The day I met Mr. Wags wasn’t the smoothest introduction. My daughter and I had gone to meet the dog we were considering adopting, but the 12-year-old papillon cross was not keen on making friends. Within moments of meeting him, he bit the foster family’s cat, then lunged at their dog. Yet, despite his gruff demeanor, I was hooked.
Mr. Wags had a complex personality. He was affectionate yet fiercely independent, always reluctant to receive too much love, and would become agitated if anyone ventured too close to his tail. His first vet visit was eventful, requiring a muzzle and a $3,000 dental procedure to extract most of his teeth—leaving him with just three, one of which was a canine that often left its mark on my hand. At times, I wished we could have paid extra to have that last tooth removed, but I couldn’t bear the thought of it. We had both been through tough times, and our bond was deep.
Before joining our family, Mr. Wags had been a family pet that children outgrew, eventually being surrendered to the Forever Friends shelter in Latrobe, Victoria. He quickly became known for his quick temper at the vet and among friends. But over time, those outbursts became less frequent. He was often by my side—sitting on the sofa, pressing his body against my leg when I read, or keeping me company while I worked at my desk. He followed me everywhere, a true “velcro dog.” But bedtime was an entirely different ritual. It involved a series of specific steps—turning off the lights in the right order, picking him up at just the right point in the living room, and placing him gently on his pillow next to mine. I would fall asleep to the sound of his gentle snoring, occasionally reaching out to touch him. Even now, I still do.
Despite his age and his chronic skin allergy, Mr. Wags remained surprisingly spry. For years, we managed his atopia—an itchy, uncomfortable condition that had gone untreated for much of his life—along with regular vet visits for ear infections. I was his primary caregiver, but it became clear I couldn’t always be there for him during treatment. He refused to let me clean his ears, so we’d make weekly visits to the vet, where his favorite nurse would save him tiny pieces of liver treats, which he adored.
Then, five years into our life together, Mr. Wags began to lose interest in his food. Within three months, he had dropped half a kilogram, and blood tests revealed his kidneys were functioning at just 20% capacity. He also had a heart murmur and liver problems. It all happened so quickly. We tried everything—hospital stays, hydration therapy—but the progression of his illness was slow and costly. There were days I wondered if I was keeping him alive just to see him turn 18.
After much consideration, I made the difficult decision to stop the hydration therapy. Mr. Wags had too many health issues, and I couldn’t bear to watch him suffer. I spent hours talking myself through the decision, trying to justify it to my daughter, even though I was close to changing my mind.
That final Saturday arrived. We folded his favorite blanket, had spaghetti sauce for breakfast—one of his odd little treats—and took him to the park. He sat on my lap in the car and walked on the grass for the last time. Our kind vet administered what Australians call “the green dream” as we held him close. His bolshiness required a sedative first, but the process was as peaceful as it could be. We stayed with him for an hour afterward, and his beloved nurse took him from us.
Mr. Wags is now in doggie heaven, and I like to think that in that peaceful place, he’s enjoying a full set of teeth, free from pain and discomfort. He was more than just a pet; he was family. And I will never forget him.
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