Two Sisters

Two sisters sightseeing in Malaga.
 

The two sisters could not have been more different. At first glance, you would have thought they were twins, though on further perusal you could see how distinct each one was.

 

Kerry, the older sister by three months, had a longer face and her almond-shaped eyes observed you with a cool, almost stern, expression. Sometimes people were wary of her and asked if she would bite. That stern exterior disguised the warmest of warm hearts and she was the kind of friend you wanted on a night out. She would never let you down and would have ensured you caught the last bus or found a taxi to get you home. If all else failed, she would have walked you home herself.

 

Candy was always the baby. When Candy looked at you with her wide-open eyes you were immediately smitten. Everybody fell in love with Candy. Her round face and eager expression drew you in and she had a head that invited tousling. Candy was the sweet yet naughty one. It was lucky she had a sister like Kerry to look after her.

 

The ‘girls’ came to live with me when they were both eight years of age, already middle-aged women like me. They arrived in different coloured harnesses – helpful on the first day to tell them apart. Kerry wore a vibrant red and Candy was in pale blue. Though I had intended to purchase new ones several times I never did, and their harnesses stayed with them, washed many times, throughout their lives. Because hers was blue, people often thought that Candy was a boy – and she was a bit of a tomboy.

 

They had fully formed characters and wants and desires – Kerry wanted food and peace and quiet – Candy wanted adventure.

 

Up until the very end, Candy was my little Dora the Explorer. Although neither of the girls could walk very far by this time, our dear friend, Michael, lent us a nifty little dog buggy to get us places. At the park, I would take her out of the buggy at the entrance and let her wobble her way to the other side – she couldn’t walk very well and never travelled in a straight line. Oftentimes I had to go back and pull her out of a bush. Like a tortoise, she moved slowly but steadily – and despite her stiff, aching legs she could still ‘run’ away from me. Occasionally, I went back to find her making her way out of one of the park exits, leading to the road. In her last months on this earth, she had to wear a special harness, the pale blue one finally relegated to the bottom of the dog utility basket. The new one resembled a lifejacket. It was made of sturdy fabric and was a fetching shade of grey with reflective strips around the neckband. There were straps on the back and handles on the sides. I could lift her as if she were a handbag and could even ‘wear’ her over my shoulder. The jacket accentuated her resemblance to a tortoise as it encased her body so that only her legs, tail, and head stuck out. When her neck stretched out from the carapace the resemblance was uncanny. To stop her getting tangled, I tied the straps in a knot, like a man bun, on her back. The topknot flopped from side to side as she waddled her way along.

 

In the early part of the year, Candy suffered a sudden weakness in her back legs. This made walking difficult and painful. As she dragged her back legs, she wore her nails down to the flesh. Trails of blood on the floor in the morning were always a cause for alarm and for several weeks I had to wash and bandage her paws every morning before putting little booties over her back feet. Although she regained most of her mobility eventually, she never regained the ability to squat properly for a poo without falling backwards into her faeces. I had to be vigilant in the park and when I saw her making the motions, pacing, and circling, I had to drop everything and run to support her, using the handles on the harness like a puppet master. The support had to be just right – too much from me and she would change her mind about the moment and wobble away without performing – not enough and she would fall backwards as she strained. It was undignified for her, and I know it upset her on the occasions I was not quick enough.

 

Candy only did one surprisingly large poo per walk. Kerry was the opposite. She was prolific in small doses. On arrival at the park, when I lifted her gently out of the pushchair, Kerry would perform almost immediately. For the duration of the walk, she might squat a further three or even four times – producing small nuggets of waste – usually hard like rabbit droppings though occasionally soft orange strings. They both ate a lot of pumpkin to keep their tummies working smoothly.

 

Kerry was almost completely blind at the end – I suspect she could only really see light and dark – She relied on me to lead her in the park. She was always tethered even though she did not have the ability, nor the desire to run off, without guidance she would stand stock still for the most part, uncertain where to tread. While I attended her sister doing her business, I tied Kerry’s lead to the buggy. I didn’t really need to as she waited blindly and uncomplainingly until I returned to usher her forwards again.

 

In the house, she wandered around bumping into things – chairs, walls – and she sometimes got stuck in corners like a malfunctioning Roomba, bumping her head from one wall to the other until she could finally edge her way out of the puzzle. If she could not, I would of course carefully lift her and point her to open terrain.

 

Sometimes, at night I would lie awake in bed and hear the click, click, click of little doggy toenails on the tiles and the occasional thump or bang as one or the other of them bumped their head against a table leg or a lamp. They were both losing their vision or perhaps their marbles, as the end closed in.

 

It was sad to see them like this – although I never minded nursing them – but for them it must have been hard to lose their faculties and their dignity.

 

Neither of them lost their sense of smell though, so, although blind as a bat, Kerry could at least always find me with her nose. And in those last few weeks, she sought me out often – she needed to feel me, to smell me, to know that I was there for her before she wandered off to find her soft bed, and her sister.

 

It is odd that when younger, Kerry used to bully her sister, but in the last few weeks she sought her out and liked to cuddle in bed with her. She would seek her by scent and touch and then, true to her old form, climb on top of her, causing poor Candy to have to extricate herself and lie on the floor.

 

“You are a rotten sister.” I would say, without malice.

 

When we lived in Alhaurin, we used to walk up to the mountains on the south side of the village. It seems a lifetime away, remembering how much walking, running, and jumping they used to be able to do. First, we had to cross the town, which was all uphill, walk across a piece of waste ground, and then almost vertically up the stoney access path into the forest. Looki, their adoptive brother, was there too in those glory days and they could all go off lead. It was joyous to see them run and sniff and chase squirrels and enjoy life to the fullest. I always brought up the rear with Kerry checking up on me, turning her head to make sure I was still close. She was my wingman.

