Speaking wry-mouthed through her pain a favourite aunt once told me she had been stabbed - maliciously! - with a sizzling size six
knitting needle. But Aunt Clare never spoke to me again. She never spoke to anyone again.
Just a boy at the time, I decided that Aunt Clare who for as long as I could remember had been something
of a thespian had chosen her words simply for dramatic effect. But having now experienced an equally impossible to describe encounter
of my own with her needle-wielding demon I can no longer think of my aunt's dying words in that same unenlightened way. Her terror
was very real and her words not even remotely over dramatic. But I wasn't born with Aunt Clare's vivid imagination and there
was no way, even if I'd felt safe with talking, in which it would have been possible for me to adequately describe what had happened, or how
it had felt, to the good Samaritan who came so quickly to my side with gently probing questions.
The pain was intense, though. That I do know. Intense, unexpected and utterly
devastating! I hardly dared speak - felt totally shattered and much too frightened to open my mouth and answer Roger's questions -
but my good Samaritan was quietly insistent:
"Where?" I could feel his eyes on my face, his fingers on my wrist.
"Chest..." I mumbled.
"Yes, yes. But more precisely..."
"Left of centre. My left, your right."
I suppose I might have lifted a hand to indicate this focal point of sudden pain now mostly gone, but the
truth of the matter is that I was much too terrified to move even my little finger; terrified that if I raised even so much as an eyebrow it would
only be to provoke that demon which I felt sure must still be lurking patiently and with malevolent intent beneath my sore and aching ribs.
So for five minutes I just sat where I was, rigidly immobile, with the book in which I had so recently been absorbed resting open still, but now
neglected, upon my knees. It may have been ten minutes. It felt like eternity. Then mumbling an "I'm okay" to Roger I
pretended to read again, looking down over my nose at printed pages too far away for clarity and thinking of the many things I should have
done weeks, months, even years before. I had always been so confident of my own tomorrows.
There was also much that should have been said which would now and perhaps for ever remain unspoken.
But at least it wasn't yet too late to tell a very good Samaritan how much he was appreciated, so I relaxed, just a little, and turned my head to speak
to Roger. And as I turned that demon stabbed again, jolting me back into petrified rigidity, and the book went flying!
It was Roger of course who called this ambulance: good old Roger who still hasn't been told how much he is appreciated. I
wonder where they're taking me. Auckland, probably. Auckland Hospital. Accident and Emergency! Guess I don't really
care where... but... please don't leave me alone. Was that me speaking, from so far away? Something hard and cold is
pressing against my face and it feels sort of scary. But I'm far too weary to resist, and anyway, it does seem to be making things easier
so perhaps I'm just getting a whiff of oxygen. No pain now. Well, not so much. Poor Elizabeth! Poor Cindy!
My thoughts are drifting far away. Far away in miles and far away in years.
They say a drowning man recalls a whole lifetime in his last few desperate moments and although I'm not drowning it does seem like
this last-minute nostalgia could be much the same sort of thing. Not that I'm seeing my entire past, because I'm not. Fragments,
yes. But not everything.
And those little bits and pieces of my life must have meant a lot more to me than I realized. Nothing to
do with stock markets and real estate, though, or bank accounts and mortgages. No, these recollections are almost entirely about people -
about people I've loved, and surprisingly, about dogs I've loved too. My dogs! Elizabeth's dogs! But perhaps I shouldn't be
quite so surprised by this late in the day glimpse of hitherto unadmitted priorities, for my wife and I seldom received anything less than
uncompromising loyalty and total devotion from our four-footed companions. Soft-eyed looks and tails awagging left us in little doubt that
this was so and they never held their feelings back. But when most times we concealed our own emotions behind a facade of sterile
words how could they possibly have known that we loved them? Did they too have to guess at what was hidden? If so, they never
wavered, and not once was any dog of ours other than totally loving towards either Elizabeth or myself.
Our Cindy was no exception. Cindy - kennel name Lovelace Midnight Rose - died many years
ago but the anguish of her passing returns with the clarity of Now for she had been our talisman, true friend and much spoiled pet ever
since one day as we were driving south through Albany a roadside PEDIGREE POODLE PUPPIES sign caught Elizabeth's eye.
