Movember Rain

This year I was to take part in the festival of Movember, a celebration of man where participants cultivate a moustache to raise awarness for the many medical ailments for which we are predisposed. Perhaps not directly in the spirit of the festival, I made the conscious decision to cheat and started “restraining the shaving” early in the month of October. Come November my unfair advantage had paid off and the reward was significant. I was now the proud owner of a rich and full upper lip of hair, a testament to my virility and manliness. I was loud and proud, and the complements were abundant which I acknowledged with a nod and occasionally a wink. I was a man on show for all to see, I had arrived. Unfortunately on the 7th of November had also arrived something that I’d been dreading for over a decade, the day I would have to put down ‘Winston’, my beautiful old dog.

Winston was with my wife and I for just under sixteen years. His pedigree was impeccable, the mother was one of the finest Siberian Husky show dogs in the country and his father, the next door neighbours’ tunnelling black kelpie. He was a handsome dog, with a head shaped slightly more like a Husky than Kelpie supporting a black and tan face mask beneath a set of triangularly shaped ears. He had an athletic frame with a broad white chest and a gleaming black coat leading to a white tipped tail flying always at full mast. In August 1999 having read the morning classifieds it was decided. Rita and I jumped into our 1984 Honda Prelude and hightailed it up to Kingaroy, struck a deal at $50 and began the return trip with our windows and sunroof at full vent, expelling the flatulence of our newly acquired friend. Our commitment was complete, Winston was now one of us and would be to the very end. I remember telling Rita on that ‘windy’ drive home that I’d be 40 years old when “he goes”. Being only 25 at the time such a concept seemed utterly abstract, but in terms of the reality, it was right on the money and had arrived all too soon.

Our $50 purchase price seemed a bargain, but as with many “great deals” there are often issues hidden in the fine print. The first of which was Winston’s allergic reaction to bees and his fondness for chasing them. I knew there would be the inevitable hiccups over the years, I only wished that our first emergency visit had occurred a little latter than our second night of custodianship. Luckily the only consequences were his swollen mouth and a modest addition to the once reasonable purchase price in the order of many hundreds of dollars.

A few short months later Winston broke his foot after stepping awkwardly on a macadamia nut. To this day I still don’t understand the mechanics or the probabilities of such an event, but what I did absorb was the loss of many hundreds of dollars in return for X-rays & plaster casts. My use of the plural for ‘casts’ is because multiple were applied. More broken bones? No, Winston had another love other than his ‘anaphylaxis inducing bees’ and that was for all bodies of water. Whether they be pools, creeks, troughs or puddles, if there was water, chances are that Winston would be at its centre, sitting. Ordinarily this would be fine, but a love for water and the necessity of a plaster cast do not make for good bedfellows and to my detriment, the combination of both invited many hundreds of dollars in restorative fees.

A couple of months down the track and in our quest to attain the status of responsible pet owners, we made the decision to have Winston desexed. The procedure was done around mid-December, a time I only recollect due to a specific memory I have of xmas day 1999. My entire extended family had congregated at mum and dads house to enjoy a very early dinner beneath the sprawling trees lining the creek and adjacent to carefully manicured paddocks. It was a typical family affair, tables complete with their white cloths pinned under a plethora of crockery housing bread rolls, crackers, dips, Pâté, meats and wine, with the seating spread out randomly but with order to their chaos. It’s a beautiful place and if you look up towards the house at this time in the afternoon, you witness the warm glow of the sun going down over the valley. It was at this point when my auntie Jane drew attention to this splendour. It was unfortunate that dead centre of the frame, illuminated by the red glow of the sun setting was my recently desexed puppy performing a sex act upon my mother’s newly acquired and extremely reluctant Shepherd. The splendour had now become a spectacle and questions were raised over whether the desexing procedure had failed? The opportunity to know for sure soon availed itself, as Winston then leapt into the creek with his stiches still in place. Again, it was ‘adieu’ to many hundreds of dollars.

