It has not been a happy new year. First, I went down with what I thought was just a bad cold. It quickly became laryngitis. My voice all but disappeared. I coughed and coughed. I had a headache and a temperature. I felt awful. It was not a good idea to meet up with friends and family to see in the new year. I stayed at home.
At least I had my companions – dogs Madge and Minnie and Suu the cat. They all curled up on my lap, seeking protection from the bangs and crackles of the incessant fireworks surrounding our house in north London.
My other dog Frieda, now entering her 20th year, was oblivious to the racket and remained curled up asleep in the bed where she spends most of her time these days.
Fireworks were the only thing that ever frightened Madge. The best and most beloved, brave little dog I have ever had, she was quiet and obedient.
She understood instinctively what ‘Heel’ meant and stayed close to me when we walked, never running ahead and dragging me along.
At home she was the boss.
Woe betide Minnie if she ever dared to steal Madge’s food or crawl into her bed. She might back off from one of Madge’s surprisingly intimidating growls. If not, a full fist fight ensued. Madge always won.
All was calm on New Year’s Eve. I was relaxed, despite my fluey suffering and the fireworks, because Madge had just had a brilliant report from her ophthalmologist at the Royal Veterinary College Hospital.
She’d had a rough time for the past couple of months since the surgery to remove her cataracts.
She had endured the tests for vision and, of course, didn’t understand my disappointment that we had to administer her regime of four different types of eye drops delivered three times a day. You have to really love an animal to devote every day for weeks to treating their ills.
I loved Madge very much indeed. For ten and a half years she’d been my closest friend, spending every possible hour cuddled up with me, even in bed.
So I know what Meghan, the Duchess of Sussex, must be feeling after news that her beagle, Guy, whom she’d also had for ten years, had sadly passed away. Because Madge died earlier this week, too.
On January 1, at the point I had developed full-blown flu, Madge seemed a little off colour. She was listless and had diarrhoea. She didn’t eat but drank some water and slept.
Two days later, on Friday morning, I was worried enough to call for an emergency vet to come to the house to see her.
She had been terribly sick, was cold in a very warm house and hardly able to get up to walk out to the garden.
The young vet delivered devastating news: Madge’s condition was critical.
She didn’t know exactly what was wrong, only that she was floppy, cold and had thrown up black sick. But there was no doubt that she needed to be in hospital. I felt so ill myself; I couldn’t face driving the half hour it would take to get her there.
We wrapped her up in a warm blanket and the vet took her off to her car.
The hospital told me she was dehydrated and needed a blood transfusion. They would observe her and comfort her overnight.
On Saturday morning they sent a video of her with tubes sticking out of her paws and told me she seemed to be rallying. I was reassured and said I would come to collect her later.
At 2pm they sent another video. Madge had an oxygen mask over her mouth.
The vet said she had sunk very quickly and thought euthanasia would be best.
I begged them not to kill her. I wanted to be with her if she had to die. She needed to hear my voice and know she was loved.
I rushed to the car and drove as quickly as I could. The phone rang ten minutes before I arrived at the hospital. Madge had died.
When I reached the hospital, I held her little body, knowing she would not see my tears or hear my words of comfort that came too late.
No one should have to die alone – whether animal or human.
When I had to have Butch, another of my beloved chihuahuas, euthanised three years ago, I held him in my arms as the vet inserted the needle. As he died, his eyes expressed how grateful he was that I was there.
When Frieda has to be put down, no doubt in the not too distant future, it will be done here, at home, with no fear, just love.
It may seem strange to compare the lonely death of a dog with that of a mother, but I have never ceased to regret that my mother died alone at night in a care home. I should have been there to comfort her.
As for Madge, vets suspect the cause of her death was a small tumour in the stomach with possible cancer spread to the lungs. Without a post mortem, which I refused, they can’t be certain.
Minnie and I are together, in grief, in a very sad and quiet house. Minnie knows her friend has gone but, like me, seems to imagine she sees her from time to time.
Madge, you were far too young to die. I miss you but I thank you for ten years of joyous, faithful, unconditional love.
Amanda’s right to upgrade ring
I understand why Amanda Holden was keen to upgrade her engagement ring for something more flashy and, of course, expensive.
I had a very cheap little thing – albeit significantly cheaper than Amanda’s first, which was apparently worth £40,000 – and upgraded mine, thanks to my mother. Later in life, she had acquired the solitaire diamond for which she’d always longed. She left it to me together with the wedding ring she’d never taken from her finger.
I wear them both and could never wish for anything better.
Put this in your diary for 2025
There’s lots of excitement about Jane Austen as 2025 is the 250th anniversary of her birth. The house where she died, 8 College Street, Winchester, will be open to the public for the first time from June to August.
Some years ago, I gave a talk to Winchester College and was invited by the head to look around Jane’s last home. The college owns the house.
Sitting in the window seat where Cassandra had sat to watch her sister’s funeral pass was moving beyond words. If you get the chance, go!
It’s a shock to discover, thanks to a Which? survey, that it would cost me £400 less a year to shop at Aldi than at my Waitrose. Will I change? No. The Waitrose drivers are too good at arriving on time, bringing my groceries into the kitchen and being kind to my animals. That’s worth it.
I’m not surprised sandwich parents suffer poor health as they juggle the needs of elderly relatives and their own children. My breast cancer was diagnosed on the day Mum died, after months of juggling a job, ailing parents and two boys in their teens. A decidedly unhealthy workload.
