The Cactus House may or may not have had dogs living here before. The odds are that it has.
The original inhabitant – Mr Cactus himself, might have had a mutt or two – although his botanical travels probably made him less likely to want to commit to a four-legged friend, as his gallivanting took him to far flung corners of the world, and often.
I believe that there was a dog living here before we moved in, although I never saw it.
But in 2023, the most unlikely of canines came to stay – a jaunty little pug cross, who went by the name of Angus.
Angus was ten years old when he arrived. Ten, but still lively, very active and, it seemed, with years yet to go on his little clock. He arrived in the summer, and enjoyed so many ball games on the grass that some of his rotten teeth fell out within the first two days. Before long, I’d booked him in to have a dental (his breath was something else) and he came home missing a few teeth but with his iconic little front incisor still poking out from his lower lip.
He was a dog we knew already, having had him to stay over the years in our previous abode, and even though he was friendly to almost everyone, I couldn’t help but feel that he knew us particularly well, and was happy to come to stay, as he settled in so quickly. Partly because, after all the exercise he got, he was knackered at the end of every day.
After a few weeks with us, Angus found himself on a three week camping holiday in Devon, where he got to smell the sea, play in the waves and discover that howling with his new best friend was the best fun ever. He kayaked, hiked, swam way out of his depth to the point where I had to leg it into the sea to rescue him, and he supplemented his (usually rather bland) meals with freshly caught mackerel.
It wasn’t all plain sailing (or kayaking) of course, and my dog ownership fears were always there, bubbling under the surface. On one occasion, he showed his terror and dislike of horses by running at a couple of mini ones and nearly getting his head kicked in. I had to sit quietly for an hour, processing this, and trying very hard not to throw the towel in. But Angus made me stoic, and after that hour I reasoned that I would just have to be vigilant, and see horses before he did from here on in, which I realised was possible as he was not even a foot tall.
On holiday, I discovered also that Angus was protective. He was the mildest mannered dog who never snapped even when having his nails clipped under great stress. But what would get him riled were perceived threats to his people and his space. He was rewarding us with his loyalty and his unfailing self belief that he could save us from any threat: horses, dragons, murderers – he would take them all on and win, or die trying. He was just doing his job. When a small lady emerged from behind a rock on a quiet shingle beach one afternoon, appearing, to my small canine sentinel, as a dark looming shadow with a daft and pointless hat on, Angus saw her and lunged forward, generating a guttural, throaty growl and a menacing bark. I was mortified and thoughts of “I can’t cope” started to pervade my thoughts.
“He’s very aggressive,” muttered the unimpressed woman.
“He’s not usually!” I protested, and it was true. He was the kindest boy. But he was protecting me. Doing his job.
I thunk about it for a while, then stroked my dog, who I was still getting to know, and we walked along the coast path, back to our caravan. And that was that. Drama over. I didn’t dwell on it. Which was progress!
I learnt more about Angus on that holiday – how he hated low flying objects, and spent a day trying to catch a kite that was going over the beach.
He couldn’t live with cats, apparently. So when we were given a couple, six months after he arrived, it was going to be interesting. But my old dog adapted to and accepted them like a pro. It was a lot to ask, but he did it.
Guinea pigs were another of his foibles. I’ve had guinea pigs since 2003. And Angus, being of Jack Russell stock, wanted to eat them. Even at ten years old, he would sneak out to stare at them, and then bark in the most hysterical, stupid, high-pitched tone, and he and I disagreed over this a couple of times, as I tried to make him realise that they were my pets, not his dinner.
As the months passed, he settled in more and more. He ate well, slept well and went on lots of adventures. He loved to “go see Nanny” and knew which gate led to her house. He made friends with the dog next door, guarded the home from delivery men and oversaw the building works. He was very important.
Angus was just so easy. He loved getting into bed in the mornings and burrowing his way down the duvet to lie next to me. He didn’t like going out for a wee in the rain. He loved to play his version of football which, in recent months, only really involved him barking at the ball until his opponent kicked it. And he never stopped barking at the telly.
Over time, he was noticeably slowing down – his back legs struggled to keep up with his front ones, he fell over from time to time, and human beds suddenly seemed a long way up. The walk to meet the kids from school became many steps too far, and we started to drive down to the village and pootle around the flat park instead. He would always try his best, though, and pushed on through, even when I forgot he was old and was over-ambitious with him.
He had a favourite lay-by to which he took himself one day when my husband, Big Seymour, was not watching. The neighbours posted pictures of him on Whatsapp, suspecting that this old, crooked and lumpy mongrel had been dumped on our lane. I saw the pictures on the group chat at work, and was swift to correct them that he was very much loved. His escape was just a mishap. But lumpy, he was.
In April, a strange mound appeared on Angus’ left shoulder. We joked that he’d swallowed his ball. Lumps and bumps are par for the course with old dogs. Little did I know that the lump was sinister, and that we’d lose him a couple of months later.
In May, we decided to whizz down to Devon for one night. Why? I don’t know, but we did it, and little Angus was such an angel on the journey, we forgot he was there. He spent a glorious thirty hours in our favourite place, roughing it, scavenging, howling with his friend Sid and roaming on the best beach in the world. It was to be his last time.
In June, the lump had grown and we could ignore it no longer. At the vet’s, it wasn’t the best news, but he was given painkillers and we thought we’d see how he went. Surely he would have a few more months? A second wind? A last hurrah?
But he didn’t. He was struggling. They say you will know when it’s the right time, and that did become clear. But however right the time and however peaceful the end (and it was) I can’t help feeling that the last twenty five months have gone in a blur. It’s no time at all, and yet the time he spent with us had a massive impact.
He came into my life when I was hanging by a thread, and gave me a focus. He cured my dogxiety and saved me from making some very questionable choices. He loved me unconditionally, even though I wouldn’t let him eat my guinea pigs. He forgave me the dental, and waited patiently when I went out to work. He protected us, and was always there. Like a fireplace, he was a focal point – even if, at the end of a day, all you can say is that the dog has been walked, you have achieved something. The day has had a purpose.
It’s odd, being responsible for making the decision about ending a life. You feel guilty, yet merciful. I knew I had to make that decision, but the the mechanics of it made me feel sick to my core. Thankfully, it was so calm, and Angus laid his little head down and rested, in his final voluntary movement. I tried not to cry. I failed.
What now? Relief he is out of pain. Regret that we didn’t have him longer – two years of him was not enough. He was so much a part of our family. The dog. Our dog. “Where’s the dog?” It was a privilege to say those things.
I’m sad. Not just because he is gone, but also because he was meant to go on until he was at least fifteen, surely. He led me out of a dark time. Who will be my wingman now?
I am, of course, aware that he was “just” a dog. People all over the world are dealing with horrible cancers and other illnesses. Tragedy, war, famine. This is not about that. It’s simply about me processing something, remembering a little life that made a big difference, and being grateful for having him at all.
He is now buried under a pine tree at The Cactus House, forever an intrinsic part of its history, a brief but wonderful chapter; the one where a small brown potato-shaped dog would accompany his owners every night along the drive to shut the gate, and take a detour, barking down the field to check the perimeter for dragons and other pug-perceived dangers.
Angus, you were a legend.
I will forever be a fan of ChatGPT because of this image. I love it.
Generated from a photo taken on 10th June this year.
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