That argument made by the assisted dying campaigners — that we treat our pets better than we treat ourselves — has got me thinking. Maybe it’s time to put the dog down. There’s nothing wrong with our loyal border collie, so it would be straight-up murder rather than euthanasia. But, and I say this even though she’s currently gazing lovingly into my eyes, Floss is becoming impossible to live with.
The latest straw came one rainy day in September. Floss decided she would no longer go to the toilet outside. It was bad enough having to take her humans for walkies three times a day but having to squat in wet grass? No thank you. Since then we have been greeted on most mornings by a treat. Or several treats. Her preference is for the carpeted areas of the house. She’s fussy like that.
At first we blamed ourselves. Maybe her last walk of the day was too early and maybe the first walk was too late? And maybe they were both too short. Floss is 12 — mid-seventies in dog years — perhaps it’s just taking her longer to get the old peristalsis going? So come rain or shine, but mostly rain, I’ve been walking her for miles after midnight and Harriet has been walking her for more miles before 7am. And it hasn’t helped. We walk and walk and walk and then Floss comes home for a dump.
Floss was a rescue. She spent the first two years of her life on a long chain in an elderly farmer’s yard. When the farmer hung up his crook she came to us. It was the first time she’d slept indoors. She was afraid of everything and everyone, and it took years and years to convince her that she was part of the family. Clearly we went too far.
Matt’s dog, Floss
COURTESY OF MATT RUDD
The first mistake was to teach her to fetch. It took about half an hour, but once she’d cracked it that was it. Since then, every time anyone goes outside, she follows, finds a ball or a stick and then drops it theatrically at our feet. If we ignore her she does it again and again until we relent. Everyone — visiting friends, the postman, random delivery drivers, a Liberal Democrat hoping for our vote — must throw the ball for Floss.
One summer, after a concerted campaign on Floss’s part, we agreed she could be a ball girl during a tennis match at the local park. It ruined the balls but she was brilliant — lightning quick from the net back to the server. Only when we stopped for a drink and she collapsed did we realise she had run all the skin off the pads of her feet. Then, desperate not to let us down, she’d kept running. It took the week we were supposed to be on holiday to nurse her back on her paws. Probably shouldn’t have bothered.
Because, after five years of patience and love, Floss got over most of her anxieties. She began to relax in our company. She stopped being terrified of the sofa, the stairs and the car, and that’s where the problems began.
“Let her stay on the sofa, Dad,” said Child C in 2019. “She’s lonely.” So now she’s always on the sofa.
“She doesn’t like going in the boot, Dad,” said Child B in 2021. So now she rides up front.
“I let her in the bedroom because of the fireworks,” said Harriet last October. So now she sleeps on the bed. She has her own duvet. And pillow.
I used to judge people who treated their pets like children. Now I am one of those people. The only reasons I don’t carry her around in a handbag are logistical rather than psychological — I don’t have a handbag and she wouldn’t fit anyway — but I do make her a hot-water bottle when it’s cold and I do spend quite a lot of time making her dinner. The other day it included a starter.
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Harriet is worse. She’s chief mollycoddler. Perhaps it’s because the nest is beginning to empty. Or because Floss is a more enthusiastic hugger (but sloppier kisser) than I am. Whatever it is, it has got to the stage where she spent four quid on organic dog ice cream the last time we went to the pub. Euthanasia will be a tough sell.
Except this morning Harriet was first down the stairs, barefoot and still drowsy enough to forget momentarily the risk of a faecal minefield. I heard a loud shriek and some extensive swearing, and then I pretended to go back to sleep.
“Isn’t it terrible how we treat our pets better than we treat ourselves?” I’ll say this evening, and we’ll take it from there.
