic, perhaps as a coping
mechanism – religious, spiritual, scientific. One particular piece suggested
that domestic pets’ souls develop over time. After living for thousands of
years, the soul eventually ‘graduates’ to a human fetus. It’s an interesting
concept, and I couldn’t help but desperately pray “Please come back as my child, Rexy!” In considering the idea of
reincarnation though, I quickly realised that dogs aren’t the only creatures to
develop in life – to learn to love, to learn to give, to learn to protect, to
show loyalty, to honour their family. Rexy (and indeed Princey) developed our
family in innumerable ways.
He brought us together, especially in his
declining years and final moments.
We experienced true, unconditional love for
a pet after the loss of our first angel, Prince, when we didn’t think it
possible to truly love another dog again.
He melted away our upset and frustration
with just one smile and ‘happy pant’.
He made us aware of the intelligence a dog
is capable of.
We learned from and were astounded by his unique
personality – his humour continues to make me laugh!
Through years of purity and love, Rex
encouraged us to show selflessness in his final moments. The selfish part of me
(the part that didn’t want to let go) didn’t think it was his time. The logical
and unselfish part of me said it was, and we need to free his spirit so that he
can run, sprint, tumble, scratch his neck, roll about and sit down comfortably
on his hind legs again.
Though his final day was a beautiful one –
surrounded by family, showered with kisses, cuddles, smiles and warmth, given
countless treats – his final moments are stored confusingly in my memory,
attached to conflicting emotions.
On the one hand (and this is the reality),
he had a gorgeous view of the freshly cut lawns and well-maintained sleeper
boxes full of flowers and homegrown chilies, the sprinkler in the far-left of
the yard running serenely, and the family of peewees that were Rex’s and the
family’s ‘friends’ twittered about tenderly. There was a gentle, heavenly
breeze, and the temperature had started to warm, but not unbearably so. The
rain from the previous days had passed, and while there were clouds in the sky,
they weren’t dark or foreboding, but light and a good form of protection from
the impending hot sun.
On the other hand, we were losing our
‘baby’. Our angel - my ‘coochie, poochie angel’. My strong man (I always
complimented him on his strong shoulders). As I write this now, I’m hesitating
as I don’t enjoy the emotions attached to this part of the memory, but I need
to be strong. I need to be strong, like Rex was for us for so long.
It must have been an unusual sight, seeing
someone smiling into the innocent, loving, adoring, happy, angelic face of Rexy
in the minutes before he left us for good. I couldn’t let him see me cry, or
see me sad. He should see me happy, smiling, adoring him as much as he adored
each of us. He should see the expression I always had when I looked at him –
one of absolute joy.
I always loved to lie down next to Rexy and
just stare into his eyes and stroke his neck, no matter how old I got. But Rexy
was a funny, funny boy and would get ‘awkward’ if you stared or cuddled him for
too long. Mum and I would laugh about it. He LOVED to be cuddled and kissed and
fussed over, but for some reason, he would end the ‘love session’ at a certain
point as if to say “ok, I love you, but I’d like a little space now.” So as
time went on, when I’d lay next to him, so as to avoid him standing up and
moving away, I would close my eyes as I stroked the lush fur on the back of his
neck. It was a happy medium so he didn’t feel awkward, and I loved opening my
eyes to see him staring at me instead.
In his final moments, I was blessed to be
able to lie down in front of his face, trying to make space for the family so
they too could stroke his fur, love him, adore him. He seemed to be staring
into my eyes deeply, as if transferring his love directly into my soul until
just seconds before he passed. Or maybe he knew what was happening and was
searching for comfort and reassurance? I don’t know… I smiled, bigger and
bigger as time to his final departure from our family drew near. I kept
reassuring “I love you! Sweet boy! It’s ok, baby! Sweet angel! I love you so
much, my baby!” Huge smile. My heart was beating faster and faster, feeling
heavier and heavier the moment drew closer. He was smiling, panting, staring. I
was smiling, reassuring, staring, and boring my love into his soul as much as I
could. We all were.
When his eyes closed, as if in a sudden
deep sleep, I felt a huge weight lift. I’m still not sure if it was the dread
and anxiety I’d bottled up for years in the lead-up to his death, knowing that one
day I’d lose the angel friend I loved so much, or if it was the relief for Rexy
– knowing that he would no longer feel physical pain, and would gain back his
strength and independence in his next life - or in heaven where I’m sure he
once frolicked before he was sent to us.
Feeling his thick, lush, golden and jet
black fur was strange after he passed. All the tension and pain had left his body,
and he was completely limp. He’d been in great discomfort for so long, unable
to maneuver his legs and body as freely as before, and now as his soul was at
peace, his body was finally at rest. When I watched him fall asleep, it felt as
though a light went out in the world, and it was strange to interpret his death
differently to those I’d previously experienced.
When he passed on, though his beautiful,
perfect body lay in front of me, accepting cuddles and kisses one last time, I
didn’t feel his spirit was present anymore. I imagined he was reunited with his
biological mother and telling her all about us, and she was relieved. I
imagined he was running and sprinting in a much younger body, with his tongue
hanging out as he did. I imagined his soul leaving his body and potentially
into mine, if there were a baby in my belly that had only recently implanted. I
of course hoped that in a few weeks time, I’d discover I was pregnant, and look
forward to meeting my angel child with Rex’s sweet demeanour. Ridiculous? I
don’t care. It’s what I thought and what I felt, and it hurt like goddamn hell
when weeks later, I’d discover I wasn’t.
I also imagined Rex’s soul entering a new
fetus – pet, human or otherwise, and from the bottom of my heart, wished him a
happy, happy, loving new life wherever he may be. And that thought alone made
me so grateful to Rex that he had, in his fifteen years on earth, showed me how
to be genuinely noble and unselfish despite my own emotional pain.
Before the caring vet and his considerate
assistant carried Rex away, we all stood, looking down to him with honour. The
vet talked about how remarkable it was that Rex was able to outlast many dogs
of his kind, more than doubling their age. Though grief-stricken, we all spoke favourably
of our sweet boy – our sweet angel. And when I looked down to him again, I
thought with all my heart and soul, “He is a god. He is a miracle.”
In my opinion and in my heart, Rexy was the
Supreme Being noted in the dictionary – full of Life, Truth, Mind, Soul,
Spirit, Principle, and Love. We were so lucky to have him for fifteen years – our
baby, our angel, our teacher, our friend.
Belinda Harding
28/12/17
