Dog Days

Fidel at the beach on his last day.

Fidel at the beach on his last day.

Patchett opens her story with, “Two days before my dog Rose died…”* Who of us who has ever loved a dog can resist the urge to read on? Flung into foreknowledge of a death – knowledge humans share, but which animals might be – who knows? – spared, we realise this death is imminent. While many of us imagine we’d welcome such foreknowing of our own end, few could bear it. Patchett, it is clear, feels that burden of knowing.

Then there’s the dog’s name, Rose: this dog is particular. She has an owner, a name giver. Giving a name is an act of appropriation, literally a claim of belonging. Rose belongs to Ann. Sahara belonged to my brother Dennis; and Fidel belonged to my son-in-law Pablo. And, to our surprise, a widening circle of others.

My firstborn brother spent most of his last decade as the sole resident in a family sized dwelling. A gregarious, family-minded man, his loneliness would have been bleak without Sahara. To those who did not love her, Sahara, was completely unlovable, too small, too low slung, raucous and aggressive; she was in addition a sneaking, nasty, opportunistic biter. To Dennis alone was she cherished; blind to her antisocial nature, her repellent effect on all creatures on two legs or four, Dennis pampered her. He loved Sahara. She was his housemate, his friend, his nearest relative.

Happily for Dennis he never saw Sahara’s last days. After he died, one of his friends materialised in our house of mourning and volunteered to take her in. Relieved of a most undesired heirloom, we seldom speak of her. She lives on, however, under her own name, between the covers of my novel ”Carrots and Jaffas”, in which she functions as an unexpected redeemer. My fear is she might be alive somewhere in the flesh. A roar, a blur, a quick bite, sudden blood, quicker flight, you’ll recognise Sahara by her toothmarks.


By any standard Fidel was a Border Collie gentleman of refined habits. He growled only when a stranger ventured too close to the latest newborn of his household; he barked only at the one great hound to invade his territory outside Alma Espresso; he was quite useless as a watchdog. Fidel’s sole lapse of etiquette was his habitual piddling on my mother’s loungeroom carpet, but we excused that as the imperative of territory.

Fidel loved to run. I loved to run. Long after my running companions fell away to ruined knees or rescued marriages, Fidel kept me company on long lonely early morning runs. Young women smiled at me, my maleness forgiven in the company of Fidel.
Fidel was first dog across the line in the Traralgon Marathon of 1998. He was photographed smiling at my side with his medal around his neck. The officials were not to know he’d travelled some of those 42.185 kilometres – unwillingly and under protest – in my daughter’s car.

Fidel parted with his testes without complaint, he raised three small boys and won the hearts of widening circles of kin with his never ending grin and his always sweet breath. Like all his bottom sniffing kind Fidel seemed immune to odour. He’d keep me company when I was seated on the loo. Once in that small room he ventured forward, making mistaken fellatious overtures. Fidel and I were close but I drew the line here.

One day Fidel seemed tired, the next day apathetic; the third day he was rescued by surgery and transfusion (at the hands of his loving vet-in-law) from death by catastrophic internal haemorrhage. The vet-in-law confided he had had incurable cancer. Six weeks later my wife and I said our goodbyes to Fidel – my jowls quiver and my lower lip trembles as I recall it – at the seaside, his happiest hunting grounds where he was wont ever to chase seagulls into mocking flight. We embraced him and whispered last words. We knew what we knew; we wondered what Fidel knew? Not for the first time I kissed him.


Ann Patchett won the Orange Prize and a Pulitzer for ‘Bel Canto’. She won me first with a small booklet titled ‘The Bookshop Strikes Back’ (Bloomsbury, 2013), a safe enough speculative buy at $2.50, handsomely rewarding.

In her remarkable book, “This is the Story of a Happy Marriage”, Ann Patchett describes the passing of Rose. Rose was small, lap-sized, not a real dog to love and run a marathon with. From her opening phrase Patchett won me.

After Rose dies, Patchett writes: “I came to realize…there was between me and every person I had ever loved some element of separation…arguments and disappointments…over time people break apart, no matter how enormous the love…and it is through the breaking and the reconciliation, the love and the doubting of love, the judgment and then the coming together again, that we find our own identity and define our relationships.
Except…I had never broken from Rose…”

Patchett recruited me into her love, convinced me, changed me, enlarged my understanding.
What more can we ask of a writer?

*This must be the most arresting start since Annie Proulx’ “Postcards”, which opens with the protagonist’s realisation that the person with whom he has – one breath past – shared an unspecified se xual act has died in that act.

8 thoughts on “Dog Days

  1. Dearest Goldie. Your words on dogs and their affection to us were perfect. I was a late bloomer in the dog owning stakes when we bought Mitch from the Lost Dog’s Home in North Melbourne in 2001 after copious quantity of begging from my two beautifuls Jessie and Rachael. Mitchelton Belvedere Imam (I) (if I was going to have a dog I wanted to call him Belvedere so I could call for him just like the Southern Plantation Gentlemen in the old Bugs Bunny cartoon did “Oh Belvedere – come here boy” from the top of my voice from our balcony in Diamond Creek – we compromised and called him Mitch).
    He was a fearless protector of all called Imam – a notorious groin sniffer (which really lets you know if you can trust someone or not) and a faithful running companion through the hills and valleys of the north east of Melbourne. Age caught up with Mitch after 14+ years and he calmly went to sleep in the care of the Diamond Valley Veterinary Hospital on June 26 with everyone who loved him around him. As the vet administered his “green dream” he looked up at all of us and licked the vet’s hand before slipping away. Always the showman
    Best love – Rachid


  2. Moving post. I had dogs all my childhood, but never since. Recently a very dear old friend remarked with surprise, that we were among their very few close friends who were dog-less. I love dogs, but I struggle with their utter trust and incomprehension. You cannot explain that today you cannot take them out (broken leg, urgent appointment, whatever…), if you go away, they must put up with kennels, without understanding their abandonment. So I have passed on both this companionship and this pain, though I understand them and still miss the two brother cats who kept us company for 12 or so years.


    • Hello Hilary custards

      You speak sooth: dogs exhibit such moral behaviour we need to rose to their standards

      Cats are a fish of a different feather

      Where the gaping smiling mouth of dogs expresses that perfect love called ‘agape’, your cat is a superior, quite amoral being

      We may own a dog
      A cat owns us

      We are the humbled servant to a creature incapable of servility in the cat

      Give me a saint anytime

      I can sin for myself


      See you on jan I hope


  3. Oh how I look forward to your writings dear Doc.Howard! Thanks again for communicating to me another sample of your beautiful words, which are of course your feelings! I thank you also on behalf of my 1st personal dog! a pedigree Border Collie ” Willowtree Storm” sadly Mum had him out for a “run” but he tried to round up a car and was killed! this was whilst my new bride and I were on our honeymoon! then more recently I had to say goodbye at the vets to “Sailor” a “red dog” I fostered when our eldest daughter divorced! I can still hear myself howling all the way home. xxxx Bruce.


    • Bruce

      I can feel your howling – perfect shared word for the way humans and dogs express grief – losing two dogs would devastate most of us

      I love writing for you

      Thank you for the reward of your attention




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