Snowbell — A precious gift

By Judy W, Beaumaris

October 25th, 2019. I am sitting at my desk, with tears rolling down my cheeks, as I try to put words to paper about my experience of the loss of my precious Snowbell. It is exactly 6 weeks this morning since I held her in my arms at the vet’s, as he administered the lethal green substance that enabled her to die in peace and with dignity. I held her tight, whispered in her ear that she was my precious little Snowbell, just as I had done at home, so many times before. The last thing she felt was my arms around her; the last sound she heard was my voice. I hope she could sense the love — it never wavered, right up to the end.

I accept that she is gone, and had to leave me — it happened just as I knew it was always going to. Every time I took her to the vet for some reason or another, I knew that one day I would bring her here, and leave without her. That day arrived on Friday 13th September, 2019. I knew it was the right decision for her — it was always going to be about her, not me. But it is about me, because she was part of me. When she died, part of me died too. I am trying to work out how and why a little dog could have grown to be such an important part of my life. Perhaps telling her (our) story will shed some light on this life-changing process.

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My mother died on January 21st, 2010. At the time, I was caring for her at home, and at aged 94, her physical state was deteriorating to the point where I could no longer do the work involved. A few weeks before she died, I took on a foster dog, who was waiting to be re-homed. I must have known that in the not too distant future, mum wouldn’t be there, and I would be alone. I suppose I was subconsciously making plans for a new life without her — a life with a dog. Fostering seemed like a good transition to full dog ownership, which I didn’t want at the time. Little Beau was a poodle cross, very old (about 15), almost blind and deaf, but a gentle soul. He was all ready to be advertised in the local paper as needing a new home, when my mum died. The grief I felt in losing mum was very deep, but little Beau was there as a comfort, still waiting to be re-homed (in reality, he had little chance of finding a forever home). One evening soon after mum died, I was sitting in the lounge room, crying, when little Beau left his bed on the other side of the room, walked up to me, and put his chin on my knee. Although he was almost blind and deaf, he must have sensed that I was upset, and he came to comfort me. At that moment, I knew that I couldn’t let him go, and that I was going to keep him.

I had Beau for 5 more months, and his presence was a blessing. I still had someone to come home to, and to care for. I was still mourning mum, but Beau helped to ease the pain. He deteriorated quickly in May, and I had to have him euthanised. Even though I had only known Beau for 6 months, I cried and cried. The last word I said to him was “thank you”, I missed his presence so much. Now, I was truly on my own.

I threw myself into work and other aspects of my life, and the pain of losing mum and Beau began to ease, but the emptiness remained. I thought I would get another dog one day, but I wasn’t actively searching. There were things to do — travel overseas for work, my niece’s wedding interstate in November — things to focus on, without the responsibility of caring for a dog. One day my sister mentioned that a work colleague of hers was moving house temporarily, and needed to rehome her family’s 5 year old dog. My sister asked whether or not I was interested. I was half-hearted, and asked what kind of dog it was. “A little, white fluffy thing.” “What’s its name?” “Snowbell.” We both laughed. Although I didn’t particularly want a dog at that time, there was no reason not to go and have a look. Little did I know what lay ahead for me (and Snowbell).

We arrived at the friend’s house, and as we walked up the driveway, Snowbell was at the side gate, barking at these strangers who were approaching her house. I remember thinking “I hope she’s not one of those yappy dogs — I couldn’t stand it.” We were invited into the house and had some general chit chat sitting at the dining room table. As we sat there, little Snowbell sat at the window, barking and looking in, no doubt desperate to be part of the action. When she was carried inside to meet me, I held her on my knee. She was a bit of a mess, and her fur was so long and mattered, that I couldn’t find her ears. Despite me being a stranger to her, she sat calmly on my knee for about 20 minutes, while I assessed the situation. It would have been so easy to say no to this little dog — she was so unappealing in so many ways. But as I held her, she gingerly looked up to my face, into my eyes, as if to say “are you going to take me home and love me?” I now know that she hated being held by people she didn’t know, so for her to sit there on my knee for so long, was very unusual. I think that was the moment of connection. Over the years, many people have said to me “Look at the way she looks at you — such love.” Often the look was about asking for food or treats, or a ride in the car, but sometimes, it was a look that went deep into my soul, and a connection through her eyes that was very real. It happened for the first time that day. I wasn’t able to take her home then but had to wait about a month before the family moved out of their house, and my niece’s wedding was over. On my other sister’s birthday, November 22nd, 2010, I brought Snowbell to her new home.

