Vale George

How a small pug/Tibetan spaniel cross broke my heart

It’s hard to write this week. Anyone who has lost a pet or other important animal will understand why.

For the past three years I’ve been blessed to share my life with a wonderful, plucky little dog named George, on the island where I lived until recently. He came to stay with me whenever his owner needed to be away on the mainland, or if he was working on a site that was not safe for dogs.

George stole my heart the first time I met him. Over the years he has shown up in my short stories, on my Substack, and in countless photos, not to mention featuring in his own calendar (sorry about that folks) and having one of my artisan gins named after him (a classic London dry, known as The George).

Leaving him when I changed countries was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do.

And now he is gone.

Shockingly fast, only two days after his long-term vet found an inoperable cancer blocking his internal organs, and with no previous warning that anything was wrong.

Sadly, I could not get there to say goodbye, or to support his devastated owner, and I will always feel the loss.

Dealing with a veterinary or medical emergency can be a challenge at the best of times, but throw in a remote island and the challenges compound - not least, the issues of time, weather and tides. And pain. Having once had to travel by boat with a fractured knee I can tell you it’s not a lot of fun.

Thankfully, George’s pain was well managed and even on his last trip to the mainland he was alert and happy, peering over the stern of the boat, with a soft sea wind ruffling his fur and blowing gently on his ears.

George was an island dog; well trained, docile and free range on his walks (but always with one of his doting humans nearby). He was sociable, placid and welcomed residents and visitors alike with a sort of whirr in the back of his throat or a jaunty little bark. He had water bowls and beds spread across his favourite haunts and always stopped for a pat or a pee when he ran into someone he knew. At nearly 14 years old, and with only little legs, his walks were a masterclass in slow living and mindfulness.

He also liked to go fishing, sleeping patiently in the bow while everyone else fished off the back of the boat, keeping his distance from knives and hooks but watching closely when it came time to clean and fillet the catch.

George was especially fond of freshly caught snapper and kingfish. His diet was the envy of many, especially when store-bought snapper topped $60 a kilo. I once watched a friend swipe a piece of raw fish out of George’s bowl - before it was given to him, I hasten to add - and claim it was the best sashimi he’d ever eaten.

That’s how George revealed he was sick; he couldn’t eat anything, not even a small morsel of kingfish.

And now he’s gone. And fishing will never be the same again. And my heart is broken. But his legacy is strong. Just this morning I gave a little whirr in the back of my throat when a friend came to the door, and this evening a small paddle on the outgoing tide has helped ease the pain.

If only he were here.