by Lewis J Rhodes

Created on: May 02, 2010

When the day finally arrived, and I can’t say I wasn’t aware of its coming, I found myself drifting into an emotional quagmire of illogical thoughts compounded by eyes perpetually filling with water. Bessie, the feral Border collie, had gone, dispatched painlessly by the vet, after the farmer and I had gently discussed the possibility a few days before. Her cancers had grown into balloon size, and she struggled to remain mobile. I remember driving home, unaware of what had happened, but acutely aware that something had happened.  My eyes already filled at the possibility of the old dog’s passing.

Bessie had been our constant companion since our arrival on the farm. We had arrived with a rescue dog named Bud, but his demands, his aggression, and indeed his psychological disposition, forced us to return him to the rescue centre soon after our arrival. The destruction of the front door, confirmed he would not be able to cope with being alone. Somehow Bessie knew this, and stepped unobtrusively in, demanding nothing, other than a pat and some attention. She was still hunting rabbits in those days, and needed little from us.

That first summer was a balmy one, unusual for Scotland, and we made the most of it, barbecuing each day with little break in the routine. Of course Bessie would be there, her keen nose never missing the tempting smell of a steak, a sausage, some bacon, and even on rare occasions, fish. Unbeknown to us a silent bonding was taking place. We were to become her guardians, and yet we would never be her master. Bessie would remain feral until her final hour, and I think as I write, she respected and loved us for respecting this.

If there was anything she would thank us for, it would have to be the horror of 2006, some four years before she died. Already an old dog at this stage, perhaps ten, possibly eleven, she achieved an unlikely season, and was soon covered by an uncaring little farm Jack Russell who persisted until he got his way. In falling pregnant the old dog held little of the physical capabilities a younger female carries, and the pups died deep within her womb, leaving the old dog to suffer the consequences of blood poisoning unless she was cleaned out. At first none of us noticed the problems, but  as the days went by, she arrived to greet us after our return from work, weaker and weaker until, she was unable to climb onto an old kitchen sofa that offered her respite during a cold winter night.

Fate always

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