The dog that taught me to live in the moment

A LOST pup became a treasured pet fourteen years ago, but a recent bout of illness has made realise that our remarkable friendship has profoundly changed my life, writes Jim Mitchell.

SHE walked into our lives some 14 years ago.

But her journey began 400 kilometres away.

Lean, gentle and whip-smart, this little black kelpie wandered into my uncle’s Tamworth property in northern NSW where my father was visiting, chain dragging behind her. It wasn’t feasible for my uncle to keep her, so this little girl lost was taken to the pound.

Back in Sydney, the pooch played on my animal-loving father’s mind. She had made an impression and he couldn’t bear the thought that she might be put down.

So, he made the ten-hour return trip back, the pup sitting proudly on the front passenger seat on her way to her new home.

We called her Jemma, and she was much loved. Perhaps loved too much, the lean pup becoming a not-so-lean dame.

Over time, she and I developed a close bond. I knew I had truly won Jem’s trust when she eventually allowed me to put my head to hers for a playful nuzzle. She reciprocated, and with a warm moan to match. It became our “hello”.

Recently Jem became gravely ill, and suddenly. She was throwing up violently, staggering and falling over, disorientated. Her eyes darted frantically from side to side, her head cocked awkwardly to the right as if frozen.

She was suffering a bout of what’s known as canine idiopathic vestibular disease, sometimes referred to as “old dog disease” or “old rolling dog syndrome”. It can present as a stroke, but more resembles vertigo.

Jim Mitchell with his beloved dog Jem. (Pic: Joey Koh)

Over the next few days, the prognosis from the ever-pragmatic vet who had overseen her care from day one became grimmer.

Jem was stricken, quietly petrified, and tellingly, refusing food, a bad omen for a dog who would jump over the moon if she could for a meal. She was unresponsive to my touch, I didn’t recognise the dog in front of me. My girl seemed to be fading fast and if Jem didn’t improve soon, we’d have to look at putting her down.

The notion that we could feel agonising grief for an animal is still one we humans struggle with. But why should we deny ourselves the same grief we would feel for our human loved ones? We had shared most of Jem’s life and she ours, this dog so generous of spirit, ever loyal, with the highest mountain of love to give. What more could you want in a being?

And the grief set in immediately, even though Jem was still alive. Everywhere I looked in my house, there was a reminder of her. But all that was left was her empty bed at the foot of my own.

Jem. (Pic: Joey Koh)

I tried to busy myself with work, but every so often, out of the corner of my eye I swear I could see her slinking silhouette in the dim light of the hallway. It was as if her ghost was visiting prematurely.

When we’re faced with a great loss we wish for one more precious moment that we know, desperately, will never come. I wished for one more of Jem’s loving nuzzles. Or one more time to soak up her joy as she stuck her head out the car window, nose twitching with scores of scents, breeze whispering through her hair on the daily coffee run.

But to my, and everyone’s surprise, I would get my wish. Jem started to bounce back, eating out of my hand, and able to walk short distances with assistance, though still swaying and stumbling like a drunkard.

We brought Jem home after a five-day stay at the vet and nursed her back to health, and barely a month later she’s back sitting at that car window, the remnants of her sickness some unsteadiness and a quirky flick of the ears.

Jem has recovered from a recent bout of illness, and is once again demanding back rubs. (Pic: Joey Koh)

It’s hard to believe it took me so long, but I’m finally able to elucidate that Jem is one of my best and dearest friends.

And it’s not that I didn’t appreciate her before — how could I not? But now, when I press my face to Jem’s, when I hear her gentle snorts of contentment, when she does the arched-bum-front-legs-stretched doggo welcome, when the cheeky bugger backs in to have her back rubbed, it’s as if time stands still.

These are precious moments, but then Jem has always known that. That’s the way she and her canine species approach every joy in life, like they’re experiencing the wonder for the very first time.

And at 15, I know Jem’s time with us is finite. When she does die I will fall apart, the grief will be many times worse, and my heart will feel ripped out.

For now though, I savour every moment with this gorgeous creature, taking inspiration from her rejuvenated zest for life. She has taught me to live in the moment.

Some might say Jem landed on her feet the day she wandered on to my uncle’s property. But I think we landed on ours.
Jim Mitchell is a freelance writer.

Originally published as The dog that taught me to live in the moment