Luca is still with us, but we sense that the end is approaching fairly fast. He is now 13 years and some, which I guess makes him almost 100 in our years. There is a good Afrikaans word: "uitgerafel'd". Actually I am not sure whether it is good Afrikaans, but it was used by an old friend of mine who grew up speaking Afrikaans and it has always expressed for me the essence of being personally disorganized, untidy, unruly, unkempt, everything in disarray … I have no idea what the literal translation is, and I don't need it - I just use the Afrikaans word and insert it into my English sentences. I am reading a biography of JC Smuts at the moment and was amused to note that the great statesman and philosopher's house at Doornkloof, Irene, was generally in a delightful state of untidiness. They say a tidy room is the sign of a sick mind. Anyway, Luca has become seriously uitgerafel'd. He no longer looks like the King of England - he looks more like the unshaven, homeless man in a wheelchair who begs outside the Post Office in Fish Hoek.
First it was the hips. Then it was something to do with his bum and his flatulence - princess firstborn's boyfriend calls him the "bagpipe". Then he developed a hard lump on his back. Then he sat too close to the gas heater and singed his hair, which took months to regrow and is still noticeable as a large light patch. Then it was his eyes, his ears, his breath. Life just sucks when you are old and doddery. But up till quite recently he still had a voracious appetite, and even if he couldn't hear you when you called him to go outside for a wee, he could hear you very well when you were in the kitchen making dinner and there was a chance of a titbit or two. Given his vision, he would aim his mouth in the general direction of the food, open his jaws and snap shut. Remarkably, he normally got it. Occasionally he got one of us, or a mouthful of fur from one of the other dogs …
But the last few days he has stopped eating and his tummy has been odd. We think he may have giardiasis and have been dosing him with metronidazole, but he is still retching and has the runs. He shuffles around the back yard, gets lost in corners, and looks generally confused. He has to be helped up the stairs now. It has been a long time since he came up to our bedroom, but even the 3 stairs at the back up to the kitchen are now too much for him.
I go to check on him, and find him facing the wall in the corner of the stoep, lost again. Gently I pick him up and lay him back on the carpet near the kitchen door. He is too weak now to object. I turn him to lie on his side - he didn't look comfortable but seemed unable to move himself. He lies down and seems a little more relaxed. I stroke his still soft furry ears and fuzzy brow, run my fingers along his cheeks, and murmur to him that its OK. It isn't OK - I doubt he will be around by the weekend. But it is OK that he is with his people, whom he loves, and who love him and want to ensure that he does not leave these shores unsupported, unloved, unnoticed, or unduly distressed.
Goodbye, old man, whenever you decide to go: you have been a wonderful companion and I shall never forget you.
