Peter-Pan, Fefe, Feboy, Fatboy, Puppyface, Silly Bean

I've told this story many times, and now when I say it, its with a chasm in my heart. 

When Peter first came into our lives, he was terrified. Abandoned with two other brothers in a dog boarding facility, he was emaciated and abused. He was starving, and not just for food. He didn't know what puppy chow was. He was a pitiful sight, unable to even take his first steps into his new home properly; he crawled on his belly, pissing himself the whole way in. His ears folded tightly against his skull, little stubby tail unseen as he cowered and shook. 

'It's ok, you're a good boy.' 

I said quietly to him. Our eyes met for the first time, and that night, as he tried to accustom himself to his new home, he howled and cried all night, begging for attention and comfort. It took him a few days to learn that he was safe there, that he could sleep there and be ok. 

It would take us almost six months, before he allowed us to walk him on a leash without startling, or learned to toilet, or even to let us so much as carry him. The vet prescribed him with supplements to help with weight gain and to regain a healthy coat. He had a nasty ear infection that required daily washing and cleaning. He got his shots, his deworming tablets, and got a fever for the first time. Sudden noises terrified him. He ran away on walks multiple times because he got spooked. He ate kibble for the first time instead of cooked rice and leftover mince. 

'It's ok, you're a good boy.' 

I told him, as he cowered next to his food bowl, unable to eat due to his anxieties. If we so much as moved a toe, off he would bolt from the bowl, burying himself into the back of the crate we got him. 

We named him Fefe, after our first Schnauzer. 

He didn't recognise the name, but he recognised us. 

We got him toys. He didn't know how to play, and ran away from bouncing balls or squeaky plush teddies. 

It took a soft, large football from IKEA to get him to play. It was a stupid thing; larger than his face and yet he ran after it for the first time, tentatively, after realising it wouldn't hurt him -  chased it even as it rolled away from him. For the first time, we saw him run with his stubby tail up in the air. Cheekily, he would bound away from us when we tried to take it from him for more chasing. It was the first time he had presented such joy for anything other than food. 

'It's ok, you're a good boy.' 

I smiled, saying to him as he sat at my feet, pink tongue lolling out of his mouth in happiness as he waited for me to throw his new, favourite ball. 

We heard him howl for the first time. It was a small sound that got louder and longer. We were all sat in front of the television watching a comedy show which made us all laugh. Our laughter triggered his howling, and we watched, awed, as he threw his head back, howling. We laughed more, and he followed up with more howling. He got up from his spot next to us, and seemed to be excited. He barked, inciting more laughter from us - it seemed to spur him on; almost as if he wanted to be a part of our laughter and howling was his way of doing so.

'It's ok, you're a good boy.' 

I said, laughing as I scratched his head and finally learnt he had a voice. 

We learned that he loved food - as most dogs do - begging at the kitchen whenever my mother was there for a bite of whatever she was cooking or preparing. Sundays he had special meals, some mince pork, potatoes, his favourite canned food. We learnt that he had a dislike for puppies, their nippy mouths always at his magnificent beard; yet he possessed a patience for them, huffing and walking away when their rambunctious nipping was too much to bear and yet refusing to discipline them physically as dogs do. 

He also developed a streak of protecting the home, barking ferociously with his hackles raised at anyone who dared to come near our gates. He was spoilt with vacations away from home, luxuriating in cool, lush bedrooms with me as he snoozed away the afternoon and attempted to chase birds in the evenings during walks. We sometimes found him hunting lizards, insects in the home, only to look ever-so-slightly chagrined when he realised we were watching him the whole time. Shower times were silly events, since he developed a penchant for chasing his bath towels and playing tug of war with us before we relented, surrendering it to him for his chewing satisfaction. 

His coat grew beautifully into a sheen of black and silver, peppered with gold on his eyelashes. It flounced as he trotted along; sometimes it seemed like he was almost prideful, head high and nose in the air as he walked along. 

I left for Perth in 2008, and spent the night before my flight sitting with him on the floor. He snuffled into my hands, yawned as it was past his bedtime. I whispered to him my fears, and asked him if he would miss me. He huffed, eyebrows now grown beautifully and trimmed sharp as his brown-blue eyes bore into mine. 'What a silly question, mama,' he seemed to say with his huff. 

I smiled, and kissed his head - he pawed me in the face, almost knocking my glasses off my face. We sat together for a long time, his eyes occasionally flitting to the large, imposing red luggage in the corner of the house with some type of understanding and trepidation. 

The next day, before I left for the airport, I gave him a final cuddle. I kissed him on the head and he huffed again. He sat, watching, quiet as he ever was when I left the house. 

'It's ok, you're a good boy.' 

I said to him with a final scratch behind his ears, before I shut the door and swallowed my tears back when I heard him snuffling on the other side. 

From 2008 to 2013, I was home once, maybe twice a year - give and take. Every time my plane landed, my first thought was of my good boy and that pink tongue, those blue brown eyes looking at and for me. 

