Richard, the vet, took on the role of priest and counsellor as he welcomed me with a pat on the shoulder and a reminder that I had given Finn the best life.
He then spoke in a whisper about the process of death as he pumped a syringe full of dark green liquid into a foreleg vein. As clinical as they were, his words were heavy with compassion and allowed us some reality and a little distance from this unearthly moment.
I stroked Finn’s ear and watched his face for a reaction, but there was none, so I leaned over and looked straight into his left eye, which remained open and staring until I realised he wasn’t there any more.
He was there, and then he wasn’t there.
Where did he go?
Are we really just a collection of chemical reactions between synapses, or is there something else? And if there is something else, do animals have it?
Voluminous words have been written, mythologies weaved, hierarchies built and wars fought to find and defend the answers to these questions — yet still, we are dumbfounded at the moment of death.
So, there you have it. The lights are out, the play is finished, the poem has ended, the story is over and the stage is empty. Except it’s not.
The last few frames of Prince Finski’s film reel are still flapping on its spool. As I chop vegetables for the evening meal, he arrives on the cushioned kitchen bench where he used to lie and watch me before his legs weakened, and he couldn’t climb up any more. As I switch the lounge room light off before bed, I am about to stifle my night-time routine of saying goodnight to the sleeping dog in the study. Then I say goodnight anyway. He hasn’t gone yet.
The following days are cloudless, still and blue, perfect for a bush walk. But there’s no point: Finn’s final days and the syringe of green liquid circle endlessly in my head. I should have let him go months ago. His half-full food bowl sits on the verandah, now easy pickings for magpies.
Is grief always as relentless and random as this? And for goodness’ sake, he was just a dog.
During the 15 years and seven months of Finn’s life, I have lost two brothers to terminal illness, but I don’t remember the grief being as long or as sharp as this. But then I didn’t live with my brothers every day for nearly 16 years, and they didn’t watch me chop vegetables every night or walk around Victoria Park Lake or the bush with me every day. The ordinary routines of daily life build the strongest bonds.
Prince Finski came to us in a small cage from Queensland, where his breeder had already named him Mirribandi Finn, sired by Juvell Orna Van Moneo from the dam Orphee Schagerwaard of the Netherlands. This convinced me of his noble heritage, and as he grew, his aristocratic bearing became more apparent. Or so I thought — he could be aloof and imperious and absolutely refused to do anything peasant-like like chase a stick or ball. However, as soon as a rabbit or a kangaroo appeared, he lost all dignity and ran like a jiggered horse until his prey either disappeared or was cornered. I once had to drag him out of a billabong to save him from disembowelment by a trapped big grey.
Over the years, Finn has provided the grist for many of my News columns. Readers would tell me how much they enjoyed my Finn stories but never mention my hard-earned attempts at serious comments on current affairs and news analysis. Finn proved the old writers’ adage to be correct — stick to what you know.
For now, I’ll just say thank you to my loyal dog-loving readers and to the patient listener and dog royale that was Prince Finski of Kingfisher.
John Lewis is a former journalist at The News.
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