Fecal Matters: Collected Musings

On Death and Dogs

     Everything I have breaks in it's own specific way. Only ever in that way, for every generation, following it's ancestors to it's inevitable end.

Every wallet I have ever owned has split along the inside seam of the coin pocket, sending errant loose change flying during every transaction I make until I give in and buy a new one. I over stuff them and that is how they die.

Every pair of jeans I have owned has met it's end by tearing at the crotch. I have taken to doubling up on pants or wearing my gym shorts under my trousers to save flashing those who sit across from me. I'd like to tell you that they too are overstuffed, but instead I'll mutter something about the size of the wave not being important when weighed against the motion of the ocean and then, hastily, change the subject.

Socks and pants form holes on their undersides. Shoes soles fall off eventually. Bicycle breaks become rusted and snap. Shirts rip at the elbow.

Everything uniformly breaks the way it is supposed to.

I break unnoticeably. Every time something awful happens I hide it and carry on as normal, determined to make people laugh and be social. I'll only rarely tell people about anything that's upsetting me because I don't want to whinge; I would hate it if anyone thought I was over dramatic. The only thing that embarrasses me is people knowing how bad things are when things are bad.

Often times I'll tell myself that I should look sad so that people will ask me what's wrong, but even then when I'm asked I'll say "Nothing" and act like they're seeing something that isn't there. I'm so fucking English in that respect. I couldn't possibly talk about emotions like a damned colonial, what utter toss. I'm not some kind of whoopsie, sir!

There is one event in life where there is no hiding, however.

When I was nine, the daughter of my Mum's friend died from a freak stomach condition. She was five and I'd known her her whole life. Her mother is my God mother. I remember doing an impression of Barney the purple dinosaur for her and making her laugh. I also remember her tiny ivory coloured coffin. I insisted on going to the funeral. I think I was ten.

When I was eighteen, just eighteen at that, a friend of mine died. She was my best friend's sister and was only a couple of years older than us. We all hung around together most of the time and the summer before hand we'd formed this tight knit little group. And then she died, and we were all fucked.

The week after, still reeling from the shock, I was woken early one morning by my tearful Mother. She told me that my cousin had died. She was two weeks old. I saw an even smaller coffin. I subsequently spent the majority of the next year in bed, doing nothing.

A little while later, my Grandad became very ill. We visited him in the hospice. He looked weathered and frail like a baby bird. He looked at me and asked if I had a job yet. When I said no, he groaned and turned away. I loved my Grandad. I respected my Grandad. That was the last thing he ever said to me.

In those four events, I built a healthy foundation for my lack of ability to deal with death.

As I mentioned before, I repress emotion and ignore it, so I didn't realise I had a problem until later on. I started working in care in my early twenties. I took to it pretty well and found a job I genuinely cared about. I started out in a Dementia home in the country side. About six months into that job, one of the residence fell ill. She was a resident that everyone loved and she was dying. She died on my shift, the first of three night shifts in a row. Three of us were on that night and it was decided that one of us would sit in with her so that she didn't die alone. I was sitting next to her, on my own, when she passed away. I was told I'd know when she breathed her last, and I did. I had instinctively stopped reading the copy of Take A Break that sat by her bedside moments before it happened. The last rasping rattle of her lungs is a noise that will stay with me for as long as I live.

We washed and dressed her and called the undertakers who took her away in a bag that we helped them get her into.

I finished my next two night shifts in autopilot, then promptly had a massive panic attack on arriving home. I continued to have them on and off for the next couple of weeks, eventually going to a doctor. I was prescribed anti-depressants and pointed towards therapy, neither of which I took. Eventually, the panic attacks stopped. I've had a couple since then, but they're extremely rare.

Today Maisy died. She was my dog. I got her on my 16th birthday and she was my sidekick for the remainder of my adolescence. Two bundles of hair and energy, we clumsily went everywhere together. She also did that ridiculously noble dog thing of putting her head on my knee whenever I lost a girlfriend or pined over someone unobtainable or, indeed, ran the words of a dying grandfather over and over again in my head. She didn't care if I was being melodramatic (which I more often than not was) she just wanted to comfort me.

I loved that animal and then I moved out, but she couldn't come with me. Then I moved in with my girlfriend. Then we had a baby. And Maisy lived with my Mum and Dad who subsequently moved to Dorset, so I only saw Maisy sporadically. She grew old quickly, my excitable puppy became a deaf old hound. She seemed depressed in her later years, but never stopped being gentle. My daughter loved her. After our last visit, she and I debated over who the best dog ever was. Maisy won a hard fought victory over the other finalists, Krypto the Super-dog and the imaginary puppy my daughter plays with who's name changes with the wind.

The last time I spent with Maisy she put her head on my lap and I stroked her. Her tail was wagging. My girlfriend said she looked happy and content. I remember thinking that next time we visited I would take her for a big ol' walk, like we used to do when we were young. We were in a rush then and there though, so it would have to wait.

I know it sounds ridiculous, but I feel very aware of my breathing. Turns out my neurosis might be tolerant of species. Good for it. I bet it'll vote for Jeremy Corbin too.

And I'm scared because I have to talk about it to my daughter. She's three. I don't want death to be something she has to think about. My world was immortal until I was at least nine or ten. She does know death (Mr. Walt Disney opened that can of worms, as is his want) but it's not something that is real yet. And she's been struggling with dreams about me and her Mum dying. She told us then she thinks when people die they shrink.

My little girl.

My goofy dog.

My English mentality.

My fucking panic attacks.

Everything I have breaks in it's own specific way. So I may not get another dog.