We’d known it was going to happen sooner rather than later, and we’d been preparing for it, but it still kind of took us by surprise. Sixteen years and nearly three weeks since she came into our lives, Beanie has left us. She died in the very early hours of Saturday 13th January.

Very appropriately given all the medical dramas she’s had in her life, she ended things at the emergency vet, but the way in which she passed.. well I honestly can’t imagine how it could have been gentler or less traumatic; she made things as easy as she could for us.

I wrote in the Christmas post that she was enjoying a period of rejuvenation; that continued after Christmas and into the new year. She was doing longer walks without her buggy, coming home, grabbing toys out of the communal toy box and parading them round the room like a dog 14 years younger. After a long dry spell Susan’s legs were once again getting regular humpings from the Beanster; proper, vigorous humpings, not the ponderous hip thrusts that Poppy inflicts on Monkey. Speaking of the Monkster, he very nearly tempted Beanie into a play session! And on what turned out to be her final visit to the beach, she joined Poppy, Monkey and Biggles on a few fun sprints along the sand. This really was the best time she’d had in years.

Beanie on the top of Loudoun Hill in late November, having climbed it with spectacular ease

Over the final three days she seemed to be losing momentum a little, so we reverted to taking her buggy on walks to give her regular  battery-charging breaks. We thought nothing of this at the time as we’d seen numerous ups and downs over the previous couple of years, but in hindsight this was a sign that the end really was coming. I’ve often read that dogs tend to become more solitary at this time, but Beanie – always looking to be different – actually sought more company. Where previously she would have gone to sleep on our bed during Poppy & Monkey’s evening shenanigans, she now prefered to hang out with us in the lounge.

On her final morning she seemed less eager for her walk so we started her out in the buggy, but we didn’t get far before she insisted on getting out. It was a very sniffy walk on a narrow path and Monkey was pulling strongly, so Susan took Beanie out in front while I brought up the rear with Biggles and the two youngsters. Beanie instantly acquired a swagger as she trotted along, clearly enjoying being in the lead. On the way back home she took the lead again, actually raising the pace of the walk. The rest of the day went normally, save for Beanie making a quite spirited attempt to nick the sardines-on-toast Susan was eating for lunch. In the evening Susan went to bed early and – somewhat unusually – Beanie made a point of checking where her mum was before settling into in her basket for a nap. I left Beanie sleeping peacefully in the warm living room while I went off to my work room to finish some photo-processing. A little while later I heard the disturbing sound of claws slipping on laminate flooring, and heavy panting.

I immediately went to investigate and saw Beanie clearly in some kind of distress. She was unsteady on her feet and was holding herself oddly. I figured maybe she was going to be sick so I gently carried her out to the garden and stood with her; nothing was forthcoming, but the cold seemed to stop the panting. I took her back in and put her in a basket next to my desk so I could keep a close eye on her. She was restless and didn’t seem able to get comfortable, so I took her back to the lounge and called on Susan. Beanie’s breathing was now decidely labored, and I began thinking “Is this it?”. I Googled for “dog labored breathing” and almost the first hit noted this as a common signal of imminent end of life. Another link reminded me to check Beanie’s gum color. It was pale; shockingly pale. We called the vet and prepared to take her in. I carried her out to the van and as I’ve done so many, many times before, I buried my nose in her fur and breathed her in. She was so soft and gentle and warm, and being in my arms seemed to calm her. I popped her into a big comfy donut bed on Susan’s lap, she settled, and we set off.

As we entered the vet, my eyes landed on a little sign they have on the door. “If you see a candle lit in reception, please speak softly as someone may be saying goodby to their pet”. I saw no candle but someone was saying goodbye to their pet right at that moment, because we heard uncontrollable sobbing coming from one of the consulting rooms. We were escorted to another of those rooms almost immediately, and a nurse – who could not have done a better job – conducted a quick examination of Beanie while we waited for the vet. The nurse gently prepared us for the worst, and in due course the vet confirmed that prognosis; while there was no obvious cause for Beanie’s symptoms, there had to be something very bad behind them. Medically she was about to fall off a cliff. It was the perfect time.

