When I was first a curate, I was surprised by how often I encountered stoicism from those who had suffered a human bereavement and bawling grief from those who had suffered a canine bereavement. It wasn’t unusual to hear through sobs: “I felt nothing when my mum died, but losing Patch …”
I would push towards them the box of tissues carefully positioned on the coffee table in front of what I came to call the Sofa of Tears. At first I thought it was just a British peculiarity, an acceptable version of sentimentality in a culture that prides itself on its stiff upper lip; and then a week ago I lost my two dachshunds, Daisy and Pongo, aged 15 and 14. I cried at the vet’s, I cried in Waitrose, I cried in church, at home, on the phone, on FaceTime, with friends, neighbours, strangers.
The dogs came to me thanks to an eccentric millionaire, James Palumbo, co-founder of the Ministry of Sound. We met once, we got on, he said: “Do you like dogs?” “Yes,” I said, “I’ve had three dachshunds in the past but it wouldn’t work now.” “Why not?” “Oh, you know …”
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A week later Daisy arrived, and James met us at Harrods to equip her with everything necessary for a puppy in Belgravia (I was a curate at St Paul’s, Knightsbridge, at the time). My partner slept next to her on the kitchen floor that night so she wouldn’t be scared. The next night she slept on our bed, and slept on it for the rest of her life.
Daisy, white and tan with blue eyes, looked dainty but was an alpha, a challenging student at puppy school and irrepressible at work, running into church during a broadcast by the BBC Singers, fearless with the Household Cavalry on Rotten Row.
Coles says vicarage dogs are essential to the life of the Church
TOM BARNES FOR THE SUNDAY TIMES
After a year she was joined by Pongo, black and silver, bigger than her but a beta, and he bonded with me. We moved to Finedon in Northamptonshire where I was vicar for 12 years. Vicarage dogs are as fundamental to the life of the Church of England as Fairtrade coffee and the Book of Common Prayer.
They forged a way into the life of the community, not just the church but the parish too, through initiating conversations with people who might be vicar-adverse, enchanting the kids at school assemblies, providing comfort and companionship for the lonely and housebound, and employment for dog-sitters. They could also put up a barrier when that was useful, providing an excuse to get away, expressing wariness in a way we could not and a focus outside the needs of the parish.
We then acquired three more mini smooth-haired dachshunds, who surprised us by producing two litters. They got Twitter profiles, appeared on television — they even had their own pilot once — and became part of our life, the life of the parish, and fixtures in the unusually public ministry I had as a half-time vicar, half-time media person.
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For my partner, often squeezed out by that, they were the centre of our domestic life. We were happiest in a tiny ultra-remote ultra-beautiful place in the west of Scotland where we would retreat each year with no signal, no laptop, no phone, no road and five dogs. My partner died in 2019. On the day of his funeral, three dogs went home with members of his family and our dentist, because I could not manage five on my own. Daisy and Pongo, the oldest, stayed with me.
Lockdown followed, and in the worst days of my life, unable to read or listen to music or watch television, I sat in the back garden under a tree with them at my feet and on my lap. At night they slept with me in the suddenly capacious bed. I retired in 2022, and they came with me to Sussex, and I noticed about a year ago they had overtaken me in age. Daisy began to struggle to walk and Pongo went blind, then deaf, then dementia came.
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There was a crisis two weeks ago when Daisy’s hind legs started to fail. I took her to the vet, who took one look and said her time was up. What about Pongo? The vet thought he would struggle without Daisy and that I needed to make a decision based not on the viability of life — he was old but not in immediate danger of death — but on the quality of life. I decided it would be better for him to go with her than live the remainder of his days in growing distress. My responsibility, my call.
The vet came to the house. Pongo lay on my lap, Daisy by my side. They were given a sedative and fell deeply asleep. A second injection followed. Daisy slowed and stopped like a clock running out, Pongo took three big breaths then died.
I am not one for Rainbow Bridges (outside of Wagner) and I am familiar with the Christian doctrine that offers eternal life to people but not dogs. You need a soul to be saved, moral agency to choose good over evil, therein the struggle and the treasure. Dogs do not have that.
They do not choose, as we do, to bestow us with their affection, attention and loyalty, they just live through us, with us, for us, so when they die we experience the totality of the loss, which is why we are so undone when they do.
When I was a curate, a parishioner once said to me that she expected her dogs to run through sunlit meadows to greet her when she went to Heaven. I said something sincere but vague, like nothing good can ever be lost in the eternal dispensation of God. She replied: “No dogs in Heaven, no me in church.” I think I get it now.