"Please stop," she said, "just for a look, that's all."
So we stopped - just for a look! - and ended up with an animated little ball of black fluff sharing the car with
us for the remainder of our journey home: a ball of black fluff which would quickly grow into the mischievous tormentor and fearless guardian
of all our other pets.
We lived, then, on a large well-fenced section in Cambridge and there were free-ranging white bantams each
with a name of its own to provide Cindy with sport in exchange for protection, and many were the times she proudly brought us a well-chewed tail
feather after a barking-squawking black-white chase through the cabbages and runner beans. But despite the indignity of this, those raggedy
tailed mini-chooks didn't seem to mind, so I guess they must have been well content in the sure knowledge that they only needed to
screechsquawk Cat! - just the once - to bring Cindy bounding promptly to their immediate defence.
They were carefree times, those early Cambridge days, but nothing remains unchanged for ever and as time
crept speedily by the passing years left their wretched mark on our faithful little friend. All too soon much grey appeared amongst the black
and along with the grey - relentlessly! - came failing health. Cindy had the very best of veterinary care. Elizabeth made sure of
that. But our ability to postpone the inevitable is ever limited so reluctantly I called the vet to book one final appointment.
It's heart-rending to stand helplessly by as a much loved pet uncomplainingly faces suffering, and eventually
death, so it was in sombre mood that I drove home that afternoon, early from my Hamilton office, knowing there was no hope but hoping none the
less. The coolness of early springtime was in the air and Cindy was spending her last days by a warming log fire, lying on one of our
handcrafted rugs and softly covered by Elizabeth's white angora evening stole. She was much too weak to move, and yet, as I turned into
our driveway the familiar crunch of tyres on gravel brought her one last time to the door to greet me.
All I could see of Cindy was her intelligent face - those big brown eyes looking up at me - for she had brought
along Elizabeth's stole which was trailing behind like a bridal train and swaying a little from side to side as she feebly tried to wag her pompom tail.
I wanted to put the appointment off; wanted a few extra hours to spend exclusively with Cindy; wanted one last
opportunity to show her how much I cared. But logic prevailed over sentiment and I carried her white-wrapped to the car and Elizabeth's lap.
We drove slowly, and in silence, but all too quickly we arrived at the Animal Clinic and soon I was holding
Cindy while the veterinarian's experienced hands probed for some small sign of healing and hope. There was none! And it was written
in her eyes as she straightened up and looked sadly at Elizabeth. Dropping her gaze, she turned my way before speaking -
just the one quiet word:
"Sorry."
Elizabeth, for once unable to hold back her tears, ran from the room. But I had to
stay. I couldn't leave Cindy in unfamiliar surroundings to die alone.
Cindy looked up at me with such trusting eyes as a little patch of leg was shaved and sprayed with skin-freeze aerosol. I stroked
her head, saying "don't worry, Love," and anticipated soothing her with more gentle words as the injection brought peace and an end to suffering.
But it wasn't like that at all, for the needle slid in and immediately our loving and lovable Cindy was limp and lifeless on her feet. I never
did say goodbye. At least, not while she could still hear me.
The vet unfolded a large plastic bag and said: "Best leave her with me."
I could barely grasp the lady's meaning. Was this, then, to be Cindy's reward for a lifetime's loyalty: to
be disposed of in a plastic bag on the local rubbish tip? My God! Our Cindy deserved better than that! So once more and for the
last time I wrapped her in Elizabeth's white stole, then told the vet I'd return for my precious bundle after first taking Elizabeth home. She
didn't seem to mind hanging around for me so I guess she understood.
I dug the grave, sun-dappled under our old plum tree, and tenderly laid Cindy's white shrouded form deep within the earth. Elizabeth
came to drop in freesias but would not through her tears have seen my own flowers already there. Then she ran indoors and as soon as the
turf had been replaced I went for a long and lonely drive on my own. Many miles later I parked on the verge of a quiet country road and at last,
where no-one could see, I cried too.
