A tribute from Alfie's "Dad"
Most of this web site was written by me. Alex has struggled to get involved, the emotions being raw and him being a "man" and all that. Here though is his trbute to the dog with whom he enjoyed such a powerful bond.
AFTERMATH
Alfie died at 6:10pm on Tuesday the 17th of October 2006. I wrote that line exactly one year ago and have been unable to write any more until today the anniversary of his death: being forced into having him euthanised ranks amongst the worst moments of my life. All the love, care, time and effort we had spent on him in his four short years had ended with an injection. We had rehearsed the moment for more than a year knowing that his battle with epilepsy was lost. However, no mental rehearsal had prepared me for the emotional evisceration of that moment and overwhelming feeling of loss that spread though my body. He was my boy, my shadow and he was gone. The lack of his presence was appalling. A year on and I am still appalled by it.
Epilepsy is like being trapped in a horror film: you keep thinking that you have reached a place of safety only for it to break through again and again like a malevolent spirit. But on this day of all days it is not the fits that I remember, not the plaintive barks that woke me regularly from sleep; not the blind stumbling around the village in the middle of the night while he slowly became himself again. It is the wiry whirlwind that was Alf; his helicoptering tail as he headed for the river; his excitement and triumph when finding a ball on a walk, his frantic paws on the stairs when you had returned from work; above all the sheer joy of his fabulous companionship. Tonight we will send a rocket skywards and toast his life with some fizz – Alf loved to steal the cork when we opened a bottle – and remember our best and always boy.
AFTERMATH
Alfie died at 6:10pm on Tuesday the 17th of October 2006. I wrote that line exactly one year ago and have been unable to write any more until today the anniversary of his death: being forced into having him euthanised ranks amongst the worst moments of my life. All the love, care, time and effort we had spent on him in his four short years had ended with an injection. We had rehearsed the moment for more than a year knowing that his battle with epilepsy was lost. However, no mental rehearsal had prepared me for the emotional evisceration of that moment and overwhelming feeling of loss that spread though my body. He was my boy, my shadow and he was gone. The lack of his presence was appalling. A year on and I am still appalled by it.
Epilepsy is like being trapped in a horror film: you keep thinking that you have reached a place of safety only for it to break through again and again like a malevolent spirit. But on this day of all days it is not the fits that I remember, not the plaintive barks that woke me regularly from sleep; not the blind stumbling around the village in the middle of the night while he slowly became himself again. It is the wiry whirlwind that was Alf; his helicoptering tail as he headed for the river; his excitement and triumph when finding a ball on a walk, his frantic paws on the stairs when you had returned from work; above all the sheer joy of his fabulous companionship. Tonight we will send a rocket skywards and toast his life with some fizz – Alf loved to steal the cork when we opened a bottle – and remember our best and always boy.