Goodnight Gentle Soul

 

Nearly two weeks ago we faced the day that we hoped would never come; we had to make a decision that we knew was unequivocally right but felt heart wrenchingly wrong. On Wednesday 5th August 2020 we had to let our beautiful Jasper go. At this moment there is a gaping hole in our home and our hearts. We are grieving. French poet Anatole France said that, ‘until one has loved an animal, a part of one’s soul remains unawakened’. Over fourteen and a half years Jasper gave us companionship, unconditional love and comfort in abundance. We used to say he was as beautiful inside as he was outside (and by crikey he was handsome). Our beautiful gentle soul.

Jasper was a Golden Retriever and all he ever needed from us was food and cuddles. Weighing almost six stone in his latter years, in his prime he was anywhere between seven and seven and a half stone. A big dog. His father’s official name was Digby and Jasper was his father’s son. His ‘golden’ fur was very pale and as a senior he became more blonde. We often called this huge fluffy beast Big Bear - or Mufasa when he was posing in a particularly majestic way. He was also affectionately known as Jasp or The Jasp, sometimes Jasperliscous, Jaspie-jive (from the ecstatic rear end dance when we massaged his rump) and J-dog. We each had our favoured name for this huge, endearing animal. It was a running joke in the family that I ‘loved the dog more than them’, often in rushed moments calling one of them Jasper before using their correct name. He wasn’t much of a retriever, we always said that he should have simply been called a Golden. He also didn’t really like water and would walk around puddles (unless of course they were boggy, in which case he would take great delight in dropping to his shoulders and rolling in them until he was black from head to tail!). Once a year he was known as The Pear Thief, mysteriously putting on weight over the summer months and causing the vet to (unjustly) admonish us over his food and exercise routine. It took a while to suss that after eating his food he was hunting out dessert, scavenging around the base of the pear tree and gorging on his pear treasures. His waistline was temporarily expanding because he was ingesting vast amounts of sugar after each meal.

Jasper may have loved his food but it took three years of visits to the vets and trial diets before we found a food that loved him. That didn’t stop him from trying to eat anything he could. As a growing juvenile whose head reached over the dining table, he once (and only once) seemingly inhaled the fish fingers and chips from a young Max’s plate. Despite his insatiable hunger we trained him not to steal food. We could trust him with a plate of biscuits and cheese on the coffee table (for a short while at least) but we never managed to stop him begging. It was something we forgave him for, as did our friends and family - a small price to pay for the love of this wonderful character. Everybody loved The Jasp.

I have no doubt that Jasper loved us. I have often read that dogs do not like to have even their owner’s face near or on theirs. This was categorically not true of Jasper, he would wrap his paw around my arm as I snuggled into him whilst he was resting, kissing his silken ears and stroking the fur between his eyes. It was at these times I would often tell him how much I loved him. I think he knew. I think we gave him a warm and loving home and in return he gave us his whole heart. Jasper saw the boys as part of the pack. He would herd them up in the park, play with them in the snow and snuggle down in the heap of bodies as they lay in front of the fire after a winter’s walk in the rain. I would walk into the cosy room to find all my boys snoozing together - a picture that I will always associate with the pervading smell of wet fur or eau-de-damp-dog, as we used to call it.

His fur went everywhere. Fluffy white hair gathered around the house despite my efforts to vacuum it away, sticking to our clothes and transferring to the soft furnishings, being carried to work, in the car. Nowhere was untouched by long white strands of fluff (how my heart would sink when any guests arrived at our house wearing black). It would clog the hoover, collect behind furniture and float around the garden, gathering in balls like silken tumbleweed. As I clean the barn in the days after his passing I fear that I am removing the last traces of our gorgeous boy and after all the years of cursing his fur, I am comforted to find a tuft that I have missed or a single strand wafting into my line of sight. I expect we will find his fur for a while to come, a reminder that this was his home.