There was no shock for me in hearing this; it just confirmed what I’d read earlier and what I was feeling. Still, I remember a panic spreading through me when I saw the euthanasia consent form appear on table. I choked that back down as best I could, while Susan signed the form. The staff left the room to allow us time alone with Beanie, and gave us free access to a jar of gravy bones. We dipped into that jar and while Beanie happily munched on them with the few teeth she had left, we did our best to say goodbye. My head locked onto that time she’d escaped her harness and run free on The Merrick. That had been the kind of “adventure” that other Beagles only dream about, though it left me a nervous wreck. I told her she was there again, running wild & free up in the mountains. Susan told me to breathe in Beanie’s scent one more time; I tried but my nose was blocked from half-stifled tears. It didn’t matter; I’d already got a dose of Beanie aromatherapy as we left the house. I crouched down and looked right into Beanie’s eyes and told her I loved her. Her eyes were still clear and bright; she was 100% present, fully awake, and hearing me. The vet returned, and we told her it was OK to start the procedure.

The first step in the process is to insert a line into a blood vessel; this is the conduit for the euthanasia drug. The vet shaved a little spot on Beanie’s leg and tried to insert the line, but Beanie was so anemic that she couldn’t find a suitable blood vessel. She tried again, and again, and again; all the while we kept dipping into those biccies and feeding them to Beanie. The jar had started full, but it certainly wasn’t full now. I had a brief moment of dark humour: Beanie was stubbornly enjoying her biccies and wasn’t going to be short-changed by any of this euthanasia nonsense.

The vet apologised and explained that she’d have to take Beanie out of the room for a moment to get the line installed. This was the worst time for us; we were desperate to hold and comfort Beanie, but unable to do so. After what seemed like an age, the vet returned. I saw little colored bandage wraps on Beanie’s arms and legs – an indication that they’d had to try all four of Beanie’s limbs before finally finding a suitable blood vessel. Regardless, only one step now remained. We were offered another chance to say goodbye, but what could we do that hadn’t already been done? We just asked the vet to continue.

Almost right to the end, Beanie kept munching on the biccies Susan was holding for her; there was just the briefest moment when Beanie stopped eating and looked round for reassurance.

“It’s OK baby” Susan told her.

And then Beanie gently fell into our hands, we both lowered her onto the bench, and she was gone. I kept stroking her, and Susan kept a hand by Beanie’s nose. It’s said that smell is that last sense to go; if so, Beanie had the reassurance of Susan’s scent right at that last moment.

We’d decided beforehand that we would take Beanie back home with us, to bury her in our garden. I carried her, with Susan supporting her head as we got her into the van. She rode home in a donut bed on Susan’s lap, her head cradled in Susan’s hand. She was wrapped in a towel given to us by the vet,  and though we’d done our best to wrap her securely, her nose was poking out of one end. This was classic Beanie; so many times in life she’d asked to be covered by her blankie, but then poked her nose out. This was her little “periscope” so that she’d always know if any food was brought into the room.

It was still early in the morning, so the burial would have to wait until daylight. We took her to what is now our spare room, but was for most of Beanie’s life the bedroom where we all slept together. We gently placed her in the custom bed that Susan had made for her years ago. Beanie had always loved her “abode” as we called it; now it would keep her safe and cosy one more time.

The next morning we decided to walk our pack of three first, then head into the garden to bury our little pupplet. It was stunningly beautiful on that walk; the sun was flooding through the trees, and we both had the strongest sense that Beanie was somehow there with us, watching over us, letting us know that everything was OK now.

The dig to prepare her final resting place was enormously cathartic for me; it was one more chance to look after my little girl. The part I was most dreading however – carrying Beanie from our house down to the garden – was horrendous. It was simply the worst thing I’ve ever had to do. Susan sprinkled dried flowers from our garden on top of the little bundle, and once we’d covered it over with earth we both breathed a sigh of relief; Beanie was now forever safe, and forever part of our garden.

From Aug 2021: Beanie supervises as I plant flowers on the spot where she now rests.

Later this year we’ll turn the site into a beautiful flower bed, but for now it has a bright little LED tree standing over it. Looking down at those lights from our deck at night helps us both, not as a shrine to her loss, but as a celebration of all the light and energy that little Beanie brought to our lives when we needed it most.

I can’t believe you’re gone, but thank you little girl for all those years. We’ll always love you.