Our Beautiful Boy: Appu

You came into our lives on a lovely South African spring evening as a two month old gigantic terrified puppy. It was love at first sight for us. We loved your large furry disproportionately growing body – the huge paws with the promise of the biggest German-Shepherd body that was to fill them up; the large eyes that radiated love at our first touch to the terrified little head with one pointy and one droopy ear; your still growing, already bushy tail sweeping the ground every time you walked with unsure puppy steps. Gauri was four months old, and took to you without any hesitation, her lifelong companion and playmate had arrived, and she knew it. You were twice her size, but she needed to cuddle you to make you feel at home, so she nearly sat on you. You instantly stopped whimpering and both of you took a long nap in our patio – baby Appu sitting on Sanjiv’s slippers and baby Gauri sitting on top of her little brother as we stood around talking excitedly about your addition to our little family.

Gauri comforting her new brother.

All fur and fun

When we went to work we used to leave the two of you in the large yard with the garage side door open, where you had your two beds, your water and food bowls. You had a kennel by the side of the garage at the end of the long drive way, which you only entered when Sanjiv went in to put carpeting inside.

You used to chase each other around the whole length and breadth of the back yard, the side passages, the front yard, and then all over again, and again. Gauri loved chasing after garden lizards, but you always just chased Gauri, and balls of every size that never lasted more than a few seconds in your mouth. Then you discovered the tree of balls – the large lemon bush that only had fruits beyond doggie height after your discovery. You learnt to pluck large ripe lemons, toss them around until they ripped open, and then often ate the whole fruit. No wonder you had no plaque even in your old age.

next to his fav lemon tree

Every evening, as the main gate would open, you two would run right in front of the car, all the way through the driveway up to the garage, as though we would not know where to park if you did not show us the way. Our car bore permanent marks of your excited scratching on the door if either of us took more than a nano second to get out to receive your greetings, licks, sniffs, hugs, body-shaking tail wags. You also loved car rides.

Once at home, Sanjiv would throw the ball from the back yard right over the roof of the house into the front yard for you to fetch, it was your favourite sport. Of course we had to make sure that nobody stood in your path as you were a fast moving 100 pound freight train after you turned six months old. For some reason Gauri never agreed with the sport of ball-fetching and often tried to mount you to keep you from running after the ball. You would good-naturedly let Gauri climb on your back to try and wrestle you down, but when Sanjiv poised his chuck-it for a throw, you would shoot out of Gauri’s totally inadequate grip like a giant ball of fur out of a canon.

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When we were home, you were our shadows. We lived in a very big house in Johannesburg, but often found ourselves in cramped conditions as you two wedged yourselves into the bathroom as we got ready every morning; or under the dining table as we ate; or sat cheek to cheek in the exact middle of the kitchen floor where we could not get to the range/fridge/pots/microwave/etc. without climbing over two large furry bodies. Our bedroom had a sofa-cum-bed which was your bed; since we drew the line at sharing our bed with you, although it was a king size bed and both of you had tried to show us how easily the four of us could fit in one bed. You never left our side and we loved you with all our hearts.

You had to jump over Gauri’s head to get in or out of the bathroom; and over some body part of Appu to get in the tub, into the shower stall or the sink.

Who needs space when there is so much love!

When we left for our numerous travels, you were looked after by people you knew and whose love we trusted. We know you had challenges too. Your size intimidated people. When we had a break in, Sanjiv came home to find both of you locked in the garage. From your demeanour it was clear that you had been hit by the desperate criminals who tried to rob the house. But you did not let that horrible experience taint the open love you showed to all humans, even total strangers, once they were inside the house. From the other side of the fence you looked like a vicious dog with a booming bark and long fangs. But once inside the fence/door, all you had for anyone was a friendly greeting and reciprocal love. But you could never NOT bark at other dogs.

Appu, the (harmless) bombastic barker to any dog daring to come near him, other than Gauri or Fly. All sound, no fury.

After five happy years, during which you two destroyed 25 types of rose bushes; brought the long leaves of the Regina Strelitzia like a gift – one at a time; climbed every fence we created around the flower beds, and loved us unconditionally every single moment, you accepted the fact of my moving out of the house (and the country) and continued to look after Sanjiv with the same attention and love as ever. When I visited, it felt like I had never left; Sanjiv and you two were my family in South Africa that I could keep coming back to.

Our small family – Linden, Joburg 2002

In Jan 2010, after four years of painful intermittent separation, at the ripe old age of 10, the two of you made your intercontinental journey from South Africa to Canada, arriving at your new home a week before Sanjiv; from +27C to -27C; from a tropical paradise to a winter wonderland. I got out of the house to receive my world traveller babies who had flown from Johannesburg, to Frankfurt, to Calgary, and then driven to Edmonton. You looked confused, but Gauri was her confident old self, leading the pack, exploring the new surroundings. Of course when you two recognized me under my layers of clothing, you were beside yourself. I took you to the back yard which had nearly two feet of snow piled on the grass. You both stopped and looked at this mass of white everywhere. Then Gauri gingerly sniffed it – it’s just water, and I love water. She jumped right in. You followed.

Welcome to your new home! The first time A-G saw snow.

Working from home, I was grateful to have you two by my side. I loved working in my office with Gauri snoring intermittently on my right side and you sitting across the desk on the left at an angle so that you could see my face. Every time I looked up, two large limpid brown eyes were fixed on me – unwavering, unquestioning, just watching. If I left your sight for even a short moment, you would come looking for me. Sanjiv and I used to call this “Appu’s 30 second rule” – if I was home, you needed to be able to see me, and would not stay apart for any more than 30 secs. I felt honoured to have such a handsome furry shadow for company.

