Fleeting joys

Hi all,

This is going to be the saddest and probably the most personal post I'll ever write. It has very little to do with work, and it's the one that's pained me the most to type.

As has been detailed here in previous posts, the last few years have been a very rough ride. The intense anxiety and down-ness that I've lived with most days of my life since "The Troubles" has sapped my energy to "care more than anyone", as was a trait once attributed to me by a colleague (along with "gruff and acerbic"- I'll take that). I still tried, hard, but the fatigue from smashing against brick walls has grown. I no longer gain energy from my work; I only expend it, and spend the time not working recovering from working. My holidays, I spend the first week or more wracked with the worries that are left over from work, I don't get to drop them. So when a prospect of something joyous in life comes along, for both Mrs Guerilla and myself, it provides a real focal point for excitement and a warm future focus. Mrs Guerilla had reservations about another dog, but one night I asked her "what do you think of Yogi for a dog's name?"

Mrs Guerilla and I have never wanted to have kids. We love our niece and nephews, but we have one life to lead and that's not how we chose to lead ours. As anyone who has ever taken a look at my twitter (at least before the South African fascist got a hold of the platform), you'll see that alongside all of the bits about work and the fortunes of Arsenal FC, most prominent in my posts are our dogs. I've posted pics of them here before. For the last 3 years we've had our Scottie, Wally; our Westie Hamish; and our distinguished elderly gentleman, Henry. Henry was 20-odd years old. He had lived an extraordinarily full and rich life for a dog, been on many holidays and got up to many capers, but he had slowed down considerably in the last couple of years, for obvious reasons. Wally and Hamish, well they get along, never any aggro, but they're very different dogs. Wally is shy and retiring, and Hamish is El Presidente, pushy and demanding about who does what, when. Mrs Guerilla and I sensed we needed a moderator, a dog that will go both ways to bridge the gap between the two, and thereby making them happier. For six months last year, we looked for the right type of dog. We wanted a puppy, to be able to engender the right qualities and behaviours in him (we like boy dogs), and to ensure that the two fellas wouldn't be too threatened or bothered. We spoke to a stack of breeders, sadly declined a few dogs because they weren't "the right one." And then we found him.

An ad popped up, "Scottish terrier puppy for sale", you know the type of thing. As it turned out it was the same breeder that we got Wally from. We talked to her, and got video, heard about his personality. We started to think this could be the one. This was our first sight of him.

That's when the excitement really kicks in. There must be an equivalent moment in a pregnancy (if you don't think they're comparable, watch this).

We agreed with the breeder to pick him up, just before Christmas, just 6 or so weeks ago. We knew he was coming, and I started getting all those bits and pieces you want for a tiny little fella, "his" bowl and "his" toys. Setting up the house to deal with the silliness and...ahem, regrettable accidents that puppies make. We booked in leave so we could drive to Melbourne and collect him ourselves. We booked pet-friendly hotels to break up the trip into small chunks.

We had moments of doubt. "Is this the right thing to do for the boys" or "will this be the right dog for all of us?" The moment the breeder lifted him out of the pen and handed him to me, the doubts evaporated. He was perfect. He nuzzled into my neck and then promptly gave my ear a nip. He was bold and fearless, but immediately loving and disarming. Over the two day drive back to Sydney (regular breaks, naturally) he just sat in our arms, alternately licking our faces and nibbling our fingers. This was my first picture of him, asleep in the car as we drove.

It's not often in your adult life at least that you have the feeling that this is as good a set of moments as life will ever provide, but these were up there.

Over the next 6 weeks we watched him grow, a miniature Wally, with eyebrows and a tiny beard, who also loved playing with Hamish.

It's an enormous amount of fun (as well as pain and annoyance) raising a puppy. Every morning I woke up about half past 5 because he gave these loud, demonstrative, yawns that said "I have needs that you need to attend to!" But every afternoon after work I got to just watch him play, play with him and the boys, and watch their relationships grow.

Sadly, two weeks ago, we had to say goodbye to Henry. As I say, he was 20 or so years old, and had lived as full a life as we could have possibly given him. Because of his age, and because the decision was made in his best interests, the loss is easier. He was peaceful, he knew we loved him, you can live with that.

Yogi recently got his last set of shots, which means he can go to dog parks, or go in the trolley at Bunnings, or come with us everywhere we go without risk of disease. At this point in a puppy's life disease is the biggest risk, that's the worry. He's not going near roads, nothing that would endanger his life as long as he doesn't eat a block of chocolate.

So, this past Tuesday, I'm out in the front yard after work. Yogi and Wally were chasing the ball, up to hijinks. It was a lovely warm afternoon and they were having fun. Once they were done we came back inside the house. 20 minutes later, Yogi threw up some random foam. Anyone who's had a dog will attest that the odd vomit is not even slightly perturbing. I was keeping my eye on him, he vomited a tiny amount more, there was nothing too concerning. But when he refused water, something twigged in my mind. I put him down and he wobbled, instead of charging off to get into something new. I worried at this point, called Mrs Guerilla to tell her we needed to take him to the vet. He started to go limp as I was getting him to the car, his tongue was pale. As we were flying towards the vet, I was giving him CPR, desperately trying to keep blood and oxygen moving around his body, desperately hoping that the vet could rescue the situation. Sadly, he was gone. I think he may have died before I even got him into the car. It was over in minutes. The vet said it was anaphylaxis: he'd been stung by an insect in all likelihood, had a massive reaction, and he just...died. I'll remember the feeling of a lifeless small creature in my arms until I die.

Given the state of the world, of work and universities, it feels awfully cruel to have this spark of joy taken by cruel fate after 6 weeks. I know it's absolutely nothing compared to the horrors that millions are suffering, compared to a genocidal rampage, but Yogi brought our home enormous joy, and now he's gone, and for the time being so is that joy- for all of us.

Kane