Winston’s demeanour could never be described as ‘balanced’, he had a personality defined only by his uniqueness. With a poker face that would bluff the gambler, strangers would never know if they were about to be licked, attacked or merely stalked. He wasn’t welcoming of visitors but tolerant of them, never letting them out of his sight. In truth he wasn’t an aggressive dog, but very protective and had a good instinct about people. I don’t know whether it was a clash of his breed’s inherent traits, but there was a contradiction in his nature. He was never needy, but liked to know you were around. This was evidenced in the early years where he suffered from separation anxiety. If left alone, he’d rip up anything and everything, he’d escape, howl and carry on, but in a strange contrast if he knew you were in the vicinity, he would just go about his own business, maybe walking by every half hour or so for a pat on the head before moving on. He wouldn’t be all over you like a fat kid on a ham.

The aforementioned separation anxiety manifested into an escapism phase in these early years. Nothing we tried at the time could hold him. A $3,000+ dog run which I commissioned specifically for his containment during my work hours, complete with kennel and creature comforts was conquered in a day. This phase went on for a good length of time, but through all of our failed efforts to contain him there was again a strange contradiction. Once he’d escape he would always confine himself to our footpath and await our return. Winston would go to the ends of the earth to free himself from whatever he perceived as a barrier, but once free would stay within 30 metres of our property’s letterbox. Eventually we came across the solution:- The Hidden Fence, but by that time his behaviour had significantly deescalated.

One issue that transcended the term ‘phase’ was his pathological fear of electrical storms, during which it was always necessary that he be restrained. During the summer months Rita & I always coordinated our daily plans with military proficiency to ensure someone could always be with the dog should a storm hit. I don’t need to tell you that in Brisbane during summer this is a gargantuan task. Only an antecedent dose of tranquilisers timed to perfection could even slightly mitigate his fear. Eventually it was only the loss of his hearing and an occasional cocktail of antipsychotics that placated his anxiety during the larger storms.

As we got through the dramas of the first few years, we managed to achieve a type of skewed equilibrium, settling into a routine with much more ease. In 2005 I had the opportunity to work from home on a regular basis and then in 2009 I started my own business, wholesaling pharmaceuticals to veterinarians.

From that day on Winston was with me all day, every day. He came with me to the warehouse daily, and was particularly selective as to which guest or delivery driver should be welcomed, shunned, roust at or closely watched. We always shared a bacon and egg McMuffin when one was purchased, split lunch daily and travelled together on deliveries and pick-ups. After the 2011 floods and having lost everything, it is no secret I went into a downward spiral. Winston’s constant companionship and eagerness to get me out of the front door was invaluable, and I believe instrumental in pulling me out of a deep black hole into which I sometimes still fall. It was this moment I’d realised that the tables had turned, he began looking after me as I had always looked after him, just in a way that I never could have anticipated.

It was only a couple of months ago that Winston stopped coming to work with me on a daily basis. He still came in more often than not, but he had begun to have some issues with the stairs. Still, I just carried him up and down, but quite suddenly I noticed all of him was slowing down. It was certainly the case that his hearing wasn’t great, his eye sight was failing, and he was becoming a little unsteady on his feet, but he was happy. His eyes still had that look of mischievous glee, his appetite for everything at head height was perpetually insatiable and a penchant for herding my chickens was still one of his favourite, albeit forbidden past-times. Pain was never present, of that I am certain as I was determined he was always comfortable.

But on the 6th of November things changed for the worse. His unsteadiness became exaggerated, a once frolicsome glint had transformed into a stare of concern and unease. His back legs no longer summoned the power he possessed only yesterday. Stairs were now forever out of the question, even he acknowledged the futility of attempt. Carrying him up to bed and then lying on my own, I stared at the light fixture on the ceiling for hours, going over in my head what I had always said aloud, “when his quality of life goes, the decision is clear and easy, but hard to carry out”. That night was like riding a wave, rising up in unreasonable hope that this was just a ‘bad episode’ then suddenly crashing into the undeniable reality that Winston’s quality of life had forever changed.

