The Sad Demise Of Darwin
One day in May 2009, I got a tearful phonecall from Wife, telling me that Darwin, our Pyrenees Mountain Dog, had been in the exact same position for an hour. This wasn't exactly new, but there seemed something a bit, well, permanent, about it this time. I left work, pondering what we were going to do.
I got home, and there he was. He'd died in his sleep, on top of some ruinously expensive plants.
"Where's he going?" I asked Wife.
"What do you mean?" She replied
"Where am I burying him?"
"You have got to be fucking kidding"
If you've never seen a Pyr, they are big. Any grave I dug would be pretty noticeable, and would ruin what little of the garden hadn't already been ruined by our massive dog.
"Ring the vets. We'll have to have him cremated." Wife is the grown up in the relationship, you'll have noticed.
So, I rang the vets. Yes, we could send him for cremation, but the clock was ticking- we had to get him there in the next 30 minutes. We found a blanket, and started to try and wrap it around the rapidly solidifying Darwin. If you've ever received a bottle as a present from me, congratulations on seeing only the second worst piece of wrapping I've ever done.
We half carried, half dragged the corpse round to the car. As we were swinging him into the boot, the head lolled out of the blanket, complete with sticking out tongue. A high pitched cream behind me indicated that the nearby primary school was just kicking out. I maybe imagining it, but I'm pretty sure subsequently people crossed over to the other side of the road when passing our house.
In the car. Engine on. windows open. Darwin was getting ripe. This is a dog I drove 200 miles with after he'd rolled in a dead seal. That was honeysuckle blossoms in comparison.
At the vets. I'm holding one corner of the blanket, trying to open the door with my free hand. A Yorkshire terrier emerges, yip yip yipping away underneath the blanket I'm holding. The owner is trying to coax the little sod out of the way, understandably not wanting to get too close. I start laughing. Actual body shaking laughs. This is the most grimly comical thing I've ever been involved with. Wife joins in.
Darwin rolled out of the blanket. Darwin landed on the Yorkshire terrier.
I'd like to say this stopped us laughing. I'd really like to say that. A confused, furious, but luckily unharmed Yorkshire terrier emerged from under Darwin.
We'd stopped laughing by this point, and apologised to the owner of the other dog, although I still can't see why- this was only ever going to go one way.
We left our old friend to take his last journey, and decided not to take up the jobs as body losers for the mob that we'd noticed advertised in the Post the previous evening.
I got home, and there he was. He'd died in his sleep, on top of some ruinously expensive plants.
"Where's he going?" I asked Wife.
"What do you mean?" She replied
"Where am I burying him?"
"You have got to be fucking kidding"
If you've never seen a Pyr, they are big. Any grave I dug would be pretty noticeable, and would ruin what little of the garden hadn't already been ruined by our massive dog.
"Ring the vets. We'll have to have him cremated." Wife is the grown up in the relationship, you'll have noticed.
So, I rang the vets. Yes, we could send him for cremation, but the clock was ticking- we had to get him there in the next 30 minutes. We found a blanket, and started to try and wrap it around the rapidly solidifying Darwin. If you've ever received a bottle as a present from me, congratulations on seeing only the second worst piece of wrapping I've ever done.
We half carried, half dragged the corpse round to the car. As we were swinging him into the boot, the head lolled out of the blanket, complete with sticking out tongue. A high pitched cream behind me indicated that the nearby primary school was just kicking out. I maybe imagining it, but I'm pretty sure subsequently people crossed over to the other side of the road when passing our house.
In the car. Engine on. windows open. Darwin was getting ripe. This is a dog I drove 200 miles with after he'd rolled in a dead seal. That was honeysuckle blossoms in comparison.
At the vets. I'm holding one corner of the blanket, trying to open the door with my free hand. A Yorkshire terrier emerges, yip yip yipping away underneath the blanket I'm holding. The owner is trying to coax the little sod out of the way, understandably not wanting to get too close. I start laughing. Actual body shaking laughs. This is the most grimly comical thing I've ever been involved with. Wife joins in.
Darwin rolled out of the blanket. Darwin landed on the Yorkshire terrier.
I'd like to say this stopped us laughing. I'd really like to say that. A confused, furious, but luckily unharmed Yorkshire terrier emerged from under Darwin.
We'd stopped laughing by this point, and apologised to the owner of the other dog, although I still can't see why- this was only ever going to go one way.
We left our old friend to take his last journey, and decided not to take up the jobs as body losers for the mob that we'd noticed advertised in the Post the previous evening.
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