Robert the Westie. My life. By me.

21. A last tour of the terrace.

It did not come upon me suddenly, this sense of slipping away, of letting go. It just snuck up on me, unannounced but as inevitable as the rising tide or the setting sun. Day by day, my energy levels dropped, my speed to the terrace to piss slowed, my limbs weighed heavier, losing their will to move, and my urge to bark cheerily just drifted away to a place beyond my knowing.

Steve was on the other side of the world, truly. He had flown out to Sydney in mid-September, ostensibly to execute a management reshuffle of the office there. Closer to his heart, I guessed, would be the chance to catch the colour and passion of the Olympic Games, based this year in a far flung city that he had come to know and love. Jason had seized the moment to return to Singapore and spend a few days with his family before heading south to Australia to join Steve for the last few days of his visit.

"Don't look so fed up, Robert," Steve had said, all too aware of my hang-dog look as he forewarned me of his impending departure. "Jill is coming to stay. You always get on well with her. Just think of it as a kind of holiday from me."

I could think of nothing I wanted less. Jill, a neighbour from nearby Prince of Wales Drive, overlooking Battersea Park, was indeed a friendly lady with an obvious fondness for dogs in general and me in particular. But she was a large creature who seemed to fill too much of the space that I called home.  Her fussy little ways, her lengthy visits to the bathroom and her muffled sighs at times of even the mildest exertion somehow grated upon me. Steve she emphatically was not. His strength, his dependability, his just being there were traits that had resonated more deeply with me ever since my strange collapse in June. Now, as I vaguely sensed an approaching final destination, his absence hurt. I felt alone and neglected by the only person whose presence had ever counted for anything. 

"Cheer up Robert. He'll be home soon," said Jill at least once a day. She wasn't stupid. She knew exactly how I was feeling. Thank God she had the wit to share her knowledge.

"He's on the phone," she announced one morning. "He's on his way to bed, but wanted to tell us about Denise Lewis's gold medal. He was there in the stadium to see her defeat all those muscular Russian women. He's so excited!"

Indeed he was. From my position I could hear the familiar inflections in his voice, the bursts of joyful chatter, the easy warmth that was so much part of his likeability. He sounded so near. I could hardly bare to listen.

"No, he really isn't too cheerful, to be honest. And he's off his food," Jill was saying. 

Yes, guess who had become the topic of conversation.

"Okay, yes, good idea. I'll let you know the outcome," she added, bidding the distant caller farewell.

The good idea proved to be a visit to the dreaded v person. I thought he looked stressed as we arrived. He was certainly showing signs of strain as we left.

 "He is usually so lively," he said, shaking his head and running a hand through his blonde curls, "and I'm not happy about the weight loss. The blood analysis should tell us more. Try him on these and bring him back in a few days for a check over. By the way, where's Steve?"

"Your home town," Jill replied.

So Tony was an Aussie. I should have guessed. That funny upward turn of phrase at the end of a sentence was very not English. Had I not been in a funk on every vet visit of my life, I would have been more observant and spotted his origins much earlier. The accent was familiar, and pleasant enough, at least as shared by the various Sydney folk who had visited since Steve had opened the office. Now I suddenly resented it, for somehow taking my Steve too far away too often and for too long.

"Yeah, born in Goodchap Street in the Surry Hills," he added. "Seemed like an appropriate address for a life in the veterinary field. After all, you're a good chap, aren't you Robert?" He patted me gently on the head and ushered us to the door.