goodbye good boy, goodbye

a letter to my late dog

Dear Ike,

On Tuesday night, you die in the lounge room at home.

You are so warm in my hands. I wanted you to know I was there with you until the end. As you drift off, drool begins to pool in my lap. My skirt has your saliva on it still.

After you pass, I kiss your face and I lay next to your body. I hold my arm across your chest and place my head on the soft fur of your neck. Little Ike-shaped jewels form in all of our eyes and stream down our cheeks. I hoped you might float above us and see a room full of people who love you. Many salty tears to lick from mourning faces, but you can no longer get to us.

The vet said she had never seen so many people gather for an in-home euthanasia. I hope this is a testament to how loved you are by all of us. In the hour before you passed, you walked around the room to everyone so intentionally.

I think you knew what was going to happen, I think you were ready. I could not bear to see you deteriorate any longer, and I did not think it was fair. This was an excruciating decision to make.

When I finally decided, I heard our old man’s voice say, send that old mutt back to me — I will be waiting. This was a kind affirmation that I was making the right decision. You would go to be with him on the other side, you would not be alone.

We set up a cooling plate so I could keep you with me and have a home vigil. I was relieved that I did not have to let you go just yet. That night, I slept on the couch by you in the lounge room.

It gives me time to adjust to the absence of pitter patter paws along the floors, of your nose touching my back when I open the fridge door, of huffs and puffs and grumbles of dissatisfaction when the couch pillows are not to your liking.

You look beautiful and serene, your body is cold to the touch. But your ears feel exactly the same, soft like velvet. I keep thinking I see you breathing. I keep thinking your body might lift and this would have all been an elaborate cosmic joke I can laugh about.

The next day it takes me time to leave the house, feeling strange to not fuss over you before I go. I stroll down the street we walked along every day, noticing the spots you liked to stop and sniff. I want to collect flowers for you, but I can’t find any that are right.

I tried to find a native bouquet for you on your last day, I went to three florists. Nothing was right. I realised nothing was going to be right because I actually did not want to find the right flowers to lay beside your body. I did not want you to die.

Jessie picked up some sunflowers instead which brightened up the room immediately. Will and Ellie arrived with sunflowers also, and I smiled at the unplanned synchronicity.

I hear a knock at the door, and discover that Paige has sent me a large bouquet. She is in Western Australia but her heart is here with us, in the flowers. They are perfect and I can use them for your vigil.

I change into a nice dress and start laying them around you. My possum skin is placed across your cold chest. I light some ceremonial incense for cleansing. I watch the smoke drift over you.

This is how it is supposed to be, I think. I am not rushed in my letting go. I get to honour you the way you should be honoured.

I call the cremation company and speak to a lovely woman. She is so compassionate and her voice is full of empathy. I do not want to rush the call. I tell her, you must be a very special type of person to do this kind of work. We connect on the phone and she offers me comfort. We talk about you and I thank her before I hang up.

In the evening, I drive to Marrickville Metro to pick up some candles for your memorial. I notice your absence in the car, and I start to cry. I forgot about the firsts. First walk on our street without you, first drive in my car. I will have to experience everything first.

I am sitting at a red light and out of the window, the trees look so green. The afternoon sun drapes everything in warmth and it seeps into the car.

There are children laughing and running, there are parents pushing prams, there are dogs running circles around their owners. There is a lot of life out there and they do not even know about you. They do not even know what I have lost.

It is here that I notice how death tethers me to aliveness. You have died and yet I am here right now while the world is beautiful around me. The light turns green and I keep driving and I keep crying.

I pick up Jessie and Spike for the memorial. Jessie has made slow cooked soup for dinner. It warms my body from the inside. We eat at the table with Nin, and talk about you. We talk about how we thought it might feel weird to have you in our lounge room, but it does not. It feels like the most normal thing in the world. I say, I think it is because we have always done this for the dying.

Spike sits beside you and asks me questions. We talk a little. Ikey is dead now, he says. Yes bub, he is with Poppy now, we say. I think it is important for kids to know about death, to know it is a rite of passage. We lean into your loss together.

It does not feel as heavy to hold, with all these people who love you helping me carry the weight.

I light twelve candles and place them around your body. The apartment is a temple and you look like an angel. We touch your paws and kiss your cheek and we say goodbye good boy, goodbye.

Before bed, Nin and I remove all your coverings to shroud your body in preparation for the morning. You are so heavy, are you heavier than before? It is an awkward manoeuvre but we manage to swaddle you just like a baby.

I remember wrapping you in blankets when you were a puppy, and as you grew into a senior, when the winters were awfully cold for your old bones. I realise this will be the last time I do this.

We leave protea flowers, gum leaves, and feathers with your body. A candle is knocked over, wax sprawls across the floor and I do not care. We are in your temple after all. I sleep by you for the last time.

Today is Thursday, and you have been taken away for cremation. I place some treats and incense in your shroud. I tie a lock of my hair with a red ribbon and place it by your chest so we will always be together, even when you have been transformed to ash.

