On Wed 17th January, just four days after we lost Beanie, we found ourselves back at the vet saying goodbye to little Biggles. As I carefully placed him in a spot in our garden beside Beanie – his constant companion since he was just 7 weeks old – I felt a sense of relief and closure more than anything, but I know the enormity of what’s happened this last week hasn’t hit yet.

Biggles was nearly 15 and a half years old, and for most of those years he was the most extraordinarily happy little boy. He lived completely in the moment; whenever anything good happened to him it was the best thing ever, and given that he had two meals a day he was guaranteed to have at least two best ever things every single day. Although the years had diminished him a little physically, he was still in remarkable shape: robust, strong and full of energy. Mentally, dementia had been eating away at him for some time.

Looking back I suspect I started noticing little changes in him two, maybe even 3 years  ago. In the early days it was always difficult to be sure if something was really happening, or if it was just another aspect of his – how shall I put it – “uneven” cognitive abilities. He was by no means lacking in the grey stuff; he had a tactical brain that enabled him to outwit us and Beanie on numerous occasions, and he learned to weave and open drawers and cupboards, but sometimes he proved unable to deal with the simplest of challenges.

If the above video doesn’t play, please go here: https://flic.kr/p/8b873z

Over the years I developed a very deep connection with Biggles but latterly the dementia had begun to erode it, and I would often worry about the day that I’d lose him. I did in fact lose him temporarily during a beach run in March last year, and after that misadventure the signs of his dementia grew harder to ignore, but he was also losing his hearing and his eyesight wasn’t that great, so it was easy to excuse some of the changes.

Susan had the brilliant idea of introducing a daily sock hunt to help keep him mentally engaged. Each day I took him down to our spare room and made him wait outside while I placed two smelly socks in various locations; then I’d open the door and help him hunt the socks, repaying each find with a biccie. Socks have always been a major feature in the Biggleverse, so he enjoyed this tremendously. Some days he seemed to be learning the places where I put the socks and would find them quickly, but increasingly he would struggle. Occasionally I would let him watch me placing the socks and he would still need help to find them.  Unfortunately symptoms of his decline were not limited to the sock hunt; by Christmas he would sometimes face into a corner of the room and woof repeatedly for no reason. Still, he was for the most part just a happy little old man with some odd senior moments.

Then we lost Beanie. At first he didn’t seem particularly aware that she was gone, except in the evenings when he’d go looking for her. One morning after we’d had something approaching a decent sleep, we took our pack of three to a local park. It was sunny and mild, and now that we didn’t have to worry about what Beanie could handle physically, I tried taking them all for a short easy jog around one of the park trails. It was wonderful! For a few minutes the younger, mentally intact Biggles seemed to be back. He took the lead, eagerly following all my directional cues, and I felt a level of connection to him that hadn’t been there for ages. Later that day he came to me for an ear rub, docking his head between my hands and nudging me to keep going. That had been a regular routine for us in past years, but as the dementia took hold it had just petered out. He also engaged in a tug session, another thing he hadn’t done in a long, long time! We were filled with hope that he could have some good times ahead. Perhaps his bond to Monkey and Poppy would grow, and that would stop him feeling the loss of his lifelong companion; certainly the youngsters would be happy to have him onboard, as Monkey had shown clear signs of wanting to play with Biggles and Poppy was growing ever closer to snuggling with him.

The next day that changed. He was looking for Beanie more obsessively, in a way that took on the look and feel of late stage dementia. He could not stop woofing, he could not settle, he could not be consoled, and he didn’t really seem to recognise us. We gave him a filled treat ball to roll around; this distracted him for a few minutes but as the treats fell out onto the floor he was either unware of them or simply not interested. He was becoming more and more agitated, and the only thing that seemed to calm him was Beanie’s old Thundershirt, which we’d bought to help her through the whizz-bangs of fireworks. It felt like Beanie was looking after her little brother from beyond the grave.

In the morning Biggles was much worse, and now the Thundershirt had no effect. He would go for a drink, woof to go out to the garden, immediately woof to come right back in then go for a drink again, repeating the cycle over and over again. The only times he seemed more like himself was on a walk with the pups, when gulping down food from his bowl, and when in his crate; he still knew how to do those things. We did everything we could to comfort him and reduce his agitation. Susan set up a humie-sized bed on the floor of the lounge near the warmth of our wood stove, and we took turns trying get him to settle and cuddle up for a snooze. It worked for a time, and it was lovely to be able to cuddle him, but as the evening progressed we could tell that even here he wasn’t truly at rest. It felt like the last vestiges of the Biggles we knew had gone, and now some of the odd neurological funnies he had occasionally displayed – twitching and shaking, leaning and staggering – were happening multiple times an hour.

We sat talking for ages that evening, discussing the unthinkable. We just couldn’t see any way Biggles could come back from this. The loss of Beanie had triggered something in him. In this surreal nightmare there seemed to be only one course of action available, and should we delay, there was the possibility that Biggles would spend his last moments not even aware that we were with him. We decided to call the vet the next day and make an appointment to put him to sleep.

