My Old Friend Bear

I am standing in the middle of our street as the car drives away. A sad pair of round, brown eyes stares back at me through the rear window. I desperately want to lift my arm and wave goodbye, but I know if I do I will start to cry and never stop. I am 8 years old. Ben, my wild-spirited Springer Spaniel, is a little over a year old. We have been best friends since he was born, but his youthful exuberance, continual house-breaks, and penchant for chewing furniture, have proven all too much for my father who has found another family to love and take care of my dog. It is my first real memory of loss ….

The sad pair of round, brown eyes staring up at me now from the passenger’s footwell of my car had taken me back to this memory of 36 years before. Harry, an elderly black mongrel, was nestled down between Bernadette’s feet. It was the only space left for him to hide as we smuggled him onto the ferry leaving Ireland. The rest of the car had been packed tight with things salvaged from Bernadette’s 15 years in the country. Her 3 year old son was crammed in the back there somewhere, too.

She had left Harry the dog with a friend a few months earlier. It was one of the hardest things she had ever had to do, but the circumstances of her departure had left her no choice, and the friend had offered to take Harry into his pack of 8 other dogs in his little house in the woods for the rest of his days. And so we visited them just before we were about to return to England to say hello. It was emotional. Harry was not in a good way. Seeing Bernadette again had triggered something off in him, he had missed her terribly, and Bernadette was beside herself with guilt at having left him here in the first place. The so-called friend insisted Harry be put down as he had taken a turn for the worse, announcing at the last minute that he would no longer care for the dog. He was a strange recluse of a man, with an air of bitterness about him, I thought.

We took Harry to a vet, Bernadette in tears. The dog had been her best friend for years. She asked the vet what he would do and explained that we had no pet passport to take him with us. The kind vet shrugged and said his bloods were ok and if Harry was his dog he would chance it. There was no question. We packed him into the car and headed across Ireland to make it just in time for the sea crossing with our illegal immigrant.

And so began Harry’s retirement as the Lord of Lavenham (there was a real lord, a human one, just two doors up, but this didn’t impress Harry). The old beast had acquired an air of entitlement since he had arrived in the tranquil Suffolk town, along with a new lease of life, and a spring in his hobble. He was popular. I would walk him through the market square to shouts of “Hey, Harry!” from the people we passed, with only a cursory acknowledgement that I was there too. Everywhere he went he was lavished with treats. He knew where to find the goodies on his walks, dragging me into the pub whenever he had the chance, where a conspiring landlord would be luring his canine friend in with a jar of dog biscuits. Harry had his own social circle. Every establishment was dog-friendly, after all, and every other door in town seemed to have a water bowl placed outside of it. Even people who were not dog-owners would carry doggy treats in their pockets just in case they should meet a canine passer-by. Indeed, Lavenham was the perfect place for Harry to live out his last days.

I loved this dog. He was not just a pet but a dear companion. But I loved him more for what he meant to Bernadette. Over the years, he had watched over her, through happy times, through dark times. It broke her heart that she had had to leave him in Ireland. Now, she had been reunited with her best friend. And I daresay the last 6 months of Harry’s life were some of his happiest.

He is greatly missed.

So long Harry Bear. I wrote this song for you. I even got Bernadette to sing it for you;

https://nigelashcroft.bandcamp.com/track/my-old-friend-bear