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.

It has been, for the most part, a very cosy and snuggly Christmas and New Year at our house. Our two pairs of pups are feeling like a real pack of four now, indoors as well as on walks and in the garden. That’s not to say that Beanie and Biggles don’t still have the occasional grumble at the youngsters – Monkey in particular – but very often it is kind of warranted.

Yeah Dad I know you told me to leave that bag of firewood alone, but, er.. this bit was chewy..

See Poppy? I told you there was room for two in this bed!

We got Monkey one of those exploding disk balls for Christmas (it squashes down to a disk shape, then unpredictably springs back into a ball). Things did not go well. It turned Professor Monkey’s understanding of physics right on its head and terrified him! How did Arthur C. Clarke put it? “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic”. Well that ball is magic of the blackest, most dangerous kind!

Fortunately in the midst of all this festive horror Monkey discovered a tennis ball that had been hiding in a cupboard somewhere and it’s become his favorite toy in all the world. He entertains himself for ages throwing it round the room, waiting until it stops moving then pouncing on it. It’s the best fun, but sometimes when he throws the ball it lands by Beanie’s bed and then he’s faced with the same dilemma as countless naughty human boys who’ve just lost a ball in a neighbor’s garden: is it better just to accept that play is over for now, or risk a righteous telling off by going to get the ball without permission. Monkey has a very expressive face and I can almost see the different stages of his thought process as he assesses the risks and benefits of DIY ball recovery. If he decides to go for it it he keeps low as he approaches the ball and snatches frequent, nervous glances at the Beanster, mischief written all over his face. If she’s sufficiently sleepy or she’s in  a good mood he may get away with his ball unscathed, but more than once he’s been sent scurrying under a table with a caustic “Warrrhhhhhh!”

Is it safe? Is she alseep?

Nope! Time to scarper!

Beanie by the way is in incredible shape at the moment. Back in August when we got her little wheeled buggy she was a frail, old little thing who likely wouldn’t see 2024. Now, thanks to frequent servings of “golden paste” (turmeric and black pepper mix) and canned fish she’ more robust, has much more energy and is leading a full life again. I did a little photoshoot with her over Christmas; in recent years I’ve had to discard lots of shots because the Beanie I’ve known all these years was somehow not present behind her eyes. This time none were discarded for that reason, though plenty were binned because she wouldn’t keep still and kept wanting to harass me for a treat. That’s 100% normal Beanie. We have to keep reminding ourselves that she is after all still 16, but however long this period of rejuvenated Beanie lasts, I’m grateful for it.

As for Biggles, well he’s also benefitting physically from the same dietary tweaks as Beanie, but all the turmeric and Omega 3 in the world can’t quite replace the marbles he keeps losing. Sometimes just before bed he has a mad hour, and goes sprinting round the house with stolen socks and woofing. That’s good fun – albeit ill-timed – and fairly characteristic of a much younger version of The Bigglet. It’s less fun when he stands on the spare bed, faces into an empty corner of the room and woofs his head off. It’s also less fun when he woofs to go out into the garden, forgets why he went out, woofs to come back in, remembers that he needed a pee, and woofs to go out again, all right when we’re meant to be having our dinner. Most of the time he’s a happy, contented and cuddly boy though, and as long as there’s a good helping of that kind of Biggles in each day, I reckon he’s doing alright.

The dietary changes that are helping our oldies all came from our desire to find a drug-free approach for managing Poppy’s epilepsy – kind of her gift to Beanie & Biggles. It’s still too early to guage how well everything we’re doing for Poppy is working, but she’s loving her new diet. Back when she was still eating kibble if she finished first she’d try to knick a few extra mouthfuls from Monkey’s bowl; now she’s only got eyes for her own homecooked food. Each morning when her pre-walk breakfast is served (or “first breakfast”, in Hobbit terms) she shoots out of bed and sprints into the kitchen faster than a frightened rat. She’s also becoming a bit of a cheeky break-in artist. I’ve just planted vulnerable, young hedging plants in our vegetable garden and I’ve been working very hard to keep her out of it. She’s been able to get through the stock fencing that surrounds the garden for some time and I’ve been running extra wire to close off the gaps, but as fast as I close off one Poppy entry point, she finds (or makes) another.

As good as Poppy is at breaking into things, Monkey’s even better at breaking out. Over Christmas he learned to unzip his travel crate in the van. The first time it happened I just thought I’d forgotten to zip him up, but then it happened a second time and he wandered up to see us in the front of the van while I was driving, as though to say: “Hi guys, I wasn’t liking being in my crate so I just let myself out. That OK? And do you mind if I check for crumbs around the pedals while you’re driving Dad?”. Needless to say we’ve made a few changes to Beagle sleeping arrangements and Poppy now sleeps in Monkey’s travel crate indoors, while he has her metal house crate in the van. So far his attempts to break out of this new Monkey containment device have been unsuccessful, but I figure it’s only a matter of time before he figures out the crate latching mechanism. As that old but popular Japanese martial arts show use to say: “The nature of Monkey is irrepressible!”

That’s about it for now; I hope you had a great Christmas and have a great year ahead of you!

We seldom get any decent snow in our part of Scotland but this year’s been different, allowing Monkey and Poppy finally to get the full snow-nose experience.

And after all that… peace (apart from the snoring, that is)!