Just as I was losing hope of finding a new home for my beloved dog Hudson, I was presented with an offer that was almost too good to be true.
'Would he sleep on my bed?'
'Would he what', I smile.
'Does he like car journeys?'
'Almost as much as he likes sleeping on beds'.
That night, Hudson goes on a 'sleepover' as a trial run and that was that. My sweet, gentle giant is gone.
I tell the children that '…it's for the best …', but they are not one bit happy. There's floods of tears. I explain, again and again, that we have to think of what’s best for the dog. I remind them of the endless hours the poor mutt has spent in the last year waiting for us to come home, only to turn on our heels to go out again.
As I clear out his basket, wipe his paw prints and sweep his hair from the floor, I’m relieved that I’ve now one less responsibility, one that had become a burden.
At the same time, I’ve a heavy heart, knowing that the acts of cleaning and gathering are removing his memory from the house.
And then myself and Mr Private call it a day.
Mr P becomes Mr Past Tense, just like that.
Those words again
‘ …it’s for the best… ’
and worse again,
‘ …it wasn’t meant to be.. .’
For the second time in days, I don’t quite believe my own words.