My brother-in-law was there, and we both stood and watched as Snowbell explored her new backyard. She ran around and around in a crazy way — I don’t know if it was fear or excitement, maybe both. My brother-in-law and I just looked at each other, and I remember thinking ‘What have I gotten myself in for?” My niece arrived and took a video of Snowbell — I still gasp when I watch it and see what state she was in. My first task was to get her groomed, but as it was close to Christmas, all the local groomers were booked out. My sister suggested taking her to the vet, to see if they could do it. They did, but her coat was so bad, she had to be shaved back to the skin, and start all over again. A tradesman who was working in the house at the time called her a ‘little rat’ and I suppose that was accurate. Small, skinny and with no fur. What a sight. How could I ever come to love this dog? However, over the next few months, her fur began to grow back, and she blossomed. When I first picked her up that day in November, she really was ‘just a dog’, but over time she became ‘my Snowbell.

My life began to revolve around ‘project Snowbell.’ I had to house-train her because she had never lived in a house before. I fed her all sorts of food to help her put on some weight, and took her for walks and car trips to the park. She learned to be off lead, and to come back to me and to the car. She always kept an eye on where I was, secure in the knowledge that I was there to protect her if need be. I loved coming home to her, being with her, stroking that beautiful coat, and showing her off to other people. I was so proud of her, and loved every minute of being with her. The last time I had owned a dog was in my teenage years, so I had to learn about dogs and being a dog owner again (although I don’t think we ever ‘own’ them; we are their humans). I would talk to people about their dogs, and I became part of the dog-owning community. I took her to the vet whenever she needed to go; I didn’t hesitate to provide for her every need. I cried when I left her with others when I had to go away for work, and would often opt to stay home with her rather than go away for a weekend or a holiday. I was content to just be with my Snowbell. I began minding other dogs, but when they left, I’d always say “just you and me now, little precious” and I was happy to have her all to myself. When I took her to the groomer, or even just walking down the street, people would stop and say what a beautiful dog she was. She rarely let them pat her, I’m not sure why. She was defensive and anxious, maybe thinking that they were a threat. I would have to apologise and make excuses for her apparent unfriendliness, but that’s just who she was. She loved people who she knew she could trust.

We had 9 happy years together, until she started to show her age. She had been diagnosed with congestive heart disease and Cushings disease, which could be managed, but never cured. I was aware of the signs to watch for, and these became too bad to ignore on September 12th. I took her to the vet; they gave her some treatment, but she didn’t respond, and they weren’t enough to bring her back to a reasonable state of health and quality of life. On the morning of Friday 13th, I had to make the decision to allow the vet to euthanise her. There was nothing more he or I could do. She was 14 years old.

I left the surgery, as I always knew I would one day, without her and in a state of shock. The next week was one of the worst times of my life. The pain of loss and sadness, the feeling of a weight in my chest, was almost overwhelming. Over the past 6 weeks, I have reached out to others to help ease the pain, and while a comfort, this grieving process is a solitary journey. Snowbell wasn’t ‘just a dog’ and she wasn’t just a companion. She was part of me, and who I am in the world. I loved her, but I also loved looking after her, caring for her in good times and bad, and just being with her. I also learned to be more satisfied with the simple things in life, just like she was.

I am sure I will get another dog one day, because I don’t want to live a life that’s just about me. What’s the point of that? However, at the moment, the 6 week mark, I can’t contemplate opening my heart to another little life. It wouldn’t be fair to the dog if I wasn’t able to embrace it for its own sake, and give it the love it deserves. At the moment, I only have room in my heart for Snowbell. She will always be there, but maybe in time, she will shuffle over a bit and allow another dog who needs love and care, just like she did, to join us.