My furry angel

On Nov 14, 2012, we found out after getting a lump on your throat tested that you had lymphoma. The vet said that you have 4-6 weeks to live. We could not accept this diagnosis and in desperation agreed to a biopsy to recheck, hoping for a misdiagnosis. I took you to the vet on the morning of Nov 20th for the surgery, where you showed me again how much you disliked the hospital – whining as I turned the corner towards the hospital; trembling and cowering the whole time I was doing the paper work. I hated leaving you there even for a minute. You returned home in the evening, with a big scar on your neck, but in good enough spirits. Three days later, the diagnosis was reconfirmed as being second stage lymphoma.

Sanjiv and I had planned an elaborate trip to India with good friends, after being away for more than 3 years. We had planned for months to book 19 destinations in 34 days across the length of the country from the southernmost tip to the Himalayas. All the flights and hotels were booked by the first week of Nov. We had just started shopping for our adventure, when we heard about the upcoming end of your journey. We waited until the biopsy report was confirmed and then set about cancelling our complicated itinerary.

We considered chemo and other options to fight the cancer, but talking to many with experience convinced us that it may amount to extending your life at the cost of the quality of your life. Knowing your fear of the hospital sealed the deal and we opted to spend the last few weeks with love and caring rather than fear and pain. You were TWELVE years old (84 years in human terms), but nobody who saw you believed this. You were the eternal puppy.

We noticed subtle signs at first, your trade mark “squeak” that you used to talk to us – “get away from the desk and take me out”; “I am bored”; “you are not paying attention to the clock, it is dinner time/walk time”, “you are home! You are home! You are home!” – was no longer as frequent. It was always amazing to hear the variable squeaky sounds produced from such a large throat. I used to find it annoying when you squeaked in the middle of a long passage I was writing/reading. But we always loved your joyous squeaking at recognizing the way to the park. You would start doing a little jig in the tight space of the back seat of the SUV, merrily squeaking, and blowing air into our ears from behind, as we would make the turn towards one of the many trails in the river valley. The growth in your throat got in the way of producing this charming puppy squeak and we missed it terribly. Your 30 second rule had become a 10 second rule.

Remarkably, there was no evidence of pain, despite subtle signs of slowdown. We watched you closely and monitored the growing lumps, now not only on your throat, but also new smaller lumps along your spine and beautifully pink belly. You continued to eat well, if erratically; got ready for a walk with the same verve, even if you got tired more easily; you came to the door to greet and to see people off as usual, although you had to sit down after a few seconds as your humans exchanged pleasantries in the passage.

On the morning of Dec 27, I got up as usual in the morning and for the first time you did not follow me out of the bedroom. You got out several minutes later, slowly, dutifully. You refused food or water and your breath was laboured. We knew that this was the beginning of the end. You chose the big windows of the living room and settled near the fresh air vent. The three of us gathered around you, talking, stroking, hugging you. We spent the whole day like that and after a long sleepless and restless night, it was clear that your body was in the grip of the disease. Next morning, we called the vet who promised to come at 4 pm for the final drug administration.

We spent the most amazing day with you. After the phone call, you decided to drink some water and even had your favourite bread-butter treat from both of us. For a moment, we thought that you were coming back, but you made it clear that it was to please us and kept refusing any food or drink. You walked weakly to my study and lay in your spot for a few minutes, fulfilling a duty you did without fail for the past many years. Gauri chose to bark at a passing dog-human convo and you joined in, weakly and hoarsely – it was the last time we all heard your impressive bark, even when the throat was so constricted. You showed several sparks of alertness, which made us wonder if it was not time yet. But you were not even able to walk a few stumbling steps at a time.

Each spark of alert eyes was followed by a long, tired, laboured pause, confusing us and breaking our hearts into ever smaller pieces. We finally decided that the time was right for you, if not for us. The choice was between allowing the decline to set in further, allowing the pain to manifest more clearly; or to let you go now, before the pain got any worse. If we waited, each spark would have been accompanied by ever increasing distress and discomfort. If we waited, your demise would have brought a sense of relief to us for ending your suffering, along with the sense of sadness for losing you. By not waiting, we knew that we would carry a bigger onus of responsibility for our decision. But this is a burden we are prepared to bear for the sake of our beautiful boy, our only son.

The vet came at 4pm. We lit lamps and incense around you. Sanjiv and I sat on the floor next to you, stroking you, and chanting shanti, shanti, shanti. Gauri leaned against my back the whole time, maintaining connection with you. You put your nose against my leg and took one last feeble breath as the sedative put you into a deep sleep. The second injection stopped your heart and you stopped breathing. The vet said it could take 5-10 minutes. But it took much less time for your soft fur from rising and falling, for the light in your eyes to go out, for the warm gentle heart to stop beating.

Your mortal remains are gone but your gentle spirit will live on in the innumerable memories you have left in the hearts of your family, friends, and everyone you touched. Along with Gauri, we are heartbroken. Gauri has to learn to live without her soul mate. I have to learn to live without a pair of loving eyes following my every move. Sanjiv has to learn to be outdoors without his faithful son for constant company. Thank you for a life time of unconditional love and companionship. You will always live in our hearts.

We learnt much from you – loving with abandon, loyalty, trusting your loved ones, adapting under any circumstances, and Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam (the whole world is one family).

Go well, our beautiful boy! Hamba gahle! Shanti, Shanti

Good bye darling!

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