Mum came by this morning to say a last goodbye and perform harawi, to mourn and sing for you in your transition. She chants and uses eucalyptus leaves to spread palo santo smoke across your body. This is to ask the soul to leave the body, to ensure nothing is left behind. She says this will make sure your spirit goes where it needs to, and is not left wandering. I think of your spirit aimlessly floating in purgatory, and I do not want that. I want you to return home to the Dreaming and be free.

I feel a stream of tears fall to the rug underneath you as I watch her, listen to her cries. They sound like my cries. I feel them in my stomach. She places her head on your body and sings. There is pain in her song but it is beautiful. She raises her hands to the sky, calling on the ancestors. A synergy of song and spirit creates a portal in the tiny apartment.

Together, we use leaves to spread smoke across your body before the pet concierge from the cremation company arrives. We ask the ancestors to accompany you for a safe transition.

I turned off the cooling plate this morning, and blood started to pool from your little nose. I did not mind. Mum and I cleaned your nose with tissues left by Pia in a care package on the day you died.

I wish I had land so that I could bury you instead. The part of me that does not want to let go feels comfort in knowing I will have your ashes back. I will receive them in 7-10 working days. I laughed when the lovely pet concierge said this with the most tender voice. He was so kind.

I wonder what brings people to work in industries like this, and I think it is their hearts. The lady on the phone said they call him their gentle giant. He towered in the door frame, he crouched by your body with us. He said I could take my time.

I did not want to put you on the stretcher so I watched. I did not want to carry you out. You know when you see kids at the top of a very high slide, and they are too scared to push themselves down? They have to let someone else do it, or they might back out. I might have backed out. I might have taken you back inside and locked the door. I do not think I would ever be truly ready to let you go, but I know I must.

I notice the van has our old man’s initials on the license plate and I feel him near. I am happy that you will be with him. The space in the trunk has a little bed for you, with pillows and flowers decorated so nicely. It becomes more beautiful with your presence. You deserve this and more. We watch you get driven away.

There will never be another Ike, and I would not want there to be. I wonder if you know what you did for me. It is cliche but although you were a rescue dog, I was the one that was saved. At nineteen, I was just a baby and it took me a while to understand how to take care of you. I was not mentally well back then and there were many times I doubted my ability to stay on this earth but I had a responsibility to you. I could not bear to leave you. I am glad I got to a place of mental stability, so that I could give you the life you deserved.

I cannot count the number of times you licked the tears from my cheek or cuddled up next to me when I felt alone. You were very intuitive in many ways. Whenever I left you to travel for work, Mum would message me as the taxi from the airport neared home, saying you were waiting by the door. You just always knew. We were so deeply attuned to each other in a way that is hard to explain with words.

As you got older, thinner, and more grey; things shifted and I knew I would be preparing myself for this. You stopped being able to sleep through the night and would have to pee at 2am, 4am, any am. You could not lift your leg up anymore and at times I would have to wipe your little pee-covered paws. You needed a special diet for your tender tummy. You had to be carried into the car. You could no longer run. It is true that you began to become a puppy again, needing an increased level of care. But it was such a privilege to do that for you. It was always a gift to look after you.

It is strange not to have you, my shadow, following me to the bathroom or around the kitchen. To not hear the jingle of the name tag on your collar, to not vacuum up your fur collecting in corners. This home feels so quiet without you. Not that you were particularly loud, but it is an energy. Something is missing.

I know everybody says their pet was the most special but I realise now that we are all telling the truth. They have such distinct, unique personalities and are lovingly attuned to us.

They become a part of every day, entwined in our thoughts and routines. They see us in all states, some that may never have been seen by others. They experience all moods, shortcomings and flaws of ours and yet, remain loyally bound to us. We have a heart-to-heart connection that is difficult to explain and impossible to sever.

You were more than just a pet to me. You were my companion, not my possession. When I think about the long history of companionship between mob and dingoes, I wonder if our meeting was ancestrally orchestrated.

Remember when I read about dingo bones being found alongside human ones at Curracurrang rock shelters in the Royal National Park? I said look boy, they are just like us. They were kin too. It is heartwarming to know that we mirrored a cultural closeness that has been happening for thousands of years.

The unconditional love and care you offered me was something I had always longed for when I was younger. It healed something in me. You kept me tethered to presence and joy, through witnessing and experiencing yours. You helped me understand that my responsibility to you was a privilege, and in many instances it kept me alive.

You taught me what it was like to be in service to another, without expecting something in return. But you truly gave me so much. You were a divine companion, a vessel of unending love, a soul of pure light. You were a teacher, a guardian, a guide.

I read this quote once that said for you, a dog is a big part of your life. For them, you are their whole life. I do not take that responsibility lightly, Ikey.

I hope I gave you the ending you deserved. I hope you know how loved you are. I hope you know I will never forget you. I hope you know my life will forever be changed because you were in it. My beautiful red dingo boy, with fur that shines in the sun.

I hope you know I await with fervour and impatience, the day that we are reunited. Until then, I will see you in everything beautiful and good.

I know that you are not far.

With all my love,
Lucy.

Ike <3
04/09/2011 - 21/04/2026

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