Her name is Cassie. A West Highland Terrier. A little ball of snow like fluff when she arrived at our household aged barely three months old. The specific date of her arrival is debated heavily in our family depending on whom you would ask, but we can at least agree that Cassie has been with us since sometime in late 2003, an astonishing 18 plus years.
Her arrival was met with scepticism personally, particularly as my father had sworn blind we would never get another family dog after the incumbent (our second) had died some years previous of cancer, and with both my brother and myself in our mid to late teens at that point it seemed a wise decision not to leave such a delicate animal in the care of raging hormones and stupid decisions. But Cassie wasn’t a family dog.
As my Aunt had once jested upon meeting our new arrival, my mother “has finally got her girl”, and although that comment had initially annoyed me greatly I grew to realise that Cassie’s inclusion in our family was for a number of reasons, not least because my father had forseen it would only be a matter of time before my brother and myself – for reasons of University, potential relationships, social activities etc – would most certainly be absent on large occasions from the family home. And with Dad working long hours, this was another way for him to care for the woman he loved, by providing a companion who would not be forced to go to school or find a job, as well as the benefits of a companion who didn’t talk back and normally offered continual encouragement and support – especially when you rubbed behind her ears.
And true enough, as the years past, I would be the first person to leave the family home permanently – in 2008 – with Cassie sitting by the door that morning as I got into the car, looking at me stoically. Although I wouldn’t have appreciated it at the time, I now look back with great fondness to Cassie’s efforts, because she would be there to make sure my mother might just be a little less preoccupied and a little more distracted with thoughts of her eldest “flying the nest”. I must say I thought of Cassie often, not least because I’d moved to Edinburgh, and worked not far from Candlemaker Row, where sits a statue of Greyfriars Bobby; dedicated to a dog (a Highland Terrier, to be sure) that kept a watchful vigil over their master’s Grave for 14 years.
On the occasions I might have visited home, no matter what the circumstances, Cassie was always glad to see me. It astonished me that despite the years which passed she never forgot my voice, endless Skype calls to my parents interrupted by Cassie’s instance that the chair recognise her presence within the room. And in 2012, on one of my most difficult visits home, Cassie was there – perhaps sensing my heartbreak, as she seemed more interested in comforting me than she ever had before – almost sensing that I needed such a friend.
When my parents decided to fly their own nest in 2015, they set their hearts on France, with Cassie just as much a part of the decision-making process as anyone. A wonderful home in the South of the country, Cassie would be able to spend ‘retirement’ amongst two acres of a garden, chasing bees and attacking flowers – eating the finest French cuisine. Only a few months after their arrival, Cassie ate some berries in the garden, and an unknown parasite attacked viciously in return. Sick, and with part of her tongue removed, a veterinary surgeon suggested she be put to sleep – but my mother was adamant Cassie be allowed to fight this fight. And, against odds, Cassie made a full recovery; within a few weeks she was back to her normal self, smelling roses and barking at strangers.
Like all of us, Cassie got older as the years passed, her eyesight and hearing began to fade. At some point in the past year, she went blind, and there were even questions as to whether she’d developed a form of dementia – seen standing stoically in the middle of the room, staring at the walls. Regardless, she remained in the best place, in a loving home and a safe place surrounded by the family she’d always known.
Just a few days ago, my parents took Cassie to their local vet, as she’d been quite unwell – perhaps a little more than usual – with the vet informing them of the news nobody wanted to hear, that there wasn’t much they could do, only to prolong the inevitable. Wanting her to be treasured as best they could, my parents asked for some time to say goodbye, to bring Cassie home and let her know how much she meant to them. The vet asked them to return on Saturday, as it was best not to prolong any suffering. Reluctantly, they agreed.
On Friday night, my mother sat with Cassie, Cassie lay in her lap as my parents sat and talked, reminiscing of all the wonderful memories Cassie had given to our family, the great service she had done for us. If things had been different, if restrictions not made it impossible, I would’ve considered taking a flight to France myself, to be able to say goodbye to a cherished family friend. But as she lay on my Mum’s lap that evening, my mother remarked how she cried, in a way my Mum had never heard before, a sound she never wanted to hear again. Having wanted to take this time with her friend for as long as possible, at 2am, my mother put Cassie in her basket.
The following morning, at around 6am, my father rose early to prepare for the day ahead, with Cassie noticed sleeping in her basket – he recounted her breathing and got on with preparing his breakfast. Just 30 minutes later, he looked over to Cassie, and noticed she was no longer breathing.
She had gone.
A few years ago, when a work colleague had spent two weeks off work due to the death of their dog, I’d scoffed at the idea, and privately laughed to myself. A few years later another line manager took some time off after the death of their family friend, and my attitude remained virtually unchanged. I couldn’t understand – I couldn’t comprehend – the idea of someone treating the death of animal in the same way (and maybe even with more importance) as the death of a human being. I’d often considered that maybe those people had used the occasion as a convenient excuse for leave, not that they weren’t overworked and underpaid as it was.
But as I learnt of Cassie’s passing, as the reality sat with me yesterday, I burst into tears. I started to cry, it ran down my face, overwhelmed by the entire situation. But one thought lingered, one perhaps upsetting me more than anything else, that in my foolishness and ignorance I had been too blind to see before. As Cassie lay on my mothers’ lap on Friday, the sounds she made were deliberate, the cries she made were purposeful. She was saying goodbye, she was aware of what was about to happen as much as any one of us might well be – and she didn’t want to go – at least not without letting my mother know how much she cared and how much she valued their time together.
Even on Saturday morning, Cassie had known to wait, for a time until my father was there – to spare my mother from having to deal with the grief of being the one to find her, she was committed – dedicated – to making sure that evening they shared in memory and celebration would be their last. That is how she wished for my mother to remember her. And in doing so, Cassie convinced me of something, something I never thought possible; that she truly was alive, that there was a soul in there, there was a living conscience of someone who understood the very essence of what it means to be.
Thank you, Cassie, thank you for taking care of my mother when I could not. Thank you for being there for her when she needed someone to talk too, when she needed a shoulder upon which to cry, when she needed someone who would listen and help halve a problem without offering back solutions. Of all the souls I’ve ever encountered, hers was the most human.
RIP Friend. RIP.
Cassie Madden (2003-2021)