On 19 December 2019, at 4:09pm, surrounded by (almost) the whole family, Gus took his final breath.

…

We sought to escape the summer heat and Christmas rush and set ourselves up in a holiday house in Venus Bay for the week. Gus accompanied us for the adventure and was in high spirits as he explored the unfamiliar surrounds, even managing an illicit scope out of the next door neighbour’s residence in his untameable desire to capture the lay of the land.

He prowled around the shared tennis court, later hurling himself at the windows in indignation for us when he discovered that the other house’s occupants were also enjoying the space. He was, to the end, our fierce protector.

To understand his story, though, we have to go back to the beginning…

…

It was a sunny afternoon in July 2005. I was about to turn 21 and had been married to Dave for seven months (we were so young, yes, I know!). I pulled up to our weather-beaten weatherboard house in Dingley and Dave greeted me at my canary yellow Holden Cruze.

‘Happy Birthday’, he said, mysteriously, handed me a spool of string.

‘Uh, what is this for?’ I enquired, not quite sure of what I was about to encounter.

‘Just follow it,’ came the reply.

He blindfolded me for good measure and I stumbled and groped my way along the string. Through the front door, bracing myself against the walls. Along the way there were strange items attached – a fluffy toy, a plastic bone. I removed them and continued to find my way to the end. My hands found a ball of the softest fur, barely bigger than a toy. He was trembling with excitement, licking my hands in greeting.

We named him Gus.

Gus became our companion and greatest love. He tore apart the place in his youthful vigour at first – destroying my shoes and eating everything he was and wasn’t supposed to. Eventually he learned to do his business outside and we attempted taking him out for walks, but he never quite got a handle on how to behave around other dogs.

He was the runt of the litter, Dave told me. Shied away from his bigger, stronger brothers and sisters and had been neglected by his mother. Gus had fight in him, though, and we loved him dearly for it.

In the early days, I treated him like my own child. Ducking home frequently from uni classes just to spend time with him. His entire body wriggled in joy whenever I returned and I thrived on his enthusiastic welcome. There were times when we couldn’t have him live with us, due to rental agreements and onsite college rules. Mum and Dad looked after him for a spell until we moved in with them and were reunited once again.

When we moved out to Narre Warren we made sure our landlords allowed pets and he became fully ours once again. A bundle of energy and vitality, he would dart from window to window, assessing the street and making sure we were aware of any oncoming threats or visitors. I put him to bed in the laundry each night, whispering how much I loved him. It was inconceivable to me that I could love anything or anyone (apart from Dave, of course) more at that point.

We discovered we were pregnant with Eli in 2010 and I worried a little how Gus would react to him. Would he accept this change or would he set himself against the new addition? We needn’t have worried. From the first sniff, Gus was smitten, placing himself by Eli’s side and standing guard. The two became fast friends.

Life began to shift and change and we moved into shared accommodation with our dear friends. It was chaotic and unsettling at times, but Gus proved himself a master of adaptation, finding places in the cavernous house to call home, and always alerting us to any passersby. When we descended into the turmoil that was Hudson’s first year – me thick with sadness and frustration, he intuitively knew when I needed comfort.

I fear that I failed him though. With the rapid fire additions of two more children and the swirl of tasks and duties that became our lives, he was relegated to the bottom of the pecking order. While he was nothing but patient and tolerant of the sticky-fingered hands that clumsily patted him, his needs seemed too much at times. The pride of place that he had known as my first dissipating in the tumultuous pace of life.

The ageing process frightened me. He developed skin growths and lumps, and began to carry the unmistakeable scent of decay. I felt heavy when I looked at him, sometimes, wondering how it would all play out and how he would fare until the inevitable end. My sister is a Veterinarian and, while she never called me out on it, I felt the weight of her perspective, knowing there were probably countless expensive treatments and procedures I should be asking for if I was really a caring owner. Instead, I found it all too hard and just kept going, hoping that it would all turn out okay.

And he mostly continued to act like a puppy. Tearing around the living room at times, cocking his head to pause and then continuing his wild rounds. He would play-fight with the kids, darting back and forth while they screeched in laughter. We only had to say ‘hungry?’ and he would cock his head to the side, hardly daring to believe that the best moment of the day had arrived at last. Gus was our guard dog, our door-bell, our travelling companion, the vacuum that prowled our floors. He barked ferociously at the cats strolling along the back fence, so indignant that they would dare to trespass on his property.

He was, seamlessly, part of our very fabric.

…

When the final day came, though, he somehow seemed every inch of his almost 15 years. Limbs stiff and creaking, he tottered down the stairs to relieve himself, Harvey holding tight to his leash. He spent a few hours in the sun before I coaxed him inside to rest. Dave took the boys to watch the new Star Wars movie and I stayed in Venus Bay with Harvey and Ivy. It was around 10am when I heard a strange sound. His breathing – shallow and hoarse – resounded rapidly. He kept trying to cough something up, but it never came. Then it did – blood and fluid onto the floor. I returned to deliver some pizza to him as a last ditch attempt and he looked up at me with sad eyes and turned away.

It was then that I knew.

I collapsed to the ground and sat with him on the laundry floor for as long as I could, Harvey and Ivy’s slightly manic playing ringing faintly in the background. I stroked him over and over, hands still greasy with pizza, but I didn’t care. His breaths came rapidly and he couldn’t find relief. I wept and apologised, thanked him for being such an amazing dog. I wish I had been better for him.

When Dave returned, we made plans to visit the Wonthaggi vet. In a serendipitous twist, Dave’s parents had arranged to visit for the day and came to take care of Harvey while the rest of us made the silent, solemn journey away. Gus was in the middle of us, in his bed on the car floor, eyes sad and chest heaving.

It was heart failure, the vet said, causing his lungs to fill with fluid. He didn’t have long. I broke down again at the news, my tears falling freely onto his mottled fur. The kids asked lots of questions, deciding to remain as we all gathered around to farewell him.

It was so final in the end. A sedative to make him comfortable and we each had our chance to say good bye. We embraced him and looked deep into his eyes when the final shot went in. I remember the moment vividly that he left us. Like flame being doused.

…

I wrote a poem three years ago now, called ‘An Ode to Gus‘. In it I lamented that we hadn’t fully realised his beauty in the craziness of life. The final lines haunt me now: ‘Your entire life has been spent in our shadows/ How much of that have I taken for granted?/ May it not be in your own shadow that/ I finally learn to marvel at you.’ 

It is in the places he always was that I feel it most keenly now. The black throne-like chairs on which he napped, the absence of his feet pattering on the floor. The void where his food and water bowls lay in the laundry. The crumbs that are strewn on the floor that he hasn’t picked up.

I awoke this morning and the realisation of it all hit me anew, causing a tidal wave of tears to return.

We miss you, Gus. Our hearts ache for you. For the memories you shared with us, all the moments you were present for. You were always there. I’ll miss putting you to bed at night, even that grumpy growl you did when you didn’t want to move from your chair. You were our fierce protector, our constant friend. We will hold you in our hearts forever.

Thank you for being you.