I am grateful that he made it here to the barn. Although the thoughts of him are still painful, I can clearly see him in the garden, soaking up the sun, watching the birds and the sheep, occasionally chasing Philius and Mrs P (the pheasants) or Cyril the squirrel. I am finding myself wanting to talk to him, expecting to say, ‘Hello you,’ as he walks over to see what I’m up to and settling nearby as I carry out my task. After a rocky start in the unfamiliar surroundings Jasper soon relaxed into a life of constant company, gentle walks and plenty of space to roam. This last year he has been my devoted companion in the garden. His dodgy hips wouldn’t allow him to scrabble across the brook to the other side of the bank but that was OK, he would find a nice sunny spot and watch me, sometimes from the top of the steps and sometimes from the clearing between the laurel and the geraniums; periodically raising his head to check up on me between resting his old bones and having a snooze.

I have realised that I talked to him all the time. I miss our conversations where I would talk and he would respond with a look, a nudge of his head into my hand or a wag of the tail. ‘Yes, can I help you?’ I would ask as I prepared food and he loitered at my feet, ‘Any chance of some of that?’ his eyes would say. At breakfast, or pretty much any time I sat in a chair, he would cuddle into me, pushing his head on my thigh or into my waist with an, ‘I love you mum’ adoring look as I scrunged the mane around his neck or the soft downy fur at the base of his ears. I particularly loved his ears; they were so silky with a gentle upturn at the tips and an adorable curl at the top. I’m not sure who found it more relaxing when I stroked them. He would inevitably close his eyes in bliss, and if I dared to rest he would partially open them and give me the look, ‘No, no, don’t stop.’ If I had the audacity to remove my hand he would give me a cheeky prod with his paw. He was known to occasionally lie too, making out that he hadn’t been fed by hanging around his food container when I knew perfectly well he had been fed by someone else. The mornings are particularly hard; to come downstairs and not be greeted by that happy face and wagging tail (even if it did just mean that he wanted breakfast) is a stark reminder of the unfamiliar empty space in our home.

It is apparent that Henry (our seven year old Miniature Schnauzer) is aware of the void too. Thankfully he is eating well but he is not so sure about the walks without his big brother, not wanting to venture too far and regularly looking back to the barn to see if Jasper is trailing behind. He’s searched the barn a few mornings in a row and taken to stepping out of the front door to see if Jasper has been hiding out the front the whole time. Like the rest of us in the house he will settle with time, into a new version of life that will forevermore be slightly off kilter.

I miss the lumbering beast who would tread on my feet, cover me in white fur, lean on me with all his weight, crash into my knees and clear the room with one puff of air from his tail-end.  Despite his size he was quiet and gentle, the perfect character to help our youngest son and our nephew overcome their fear of dogs. He didn’t often bark, only to be let in, or out (and back in again), and had the temperament of a saint. Even up until Jasper’s last days, Henry (also known as Horrid Henry) would hang on Jasper’s tail and pull at his ears and the beautiful old boy would just roll his eyes and look at us as if to say, ‘Did you really have to bring this thing home?’. Despite Jasper’s resigned tolerance of Henry, when it came to it, he proved that he loved the little terror too. During one summer holiday in Cornwall a young Henry got tired and out of his depth in one of the pools at Bedruthan Steps. We watched with jaws agape as Jasper (the Retriever with an aversion to water) waded in to rescue his little brother, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and plopping him safely on the sand.

When we took Jasper to the vets we didn’t know it would be the last time we saw him. We knew something wasn’t right but only two days before they had told us that his breathing was fine. We knew Jasper and by that awful morning we knew that he wasn’t fine at all. I think we were unconsciously clinging to hope, the chance that this was a bacterial infection and not, as it turned out, a growth in his lungs. We gave him a kiss, thinking we would see him after the examination. We didn’t get to stroke him as he drifted away or to say a proper goodbye. So I will say it here…

Jasper, you awakened something in all of us. The pain we are feeling right now and the void that is so large and present is a testament to the beautiful dog that you were. You enriched our lives every day with your companionship and comfort.

Goodnight gentle soul, we miss you.