In Memory of Dinah
I don’t know whether there’s a mental condition called “Never-ending Grief Syndrome” (NEGS) after the death of a beloved pet – but for the record, the symptoms are deep emotional pain, intense longing and a lingering regret that goes on for months. I read somewhere that 20 per cent of people have admitted that the death of their dog (or cat) was the worst loss they’d ever experienced. I can well understand this.
I can’t forget the look in Dinah’s amber eyes when the vet gave her the injection. Her head was in my lap, and I knew she trusted me completely to keep her safe and look after her. And I bloody well killed her. Okay, I had no choice as her spine had been broken by a car. But it was my fault because I’d left the gate open. I’m sure she knew what was about to happen – and I wept as the injection took hold and an eternal stillness settled gently across her trusting face.
It may be tasteless to admit this, but the circumstances of her death are tattooed on my mind far more vividly than the deaths of many of my friends, even close relatives.
I hope I am a proportionate person when it comes to animals. I have experienced the deaths of many dogs and cats, as well as several horses, but the death of Dinah was more traumatic than any of them. She was beautiful and courageous, with an irrepressible zest for life. By the sea, she’d launch herself into a ceaseless campaign, like King Canute, to persuade the waves to recede.
She loved both Jane and me unconditionally. Whenever we returned from some trip or other, she’d greet us with slobbering emotion, leaping up and down as if she were on a pogo stick. Everyone in the house knew when we were about to return because, long before our car could be heard, Dinah would start to howl and hurl herself joyfully at the garden gate.
After her death, we vowed never to have another Staffie because we simply couldn’t bear to go through that degree of trauma and heartbreak again. I suppose we gradually recovered though, and the raw pain of our loss abated. As ZANE supporters will know, today we share our lives with our precious cockapoo, Moses, who scampers round Britain with us.
I am a stoic person, but even now, writing about Dinah’s death makes me well up in a way that hardly ever happens. When I think of relatives who have died, I don’t mourn them in the same way. Their deaths, after long and fruitful lives, seemed more like a release.
Dinah’s death leaves a definite emotional trace.
True Friendship
A couple of years ago, I included an item called “The Five Regrets of the Dying”. One regret was that when we become lazy or allow life to get in the way, it’s all too easy to lose touch with the tiny number of friends we truly love. As death approaches, many people feel an overwhelming need to restore those relationships before it’s too late.
The importance of real friendship was underscored after some of my former colleagues lost their seats in Parliament during the 2024 election. Many remain unemployed to this day and fear they may never find worthwhile work again. One even contacted me in the vain hope I could offer him a job.
Once the reality of his defeat had sunk in, my friend found it difficult to reinvent himself in a new career. Having drawn up a list of 30 or 40 people, he set about contacting them to see if they could help. Among them were people who had regularly invited him and his wife to dinner and parties – people he regarded as close friends. He was shocked to receive only a handful of replies, the majority making their excuses. The horrible truth was that out of Parliament, he’d become an embarrassment. He learned in the hardest possible way the difference between political affiliation and true friendship, between the “mere crowd” and the few people who valued him for himself.
There are those who never experience the kind of crisis that reveals the difference between real friends and the crowd. Imagine how hard it must be for celebrities and members of the Royal Family to know who their friends are. Especially for Lady Susan Hussey, a royal lady in waiting who was cruelly set up by charity founder Ngozi Fulani. Fulani was dressed in her national costume and, having been asked in all innocence “Where are you from?”, complained of “racial innuendo”. After 22 years’ loyal and unpaid service Hussey was fired, just like that! I suspect she found out the hard way who her friends are (and weren’t).
When we are young, we are unreasonably vulnerable to the influences of the crowd. What we wear, our taste in music and cars, our role models, and our choice of food, drink and restaurants are all shaped by what “they” will think and how our choices will be judged by “them”. It can be a painful lesson to discover that the crowd can be cruel and hopelessly wrong.
By the time we reach a certain age, we should have accumulated enough experience to distinguish the people who matter little in our lives from those who are true friends. We should be able to discern the difference between the mere crowd – from whom there’s nothing to be expected beyond fleeting emotions that leave no trace – and the very few who appreciate us for who we are, and for whom we feel the same affection and loyalty.
Once we pass a certain age, there’s no excuse for any confusion between the two.