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Amber left yesterday.

She’d been with us for 7 years (a birthday present for my wife), and at the time I couldn’t picture life with a dog in the house. Now I’m having to come to terms to life without her…

She’d been ill for about six months. During one routine inspection, we noticed a very inflamed patch at the back of her throat.  Veterinary check-ups, followed by a operation by a oncologist,  revealed a tumour at the back of her soft palette. It was the size of a plum: To this day, I can’t imagine how  she was managing to swallow.

After the op, the surgeon warned us that the cancer type was recurring and Amber had months, possibly a year or two, but that was unlikely. Wisely, my wife decided that long, drawn-out treatment wasn’t an option. There would be little point in clinging on and putting the dog through protracted suffering.

We hoped for a longer remission. It turned out to be a couple of months.

A couple of weeks ago, I’d taken Amber for a walk and noticed that she was really strugging on the home straight.  I know that animals slow down with age, but she had retained a bouncing, puppy-like quality. To see her struggle was a real shock.

When we arrived home, she flopped in the hallway (not unusual) but then we noticed a very large bump by her shoulder. Sure enough, it was another growth. In the days that followed, swallowing again became uncomfortable for her, and she struggled with her breathing. Our vet told us that all the symptoms indicated that she had tumours in various parts of her body.

And yet, and yet…

On occasions she would as lively as her first days with us. Tail wagging like a windscreen wiper, eyes shining like Asprey silver. How could this animal be ill?

But then she started coughing blood, and we knew she was at the end.

The veterinarian profession is very sensitive and sympathetic about these things. Our local practitioner offered us the option of ‘putting her to sleep’ in the surgery or at home. Amber never did like riding in the car, so we opted for the latter. The vet and her nurse arrived yesterday afternoon, and were gentle yet efficient. This is not a process that should be extended.

Amber laid submissively in the kitchen (we have a floor to ceiling window that was ‘her spot’ where she would soak up the sun. Fittingly, it was a sunny day). The vet shaved a little hair off  her front legs then told us that the injection was an  anaesthetic overdose; all Amber would know was that she was falling asleep.

I have always been somewhat suspicious – not to say cynical – about the anthropomorphic tendencies of pet owners. But I am sure I could see in her eyes that she knew this was going to be a respite from her pain. Indeed, there was barely a whimper when the first needle went in. She pulled back a little, but without real fight, and in a moment – perhaps 20 seconds – her golden-haired body visibly slumped.

To be sure, the vet added to the dose in her other front leg. And by the time the syringe was empty, Amber had gone.

The two of us, teary, a little numb, said goodbye then retired to the sitting room while the vet and the nurse wrapped Amber’s body in a blanket and carried her out to their car. They will dispose of the body at a pet ‘facility’ and we’ll have a her remains back in a week or so.

I thought I was fulfilling my role of strong male, holding things together to give my wife some support.  Amber was, after all, her dog and she was the one who’d taken the tough decision (thus answering the conundrum ‘Do you love someone enough to let me go?’).

Being English, the thing to do in these circumstances is to have a cup of tea, so after the vet had gone I went into the kitchen to boil the kettle. And there, on the table, was Amber’s collar. Red leather, rather worn, with its metal disc with our phone number.

And in that moment, I saw every occasion when I had clipped on her lead or pulled her back to sit at the side of the road. Every walk to the park, every wrestle with a football in the garden, every conversation started with a stranger.

And it hurt much more than I ever thought it would.

It’s the unanticipated gaps which amplify the grief. This morning we didn’t have to negotiate with her whether she’d go out the backdoor or the side door to visit the garden. When the top came off the biscuit barrel, she didn’t suddenly appear at my side, the embodiment of attentive obedience (aka cupboard love). I didn’t have to step over her on the landing.

But it was seeing the weekend paper in the letterbox that really caught in my throat. The paperboy had delivered – but this time, to a silent reception.

And I realised that for seven years Amber’s bark – like birdsong – had announced the start of the day.

Mornings just won’t be the same.

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