This morning my Old Faithful, Duke, hobbled off to the big bone-heap in the sky. He didn't do this voluntarily: it was I who took him to a vet and instructed her to administer the killing injection. Even though I've agonised over this for months, I feel like a right, heartless bastard for ending Duke's life, and I'm not proud of myself. Every time I think of his dear old grizzled face I start weeping again, and wish I'd changed my mind.
If I had done so, he'd be snoozing at my feet right now, whimpering, shivering and letting off the most atrocious old-dog farts.
The vet asked if I'd like to be there in what she called his 'final moments'.
I declined. I gave him a hard hug, scratched him once behind his fleabitten old ears, and walked out out of the building carrying his empty collar. Every time I think of his last look at me - an expression of utter trust, adoration, and fervent hope for a juicy bone - I want to smack my head against a wall.
RIP, you grand, friendly old dawg.
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