It was midnight, according to the clock on the television. The detective serial I had been watching was coming to an end. It was British, as the programme before it had been. I have always been addicted to British crime dramas, though I also enjoy Australian and American television series.
Unlike the television mega-serials produced in Tamil Nadu, where women seem to go to bed in expensive silk sarees and wake the next morning with their makeup still immaculate, British, Australian and American dramas tend to offer at least some degree of realism.
My wife was asleep upstairs, while my son was watching a drama on his computer. I had switched off the unnecessary lights downstairs to reduce our electricity consumption—my tiny contribution to Mother Nature, rather like the squirrel in the *Ramayana* that carried grains of sand to help build the bridge to Lanka.
As the television programme ended, I thought of going to bed. Then I noticed our four-legged family member apparently lying in her usual place on the mattress near the telephone.
I walked towards Sandy and instinctively reached out to stroke her head.
She did not lift her head. She did not open her eyes.
She remained perfectly still.
Then, suddenly, reality returned.
There was no Sandy lying there.
I was looking at the small wooden box containing her ashes.
For a moment, memory had brought her back to life.
A few months before her death, Sandy had undergone an operation to remove a wart near her neck. The fur had grown back unevenly, leaving the scar partly visible. Sandy had always been a remarkably clean dog, constantly licking away any dirt from her coat. But towards the end of her life, her skin became dull and flaky.
Age was taking its toll.
Her hearing had deteriorated. In earlier years, the faintest sound from the kitchen would bring her running, particularly if there was any possibility of food. Now even a loud noise barely disturbed her. A bluish, cloudy film had also begun to appear over her eyes, another sign of advancing age.
Yet the gentle beauty Labradors are known for never left Sandy’s face, even as she approached the end of her life.
My family often accused me of not showing Sandy enough affection. There was some truth in that accusation.
Displaying emotion and shedding tears have never been part of my nature. When confronted with sadness, I tend to ask why something is happening and whether anything can be done about it. If something cannot be prevented, I believe it must eventually be accepted. Regret cannot reverse the inevitable.
At least, that was what I told myself.
Sandy had spent fourteen years with us. We had watched her pass through the three great stages of a dog’s life: puppyhood, adulthood and old age. As the years advanced, the time she spent walking became shorter and the hours she spent sleeping became longer. She gained weight, developed pain in her hips and gradually lost muscle strength.
She had become accustomed to staying inside the house from dusk until dawn. As she aged, however, accidents became more frequent. When I left for work in the morning, I would sometimes find small pools of urine near the back door, which were hardly pleasant to clean. Yet leaving her outside created another problem: her barking disturbed both the neighbours and us.
The ageing Sandy had gradually become an inconvenience—not only to us, but also to herself.
One Sunday morning, while I was playing badminton, I received an urgent call from home. Sandy was bleeding from her nose.
I returned immediately.
Blood was coming from one nostril. From my veterinary experience, I suspected that a tumour was growing inside the nasal cavity. My worried family wanted further investigation, so we arranged imaging. It showed a mass in the upper nasal region affecting the surrounding structures.
Despite the disease progressing and the bleeding becoming more frequent, one thing remained remarkably intact: Sandy’s appetite.
Food was still one of life’s great pleasures.
My wife took charge of Sandy’s nursing care. During those final months, Sandy was treated almost like royalty. She received medicines, special food, ice cream and more attention than ever before. We left the back door open so she could wander outside whenever she wished.
But the tumour continued to grow. Gradually, one nostril became obstructed, and breathing became increasingly difficult, particularly at night.
Then came a day when Sandy refused food and slept almost continuously.
I knew what that meant.
Her days were numbered.
I decided that the time had come. My wife placed a saffron bindi on Sandy’s forehead, and she and my son brought her to the clinic where I worked.
Although I had euthanised many animals during my career as a veterinarian, making that decision for my own dog was entirely different.
As I prepared myself to give the final injection, someone offered Sandy some ice cream.
To our astonishment, she devoured it eagerly.
I watched her eat with such enthusiasm and could not proceed.
As long as Sandy still possessed that much desire for one of life’s pleasures, I felt she was not quite ready to leave us.
Her appointment with death was postponed.
For the next few weeks, however, Melbourne’s hot summer weather made life increasingly difficult for her. Then, on one particularly hot day, Sandy refused food again.
This time, I knew.
Months of intensive care had come to an end.
Sandy was euthanised and later cremated. Her ashes were returned to us in a small, beautifully made wooden box.
The transformation was difficult to comprehend. Sandy, who had once weighed around thirty kilograms and filled our house with her footsteps, barking, appetite and presence, had been reduced to less than half a kilogram of ashes.
My wife placed the wooden box on the mattress where Sandy had so often slept.
And that was what I saw that night when the television programme ended.
For a fleeting moment, in the darkness of the room, the wooden box disappeared, and Sandy was there again—curled up on her mattress, sleeping peacefully as she had done countless times during those fourteen years.
I had always believed that when the unavoidable arrives, we should accept it rather than grieve over what cannot be changed.
Perhaps I still believe that.
But that night I understood something else.
Death may remove the body, but it does not necessarily remove a presence.
Sandy was no longer in the house.
Yet somehow, she had never completely left it.
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