The Magic Box

I lift her into the back of the car as tenderly as I can.

She doesn’t struggle - we’ve done this a thousand times. We could be five minutes down the road to a park, we could be six hours driving to go on holiday for a week, we could be leaving her with her walker while we jet off into the sun. She has no idea.

This time, I have no idea either - I’ve never done this before. The kids are in the car, too - they’re off school and nursery for the day, special dispensation. Everyone’s quiet, no-one’s excited for this particular adventure.

I think I’m just about holding it together, concentrating on the mechanics of it all: seatbelts, mirrors, my driving glasses. Anything I can do to not think about what we’re doing, the decision we’re making.

I think back to the first time we had her in the car. 

We’d only had that car a couple of weeks, our new house only three. We’d spent all the time since moving in painting, decorating, planning, getting it ready for someone we’d never met. We had no idea how big she’d be, whether she’d even be a she. I had my preferences, but they were entirely based on projection and assumptions. It was all very new to me.

When we’d arrived at the centre it was loud and smelly and overwhelming. Every face we saw looked back at us with huge eyes and bigger smiles, begging to be loved and taken away from there. We perused the labels, like snobs at a gallery, snorting at names like Snuffles and Dolly. We were going to be cool owners. 

We made our wishlist and, like kids visiting Santa, hurried excitedly up to the centre's gatekeepers, who were literally leaning against the gate, keys in hand. She took our list, looked at us, scanned the list again. 

"No, no no, none of these," she dismissed. "Head to room twelve, we'll bring one that's right for you."

So we waited. Confused, nervous, curious, with no idea what was 'right for us' or why any that we'd been simpering over were 'wrong for us'. After a while we wondered if this was normal - was this how it worked? You just got handed something and sent on your way?

Eventually the door creaked open and in she shuffled. She looked nervous, skittish. She also looked like she could bite your face off. You could see the muscles in her neck, her powerful jaw, those rows of teeth. But she had these incredible eyes - huge and brown and expressive, hopeful. The staff reeled off her stats and history, what they knew of it anyway. Probably between two and three, we think. Hasn't had a litter, we think. Been here five months, we know.

She came straight towards me, because of course she did. Maybe she sensed the one other in the room that had no idea what to do. I leant forwards, maybe to nuzzle her, maybe to get a closer look at those eyes, to see if I could peer into her soul, and determine her character. 

She immediately jumped up to kiss me, and smacked me straight in the mouth. I reeled, iron on my tongue, shocked, but not scared. She wasn't aggressive, just excited. I'd known her for five minutes and she'd already made me bleed but somehow, I knew she was safe. I tickled her neck and looked over at Rachel. Rachel's eyes were wet and her smile was wide. She nodded, I nodded, it was done. 

We filled out the paperwork, paid what we owed, spent far more in the on-site shop as we were, we realised, horrendously unprepared for this, and walked her to the car. 

"What do you think of 'Bella'?" She asked me.

"I can't have a dog named after a Twilight character."

She"What do we call her then?"

"Her back kinda looks like cookies and cream."

"Not Cookie," she asserted. "Oreo?"

"That's nice. Oreo, yeah, Oreo."

And that was that. She had a name. Our name, before we'd even got to the car. She hopped in the back, Rachel rode with her, trying to settle her but more often than not untangling her lead as she twisted herself in knots. It was an intense and exciting 45 minutes back home, full of anticipation and hope.

This, by contrast, is just as intense, but with dread. She'd taken hundreds of trips with us over the years. It occurs to me that she has no idea how the car works, or what our connection to it is. To her, it's a magic box that takes us to somewhere familiar, and occasionally somewhere new. Could be the park, could be a kennel. Is she anxious when she gets into the car? Excited? Innured to the surprise? Maybe she just trusts us, and that even when we leave her in the kennel we always come back.

But not this time, I thought. Today I'm betraying that trust. There's no coming back from this trip. 

We had her before we had the kids. Friends joked at the time that this was the start of a slippery slope and before you know it you've 2.4 children and talk about mortgages in pubs. I hate it when my friends are right. 

Rachel's sister and nephew came to stay with us when he was 18months old. I was nervous - how was she with children? I had no idea, my head filled with stories about dogs like her tearing a child's face off with no warning. Maybe we should keep them apart, introduce them slowly, gently, carefully, let her acclimatise to his scent. Maybe we should…

I almost didn't notice until it was too late. She was asleep on the sofa when they arrived, and of course the first thing he does is waddle straight towards her. 

Time slowed right down and I watched, helpless, useless, my mouth flapping like a fish, as he exclaimed "Doggy!", raising his hand high.

I reached out, the "No!" caught in my throat.

His hand came down, smacking her right in the face.

I winced, terrified to keep watching. She opened her eye, raised her head, took him in, assessing the threat.

"Doggy!" he cried again.

She dropped her head back down, closed her eyes. Did I imagine a sly smile? Takes more than a toddler to raise me, she seemed to say. It's alright, kids are safe. 

We arrive at our destination and I let the kids out before attempting to deal with her. 

They're uncharacteristically quiet, contemplative. They can read a room more than we give them credit for, and even if they don't understand exactly what's happening, they get it. I hug them both, and Rachel leads them inside, carrying her blanket.

It's just me and her now, and I dig my arms under her, as gently as I can, and heave her into me. 

Lockdown was a bitch. I don't need to rehash that for anyone, and I often recognise how lucky we were. I had friends trapped in one-bed flats in blocks by themselves for days on end, so relatively speaking we were peachy. But credit for that goes to two things: mortgage holidays and Oreo. 

She was our lifeline. Twice, sometimes thrice daily walks to the park, taking the place of the fenced off playgrounds, inventing games with us, racing us, playing and keeping our minds off the world falling apart. She was getting on even then - maybe late middle-age in dog years - but she kept up with us as long as she could, falling into a well-earned deep sleep on her spot on the sofa throughout the TV binges and the snacks and the arguments and the zoom pub quizzes that followed. She was our sanctuary. I wondered what it was like for her during that time - we were suddenly all around all the time, and she had all the attention. It must’ve been glorious, to be oblivious to the panic and the paranoia and just enjoy the time together. 

I think about that now, as I sign her death warrant, trusting the logic of doing what’s best for her as every fibre of my being wants to selfishly hold on as long as I can. But she wants to enjoy her life, not merely exist. And we hold her as tight as we can as she drifts off into endless sleep, confused maybe, but happy to be with us. And she nuzzles into us as she always did, and I can’t help but hope for one last enthusiastic misjudged kiss that makes me bleed. But she doesn’t have the energy.

The drive home is silent, empty. No longer a magic box, but just a car. I’m desperately trying to keep it together so that I can see the road. Her life flashes before my eyes in snatched moments - running through the shallow waters on the Isle of Wight, driving with the windows fully open after she’d rolled in fox shit, tug-of-war with an old blanket in the living room, horsey rides with the kids, Beth splashing in her water bowl before she could walk, the way she could only roll over in one direction (she's not an ambiturner) and endless, endless summer days in parks, which now stretch into a lifetime without her. 

I was never a dog person before. She fundamentally changed me, and I’m forever grateful.