Vale Mango

A good life and a good death

The house is quiet. I look around for Mango, consciously aware that he’s not here, but feeling the strangeness of it. I woke this morning to the quiet. No shuffling, breathing, thumping, footsteps in the hallway. I’m used to Anne not being here, in her house. She left for a conference yesterday morning. Anne goes off to work, to the shops, to dance class. She had a week in hospital a year ago when I minded Mango. Mango on the other hand is always here.

We said goodbye to Mango on Sunday.

It was a gentle, warm weekend. The three of us had sat on the deck on Saturday morning in the sunshine. Mango stretched out, the pads of his paws aged and grey, his nose twitching, moist and alive. A gentle breeze blew the tarp on the table in front of us back and forth, there was background hum of the traffic from the highway nearby, and sulphur crested cockatoos squawked overhead. A line of five ibis flew high above, smoothly, calmly across the sky until they were out of view.

Anne made the phone call. Then soon was busy filling out a form on her phone. Blew her nose. Tears in her eyes. Stopped to lift Mango up, holding his rear as his legs scrabbled to get traction on the wooden deck. He headed inside.

The dried brown leaves of the silver birch in the yard and a pot of parsley with umbrellas of seeds on stark dead stalks tell us we are nearing the end of summer.

Mango barked. I went inside. He was on his couch. I patted him, scratched him under the chin. Told him he was a beautiful boy. We looked into each others eyes . He laid his head down again, and I went back outside and sat beside Anne who was still typing.

We took him for his final walks on Saturday afternoon and Sunday morning. He loved his walks. Despite his back legs not even working as peg legs any more. They struggled to hold him up, 46 kg of a fifteen year old golden Lab. It was like he was walking on stilts. One uneven bit of ground, moving his weight slightly too far, and he was down. But having to be regularly helped up, and stopping to catch his breath every hundred metres or so didn’t dampen his enthusiasm.

Mango’s walks followed his nose. Crisscrossing the street to follow a scent, to snuffle around in vegetation lining people’s fences, observing and exploring the scentscape of his neighbourhood, where he belonged, where he and other dogs, other creatures, possums, cats had gone before.

On his last afternoon walk he crossed the road at the corner just before home to snuffle around on a patch of dirt. A man called out from across the street, I hadn’t seen him until then. Oh he’s looking for bits of ham that I have fed the magpies. Here, I’ll give him some. We came over and he fed Mango, one then two then three pieces of ham. We’d better leave some for the magpies! As we walked off, Mango resisting, the magpies gathered, waiting for their share.

I walked away feeling sad, knowing that this friendship and grace was going to a dog who wasn’t going to be with us the following evening.

The vet arrived at noon on Sunday. Mango was asleep on his couch. His favourite spot in the house. Where he would lie awake as well as asleep, looking out, smelling out to the yard through the back screen door, his big brown nose quivering, alert to everything.

Mango woke of course as the vet arrived and greeted him. I loved Mango’s greetings. I’m usually only at Anne’s place for a few days a month. Each time I arrived Mango would greet me like a long lost friend, so pleased to see me, part of the pack returning home. In the past he would always get up and excitedly jump around, and we’d engage in a flurry of pats and rubs and head buts and scratching behind the ears. In the last six months getting up has been increasingly difficult, so he’d stay where he was, on the ground or on the couch, wagging his tail, jiggling and wiggling doing a modified version of the same welcome ritual.

Harry the vet said hello like a friend. Anne sat next to Mango on the couch and gave him a treat. And amongst cuddles and pats and chat about his past, his habits, his loves, Harry explained the process, Anne signed the form and Harry injected a sedative. We talked about how hard it had been to decide that this was the day. Wrestling with playing God. Harry commented that arthritis is hard. There’s no big growth like cancer, often developing quickly. Arthritis and skeletal degradation is slow. Ameliorated by lots of drugs, and operations over many years. But no amount of pharmaceuticals could stop the relentless progression and relieve all the pain. Deciding when was the right time for euthanasia in these circumstances is hard, because you are always comparing each day to the one before. He’s only incrementally worse this week than last week. Anne and I have said that Mango has been literally on his last legs for over a year. Yes, he could have lived for weeks more, maybe even months more. Harry said what we needed to hear - you don’t want his last day to be his worst.

Mango resisted falling asleep. He was enjoying the company, the treats. He couldn’t get comfortable for a while, shifting his head from side to side, resting it on Anne’s knee for a bit, then he finally relented. Breathing deeply, peacefully. The sound of Anne’s and my nights together, with Mango in his bed at the side of the room. I remember the first time I slept with Anne with Mango in the room. I was struck how his breathing sounded just like having another person with us.

Friday night hadn’t been peaceful. Mango had woken six or seven times, in pain and Anne had got up to help him get up, to move, to sleep in the hallway for a bit, in the lounge then back in his bed. Early Saturday morning he hadn’t woken in time and couldn’t get up and did a poo in his bed. This had happened a few times in recent weeks. Distressing to him and a sign that it was probably time.

I’m ok with him going this weekend, Anne said a little while later. We hugged deeply, lovingly. I told her she is a beautiful soul. Full of love and kindness and empathy.

Harry shaved Mango’s leg, inserted a catheter and injected the drugs. Mango’s deep breathing stopped shortly afterwards. Harry’s stethoscope confirmed; he’s gone. Harry quietly departed and let us know that the people who were arranged to pick up his body would be here soon. We continued to pat Mango, his thick golden fur with its gentle whirls and whorls, his nose no longer alive, drying out and shrinking, his paws slowly cooling, but with us still expecting that at any moment he could give himself a shake, and it would all have been a dream.

The Paws to Remember men arrived, shifted Mango’s body from the couch to a stretcher, strapped him in, covered him with a shroud, ready for his final ride. As he lay in the back of their station wagon, I picked a red grevillea flower from a bush nearby and tucked it in with him. Safe journeying Mango.

Being here with Anne to support her in Mango’s passing has been a privilege. Holding her and grieving with her, deepening our relationship. Love and grief. Sorrow and joy.

Mango has been a friend, companion and house mate of Anne’s for eleven years. Their lives were intertwined. Loving and caring and just being there for each other. Tuned into each other. The rituals and rhythms of their days experienced together, morning and evening walks and feeds, and sharing night times together. Mango was happy by himself during the day but he would fret at night-time if he was alone.

Anne will miss him deeply. Grieve for him, hold memories of him tight as she rebuilds her life without Mango. So much of our lives, our very being is our relationships. We are entangled in a web of relationships, of life. When we lose someone close to us, part of us is ripped away and we need to rebuild who we are. Reset ourselves as we take the next step and walk along a new path without them.

Mango was one of three old souls in Anne’s and my lives. My cat Trieste is now twenty. And my mum is 93. Mango is the first to go. The passing of the other two is just a matter of when.

Mum talks about dying a lot. Is at peace with it, it seems. Accepting that her time will come, that no one lives forever. She has her funeral all planned out, the music as we enter the church, and throughout the service, the readings, and how she wants the service to break in the middle for morning tea so everyone can stop and chat before the final rites are said and the coffin is sent off to the crematorium.

Mum also has severe and painful arthritis. She’s back living at home with 24 hour care. Most of her days she just is. Reads, watches TV, sits in her garden, observes the birds, sways in the breeze, feels the sun on her face. Rests as needed. Eats as needed, with others gathering food for her, her intertwined life, her relationships serving her well.

I hope her passing when the time comes is as peaceful as Mango’s.