In the morning we thought through everything again, but came to the same conclusion. We got an appointment for the afternoon, then worked out how to structure the day to make it as good as possible for him. We went back to bed for a while and brought him in there with us. For years that had been the routine; we’d get up and let the pups out of their crates, then we’d all snuggle together in bed. For some months now he’d been incapable of settling with us, but this morning we did get him to stay put for a short while, and cuddled him as much as he’d allow. Later Susan gave him the breakfast of his dreams, he had a last walk with the pups, and we did everything we could to keep his agitation at bay until it was time to go to the vet.

And then we were in a consulting room again. Hugging a much loved little family member for the last time, again. The staff agreed that we could stay in sight of Biggles through the whole procedure, even during the insertion of the line. To take the pressure off them we moved to the door and turned our backs during that part, at which point Biggles tried to follow Susan. Apparently there was just enough of Biggles left in there to recognise us. Some part of him knew we were there.

Like Beanie, Biggles passed away stuffing his face with food. Unlike Beanie, Biggles had close to a pound of quality cooked sausages to munch on. And munch he did. In fact he munched through them so rapidly that they almost ran out before the anaesthetic took effect.

A few days before we’d said goodbye to the Beanie of the present; the soft little 16 year old who despite her age was still very much the girl we knew. This time I guess we were both saying goodbye to the Biggles we remembered: the relentlessly cheerful, cheeky and smelly little boy that we’d known before the dementia took him away. Once the vet had done his final checks and pronounced that old Biggles had passed, that younger pre-dementia Biggles seemed to enter the room.

We’d brought a familiar, smelly blanket from home to wrap Biggles in; he and Beanie had both been snuggled in that blanket on the sofa many times. As we gently wrapped him up in it, the nurse asked if we’d like something else to place under him because as she put it: “once they go, everything kind of relaxes”, and she waved her hand across Biggles’ abdomen to make her meaning more clear. My mind flashed back to that holiday where Biggles had eaten half a ton of sheep poo and then suffered what could be described – in Star Trek terms – as a “warp core breach” in the bed of our campervan (while we were in it). We said thanks, but we’d be OK. I carried him to the van and we drove off with Biggles nestling on the same donut bed that supported Beanie a few nights previously, with Susan gently holding his head and keeping him steady and safe, just as she’d done for the Beanster. En route to our home, Biggles let rip with one of his best silent-but-deadlies. He’d eaten cheese, biccies, Bow-wow sticks, salmon and a whole load of sausages that day, and there had to be consequences.

At home, Susan set up the spare room – where Biggles had played his sock games – to serve as a holding place for him until I could prepare his place in the garden. There was a canvas print of a young Biggles on the bed and a collection of socks around his temporary resting place. For the next 20 hours or so every visit to the room let us remember Biggles as he was, and we both got into the habit of talking to him when we were in there. Little things like this can help a lot.

The next day the ground was heavily frozen, but frozen or not, Biggles needed to be put to bed one last time. As before the digging was therapeutic, and I felt that this time I’d be prepared for the moment when I’d pick him up and carry him down into the garden. I was wrong; it still hit me like a train, but once his little bundle was covered with that first layer of earth, the sense of relief was incredible. He was safe, and he was together with Beanie.

Beanie was buried in her “abode” bed, but we gave Biggles a collection of smelly socks big enough to make him the envy of all other Beagle boys. Both of them have a protective fence around them, just in case the irrepressible Monkey feels like starting a digging project. Yes it’s macabre, but when you have Beagles you have to consider such things. Since Beanie already had a little light display above her, Susan put a solar-powered lighting kit on Biggles’ fencing, and just as we were finishing up a bird started singing very beautifully from a nearby tree.

As a Yorkshireman I’ve always been prone to seeing signs and portents in things that others would dismiss as coincidence. The day after Beanie had used her buggy for the last time, Susan found that a joint on the buggy had broken. The bird song of course took on a special meaning for me, but this next one was so spooky that it even made a believer out of Susan.

There’s a small LED cherry tree over Beanie’s spot; it runs on batteries and though it should operate reliably on a timer, every other day it needs a bit of manual help to turn on. By contrast, Biggles’ solar powered lights should go on automatically whenever the light level drops sufficiently. After laying Biggles to rest, we cleaned up and took the pups for an afternoon walk. We weren’t running to any particular schedule, but when we got back and Beanie’s lights hadn’t come on, Susan went down to give them a nudge. She pressed the button and on they came, then literally within 3 seconds Biggles’ lights started up too. That tiny delay between them was the really spooky bit; take out a handful of treats and young Beanie would be right by you instantly, with a sprinting, grinning Biggles slamming into your legs just 2-3 seconds later. It really felt like our little team of two was back in action.

This is how we want to remember you Biggles: our silly, happy little boy

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!