‘I carried his body for the last time to the car ... he’s on his final trip’

I’d like to think the lick on my face from Kees, my old dog before he was put to sleep, was a kiss goodbye, not a plea for more time. But it was time, and my readers helped me see that.

Kees the beloved, old Keeshond, has been put to sleep. Picture: Supplied

For 25 years I’ve written my columns, telling you what I think and often – forgive my arrogance – what I’d like you to think, too.

But a week and a half ago I was reminded that what you tell me can be much wiser.

I told you my eldest dog, Kees the Keeshond, had gone deaf and demented, but putting him down just seemed too final.

Hundreds of you wrote to me not just to comfort but give me courage. Many told of your own losses, and said you’d later felt selfish keeping your beloved dog or cat too long, after their joy of living was gone.

For me and my wife, it was hard advice but so, so helpful.

Sure, it seemed Kees must have read my column, too. He suddenly cut down his bouts of desolate whining.

His joy of life had ended, but the decision to end his life was heartbreaking.

We hesitated, but he then lost interest in food, so a couple of hours ago a nice lady came with her bag of needles and anaesthetic and listened patiently as we told her – almost begging her approval – that the joy of life had ended for Kees, too

Watch, I said, he’d even stopped licking my face when I nuzzled him. But then, for the first time in weeks, Kees licked me.

Was it a plea for more time? You’ll understand, I’d rather remember it as a kiss goodbye.

Good God, I’ve suddenly remembered. My mother had cancer some 40 years ago, and spent her last two weeks in a near-coma, drugged to the eyeballs.

Just near the end I squeezed her hand and said “I love you”, which I hadn’t said before. Her eyes suddenly flickered open and she said, “I know.” Those were her last words.

Now even Kees has left his doggie version of that blessing.

Because, yes, he’s gone. We knew it was time, with your help.

Still, gee, it’s hard. Whisps of Kees’s handsome fur are on the floor. I see smudge from his nose on the glass of the balcony door. A packet of dog treats on the table still has four pieces left.

I carried his body for the last time to the car, but this time to the car of the lady who’d return us his ashes.

He’s on his final trip, and I’m crying again. But to you who wrote to me to tell me I was doing the right thing, thank you.

Without you, I’d hurt even more.