In remembrance of Barclay

Today is the first anniversary of Barclay's death. Barclay was our Bearded Collie. He was euthanized in our home by his vet who was kind enough to do a house call.

Barclay was 18 or 19 or maybe even 20 when he was euthanized. No one knows for sure because he was adopted from the OSPCA seventeen years previous as a young dog. It's funny but I've never known the exact age of any of my dogs. That's the one drawback with adopting: I'm always having to make up their birthdays.

And I've never known any of my dogs as pups and so I can only imagine what they must've been like. I imagine Barclay among his littermates. I imagine the first time he felt the touch of human hands. I imagine the first time he opened his eyes. I imagine his first uncertain, curious puppy steps.

I didn't actually come into Barclay life until he was in his teens when I met Elizabeth and he was part of the package. He was still bright eyed and bushy tailed, full of energy and playful but very gentle, especially with children. He didn't much like Huskies, though, because he was beaten up by one as a youngster. He used to go with Elizabeth to work everyday and how happy he was to be with her. But he also had separation anxiety and she tried so many things to put him at ease and nothing seemed to work.


Nothing until we all moved in together and then almost overnight, his separation anxiety was gone. I think it was because of Stella. I think because she was always there even when the humans went out, he got some sense of stability from her. Of course, if he could speak, he never would've admitted that. He didn't like Stella much. He tolerated her but didn't really ever like her.

Barclay really liked Rocky, though, when a few years later, Rocky came to live with us even though Rocky didn't return that affection.


Yeah, it was a weird love triangle at our house. Stella liked Barclay but Barclay didn't like her and Barclay liked Rocky but Rocky didn't like him and Rocky liked Stella but Stella didn't like Rocky.

Part of the reason Rocky didn't like Barclay was because Barclay use to fall on him. After his seizures, Barclay became quite wobbly and would sometimes lose his balance and fall over. So he'd be hovering around Rocky, who was just lying down somewhere having a snooze, and Barclay would be sniffing around and then just suddenly topple on him. Rocky hated that and even though Rocky can be a growling, snapping nutter with other dogs, he never bit Barclay. He'd just bark in bitter complaint and then heave himself up and move elsewhere away from the old falling down dog.

Barclay's love was unrequited.


Maybe they could've been friends if Barclay was younger. Those final months of Barclay's life saw him go into a slow decline. His hearing was gone; his sight was going; his tired old heart was worn out; his balance was so out of tune that he walked like a drunken sailor constantly crashing into the furniture, walls, the floor; his joints ached; his thoughts were foggy; he'd lost so much weight that after one of his last haircuts to keep him cooler in the summer, he came out of it looking like a concentration camp inmate.


And yet, and yet he still enjoyed a good pizza crust, he still sniffed all the sniffs on his short, doddery walks, he was still happy to see me when I got home at the end of the day and he still loved being picked up and held. So, I asked myself was it really time? Was this the best I could do for him? But mostly I wondered how I could have him be put down when he trusted me and looked to me for protection in his old age?

On his last day, we gave him his favorites carrots, pizza and ice cream for breakfast and let him eat until he could eat no more. The vet arrived with an assistant at around 12:20. Barclay was already settled in his bed. When the vet put the needle in, Barclay didn't protest. He was always good that way. Moments later his breathing subsided and then his tired old heart stopped beating. I can only hope that Barclay passed away with a full belly, dreaming about being a fast, young dog again, chasing squirrels through the trees.

I can't say that's what Barclay would've wanted. Ultimately, it's what we humans wanted. If Barclay had been able to speak who knows what he would've said. Even a dog in pain will fight for its life. Who are we to say no to that? Except that we do say no and we do it based on our personal idea of what a dog's life should or shouldn't be. I've known people who have loved their pets but had them put down just because of a broken leg and others who have refused to do so even though their pet was bed ridden, delirious and suffering seizures every day. Who was the coward, who was the brave one and as long as the owners made their decisions in good faith on behalf of their pets who am I to judge? Eventually, we all decide for ourselves on behalf of our pets, through a fog of love and anguish, when to let go.