 

Throughout her life, Kerry battled with her weight despite all the exercise she got. I fed her less than the other two and though the others liked food well enough, she was always the one nagging me for meals and treats. I only remember one time when she was ‘off’ her food with a particularly bad attack of ‘Westie tummy.’

 

On the other hand, Candy was often sick and would starve herself for 24 hours or even more sometimes. She remained slim throughout her life. In the last year - following a self-imposed purge – she got really skinny. It was shocking and happened quite quickly. She dropped at least two kilos and four dress sizes and never regained her weight. In her last few days, her bony frame made it apparent that she was on her last legs.

 

It was Feria in Malaga that week and, as bad luck would have it, our regular vet, Maite, was on holiday. On Thursday morning I knew something was wrong. Candy was very restless in the buggy on our walk through town. I let her out several times and she squeezed out a few drops – I was not sure at first if it was number one or number two – but began to realise that she probably had cystitis. This was confirmed on our return home as she continued to strain and produce drips of pink liquid. I knew she was in pain.

 

I was trying to work out the best course of action for the two girls – I felt that their time had come. Kerry had been struggling for the previous two weeks. She had corneal ulcers which were very painful – I could tell this by the reaction when I put her eye drops in and my online research backed up my observations. In addition, both the girls had a lot of joint stiffness. They often had difficulty getting up from their beds or settling into them. Both wandered the house at night – a sure sign that they were in pain or at least uncomfortable. Not to mention all the weeping lumps and bumps on various parts of their little bodies and their double incontinence.

 

I looked up the emergency vet Maite had recommended, in case Kerry needed urgent attention for her eyes while she was away. I checked the map and realised that it was on the opposite side of the city and a good hour’s walk – I could do it, but it would be cruel in the midday heat with two sick girls squashed into one pushchair. I rang a friend with many dogs and a vet she trusts – Unfortunately, it turned out that her vet lives in Velez-Malaga – also too far for us. I finally rang the emergency phone number for Maite – I got through to her, but she was out of the country. She suggested that we should try another vet, closer to us. We used to use that vet, but I did not like the brusque manner in which we were treated – I always felt like we were on a conveyor belt and the charges were applied very quickly. But I had to do something urgently – so we went.

 

Through my tears, I said that I wanted to put the girls to sleep. The vet was horrified, although after examining Candy she was less doubtful. She took one look at Kerry however, and just said, “I’m not putting that one down.” Kerry still looked hefty and vigorous, although I knew her to be otherwise.

 

I felt strongly that they should go together. So, we just got treatment for Candy’s immediate painful cystitis and went home. We already had an appointment with Maite the following Monday to review Kerry’s eyes. Now we were all going to go, for our last visit.

 

It was one of the hardest things I have had to do in my life – perhaps even the hardest thing. To call time on the lives of my two dearest companions of the past nine years.

And so, we spent one last weekend together, visiting all the parks and places that the girls used to run through – now we shuffled and wobbled our way, saying goodbye to each shrub and each tree. We met a few of our friends – some of them still tried to play with my aching girls – In retrospect, I realise that Candy did not wag her tail once over that weekend. Up until then – there had always been at least a weak wag when greeting other dogs. Suddenly it was obvious that the moment had arrived.

 

It was a bittersweet weekend to be sure – but we did a lot of loving, and the girls got many extra treats.

 

Monday morning rolled around – I lay, staring at the ceiling, I did not want to get up out of the bed to start the day, but it had to be done. We took our last walk – to our favourite park, then through town, and on to the Port of Malaga. We said our final goodbyes to the trees, the parrots, and the ships in the harbour.

 

The girls ate a good lunch, and we had time for a cuddle on the sofa that neither of them could get up onto nor down from anymore, not even with the help of the steps I had bought them a year or so ago. I lifted them one at a time and I think they appreciated the hugs. I thought about when they used to jump with ease. How quickly those years passed and how surreptitiously time robbed them of their vigour.

 

Candy went first, poor little girl. I held her in my arms and if she still had a voice she would have cried out as the needle fought its way into her skinny leg. As it was, she struggled – feisty to the last – until she could fight no more and her head on its scrawny little neck relaxed in my hands. I kissed her and told her to go and find Looki.

 

I lifted Kerry onto the table beside her now motionless sister – I think she knew. I whispered in her ear to go with Candy as she needed her big sister to guide her through the afterlife. I held her close in my arms as she too relaxed and fell into her final eternal sleep.

 

In the past two weeks, I have been trying to work through my grief.

 

Sleeping through, eating through, drawing and writing through, crying through, and walking, walking, walking. I am truly walking the legs off myself. I have to be tired, or I will not sleep. I keep thinking about my little girls and how they must have been suffering. I torture myself wondering if I let them go too soon, or perhaps not soon enough. I relive their final moments and wonder what I could have done better. I trawl through internet sites on how to grieve for your pet, as I trawled through them two weeks before to decide whether and when it was time to let them go.

 

I do believe I made the right decision, to send them off together. There was no way to choose which of them was suffering less – one week it was Kerry, the next it was Candy. I believe that if I had sent one, the other would have quickly gone downhill and I would be back within the week to let the other go. Instead, I had to come home alone to an empty house. Through the sun-drenched streets, I pushed an empty buggy with one bright red harness and one grey lifejacket with reflective strips and handles on the sides.