The next morning I looked at my wife and she at me, my question was simple “Is it time to rip off the bandage”? She knew what I meant, I suspect she examined the same light fixture for as long as I did, so with many tears and a nod the decision was made, it was time. I looked in the mirror at my dishonestly cultivated Movember moustache and decided to shave it off. For almost sixteen years I did not possess facial decoration, and for what-ever reason when I put Winston to sleep, I wanted him to see me as I had always been. The obvious contradiction of course was that when we first acquired him, I weighed 190 pounds, had a full head of hair and was fit as a fiddle. Since then I had gained 40 pounds, become half bald and developed a heart condition. Not-withstanding this, I wouldn’t hesitate to do the same again.

I went into work and provided instructions to my staff, I would not be returning for the rest of that day. I picked up a package requiring delivery and left immediately for the Goodna Vet surgery where Wayne had looked after Winston since the floods. I did him a turn and he for I, and he’s just the type of vet with whom I like to deal: down to earth, calm and no over servicing. Upon dropping off his package I made an appointment with his assistant Rachael, 1.45pm.

Arriving home at 11.00am with pieces of original KFC chicken in hand, Winston sat on Rita’s lap and we talked and talked, no tv, no radio, no internet and no phones. Rita fed small pieces of KFC to Winston who continued to mistake her fingers for the chicken, biting them a number of times. It was hilarious, it was miserable, it seemed we were there forever, but the time to leave had already arrived.

By 1.50pm he was upon the veterinarian’s table, strokes of affection provided by all with Wayne and Rachael seeming to share in my grief. So it was then, with my beautiful dog’s chin in my hand and the plunger depressing, that Winston's head slowly, gently and heavily leaned into my palm. He had gone, never to awake. I gasped “what wonderful way to go”, all agreed.

I took him out to Brookfield which was his favourite place to sit in water, and where Rita was waiting. Mum in her usual thoughtful way had made arrangements for him to be buried and had specifically selected a tree, a “Yellow Trumpetbush” to be planted above. Mum also being mum had employed a number of men with specialised machinery and the whole task was accomplished within about 10 minutes.

So it’s been a miserable month for Rita and I. Not having children we probably invested a bit more love and energy over the years into our old dog than otherwise would be the case. I don’t know if this was prudent but I am sure of one thing, our lives and maybe even our marriage were better, happier, for Winston being part of our lives.

Since then I began to grow the facial hair again, not in any allegiants to the movement of Movember but for the simple reason that I couldn’t be bothered shaving, slipping back into that familiar black hole. My business partner (& brother) William, had a talk with his daughters about the situation who were also very upset. His eldest “Annie”, an absolute sweetheart, tried to console me by saying that “Winston’s gone to heaven and will wait for Rita”. I asked if he would be waiting for me, and was told in words to the effect that daddy thinks I might have an issue meeting the entry requirements. I laughed, I shaved.

It was Rita who told me that one of Movember’s causes this year was the issue of Men’s Mental Health, where the usage of the term “Black dog” denotes an affliction with depression. So it was, in a month where I planned on raising awareness about men and “the black dog”, I lost my beautiful black dog, who helped me in 2011 get over a very big “black dog” and as such maybe attracting another “black dog”. So, even though I pulled out of Movember this year, I’ve got $100 somewhere around and will send it their way. Next Movember I don’t think I’ll participate, but come that time of year where hordes of men begin growing suspect moustaches and appear as though they’d encounter problems acquiring the appropriate credentials to work with children, I will remember my beautiful dog Winston and our journey. A journey which began with a spur of the moment purchase of a cute little puppy, a myriad of funny and awkward stories that stretch for almost sixteen years, and ending with his final moments, leaning into the palm of my hand.