Pets Corner

Morgan II

An Airedale Story.

During one of those rare warm summer’s day that infrequently happen in Yorkshire we had a Barbeque; this was an annual event as indeed warm days are in Yorkshire.
My Airedale, Morgan had started his decline and over the course of a few months had visited Mrs. Oaks his little rotund vet to have various benign lumps attended too. He loved going to the vets and was always warmly welcomed and allowed the freedom of the surgery. He would venture closely to the other animals in their transport cages and wag his tail continually until he almost fell over. He possessed the deepest bark not too dissimilar to the foghorn of the Isle of Wight ferry. On one occasion he had a small benign lump removed from his belly, just below the sternum. When we got him home he couldn’t lie down because of the discomfort caused by the stitches. He tried leaning himself against the wall, a chair, the sofa, the stairs all without any success. My daughter Sarah and I placed some cushions by his side and gently tried to coax him into the lie position. By holding his front and rear paws in a pincer movement we were able to topple him over slowly like Helen of Troy’s horse, he sank into the cushions with a deep sigh of relief and remained there for the rest of the day; graciously accepting the titbits put before him.

Morgan had always been prone to sneezing bouts and at times had tried to out sneeze me but with my standing record of 36 he never came closer that half way. On the day of the barbeque I was preparing the table and chairs in the garden. Morgan was standing guard over the access to the kitchen, he had put two and two together and realised that an alfresco dining was imminent. He would be able to recycle the left overs with gusto. There would be ribs to strip of the fatty remains found inedible by our guests and endless amounts of chicken skin and morsels of steak from those who were dentally challenged; but his favourite were sausages. He knew that his only chance to sample one of Mr Braime’s sausages was if they were dropped or he sat next to Nan. He would lie by the entrance to the kitchen with two claws over the demarcation line between hallway and kitchen area. From his vantage point he could hear the click of the fridge door and the opening snap of the Tupperware container, which held the tasty morsels. His mouth became moist and his demeanour a little agitated especially when someone blocked his view of the sausages being de-linked with a knife in preparation for their grilling. This focus effected a change in his deportment he adopted the poise and elegance of a Crofts Champion. Even at 12 years old a beautiful looking dog with not an ounce of fat to be seen.
Anyway, either by design or accident I heard him sneeze. Sarah called me from the hallway whilst ushering Morgan out of the house into the garden he had sneezed so violently that a nose bleed had ensued, it flowed profusely it was a deep rich colour which was quite concerning. I laid him down in the shade of the house and beckoned Sarah to fetch some paper kitchen towel so that I could attend to him. It looked quiet serious and on a Sunday there was no way that I could get Mrs Oaks to attended to him without taking out a bank loan. He lay on the cool paving slabs with no sign of the blood abating. I thought the time I had dreaded coming was near and gently bathed his nose so that he could breathe freely the blood plotted his silhouette on the slabs as his life ebbed away. I lay down with him head to head so that he could see me, stroking him softly. I noticed a strange membrane from his nostril and tried to clear it away from the nasal passage; it appeared to be attached a little further up and out of reach I thought that if I could remove it would maybe help. Not wanting the barbeque to be disrupted by this sad event Sarah had taken on my role as burner of edibles and kept everyone out of sight of the carnage, which was taking its course by the side the house. I quietly rose and momentarily left the little chap lying on the concrete slab and went into the kitchen to that special drawer which held everything for every occasion. When I reappeared he hardly moved. I stooped down and cradled his head raising it from the red pool and cautiously poked a pair of small (appropriately called) narrow nosed pliers up his nasal cavity and gripped the membrane. With a twisting motion I slowly withdrew the surgical implement, there was a slight resistance which gave way and enabled me to extract what looked like the inside of a rubber marigold glove from his nose; The flow increased, at this stage Morgan was too far gone to offer any resistance and he knew is life was in my hands as it had been many times before in fits of temper (mine not his) the blood continued to flow. I needed something to stop it and in a houseful of girls could only think about the contents of the upstairs bathroom cabinet which would help. I packed his nose with the last sheets of kitchen towel before leaving him to dash upstairs. As I looked back he looked like a Molotov cocktail. When I got back to him I packed his nose with two Tampax’s but even this failed to plug the leak, they were inadequate. I needed a larger size. I returned to the bathroom but this time it was engaged and I had to leave him when he needed me most, by the time I returned my little lad had gone.
Now when I say he was gone I don’t mean from this mortal coil I mean he was gone. The blood caked outline remained but he was nowhere to be seen; had he been whisked away to that place that all dogs eventually went go to i.e. a butcher’s shop?
There was a loud ‘Woof’ from the garden and peering round the corner of the house I could see my Morgan running round like a puppy, his back legs almost flat against the ground running in circles round the barbeque which were now filled with sizzling sausages, needless to say he got most of those that day even though the dangling little pieces of string got in the way.

Did he plan it? Did the pepper pot in his basket fall in accidentally when it was being transferring to the garden? We’ll never know.

Never underestimate an Airedale.