He didn't disappoint; our boy would be barking at the door, howling for me even before I reached the floor, making an absolute ruckus. He would be leaping at the door, standing on the bench next to it, as if he would open the door himself if he could. 

'It's ok, you're a good boy.' 

I would say, as my father half-heartedly reprimanded him for the noise. He didn't pay heed, overcome with joy as I reunited with him. He ran around my feet, squealing and begging for cuddles to make up for the lost time we were apart; immediately taking his ball for me and yet refusing to give it to me to continue the game with him. Clink, clink, clink, his collar would go, noisily as he bounced around the home and me. 

Throughout Peter's life, he suffered two tick infestations, one of which gave him tick fever. 

His groomers had to soak him in solution, his skin would be dry and itchy. My boy had to have his beautiful coat shaved completely -- it had grown gloriously through the years -- presented him as a handsome, fine dog so unlike the first time he came to our home. His bedding had to be thrown away and his area fumigated with tick killer. He was confused and sick for the first time, weak and tired from blood loss and handling. 

'It's ok, you're a good boy.' 

I told him through the screen of my laptop, wiping away my own tears, angry at the distance as he howled pitifully in recognition of my voice. 

He was only neutered at eight years old, along with a thorough ear cleaning and teeth scaling. I had argued with my parents, put my foot down for this decision. We spoke to his vet, who eventually convinced them it was the best decision to extend his life and keep him as healthy as possible. As eight, he was not at risk if he went under - and so became the first time he had ever been put under general anaesthesia. He recovered from it groggy and whining for me the moment he saw me in the clinic, hungry and thirsty, sore from the surgery. He was never particularly good with pain. 

'It's ok, you're a good boy.' 

I comforted him through the bars of the kennel he was recuperating in. 

In 2016, my boy suddenly could not walk. His lower body sloped to the floor, and his back legs trembled even if he stood; wobbled when he tried to make steps outside the vet's office where we rushed him to immediately that evening. 

It was a double whammy. A bone spur in his spine; Spondylosis, a word we later became familiar with, as well as a devastating zero count in red blood platelets due to a crash in his immunity system. We were all terrified at what this could all mean, for a 13-year-old dog who was all energy and life. For the first time, he had to be hospitalised -- for six nights -- put on steroids, antibiotics, liver supplements, blood taken daily for testing and monitoring. 

'It's ok, you're a good boy.'

I mumbled, as we were reunited after his six nights of hell. He whined and buried his muzzle deeper into my chest -- as if it would make the vet disappear if he didn't see her -- he needed one last shot, one last tube of blood to be taken before we arranged for his medication - a whooping bag of it, as well as weekly acupuncture sessions to help with his pain management. For the next seven months, his body would relapse just once. Every month we brought him to the vet for blood tests to track his blood platelets count and to monitor his immune system, as well as a jab into his spine to boost his nerve support.

We started to pile him with soft bedding - all manner of soft things to help him rest. I took more sneaky room naps with him, chewing my nails off as I watched his body every so slow lose its ability to retain the fat he needed to protect his joints and bones. 


Another bone spur would appear, less than a year later. 

Every time, he would come out of the clinic huffing; almost like he was upset at the vet technician for taking his blood. 

'It's ok, you're a good boy.'

I would say as I soothed him through his tantrum. 

He made a full recovery from his immunity system's crash, and his blood platelets count was completely stabilised in 2017. Everyone was elated; we had a celebration at home, and he happily chowed down on a cheeseburger, unaware of why we were celebrating but nonetheless enjoying our happiness and the attention we showered on him. 

In 2018, a claw was bleeding. 

On his back paw, a single claw started to split and bleed. 

'It's ok, you're a good boy.' 

I said, as I inspected it. It seemed to be split right down the middle - an ugly line cracked on his gleaming black claw, separating the digit into two painfully. He licked my hand, and limped occasionally; lifting his foot when he stood for too long. 

We would later amputate the whole toe. Squamous Cell Carcinoma, the vet had said. Remove the toe before the cancer spreads, he will have a fighting chance. 

So we did. 

'It's ok, you're a good boy.' 

I whispered to him the night he came from surgery. He whined, groggy and confused from his surgery and the effects of anaesthesia. His missing toe was barely noticeable by him -  he was up and walking the next day, back to his usual self in a week. I sat with him all night, putting him to bed only when he was satisfied that he would be safe and nothing else would happen to him whilst slumbering. 

The cancer however, as well as the surgery, had already taken a toll on his body. He started to lose weight. His body became frail, his bones more easily noticed through his gleaming coat, which began to speckle grey and white and no longer shone. His hips lost any semblance of fat or even muscle, their shape terrifying and imposing under the surface of his skin. He didn't seem to notice, just kept on as he was - ate well, slept well even when he struggled to stand and run to us when we came home everyday. 

Sometimes he didn't manage to, since he couldn't hear. 

The following year, he contracted Uveitis. I wasn't with him; infuriatingly overseas on a family trip and so he had to be looked after by friends and staff at the pet hotel. I knew he wanted me with him. Through the photo updates, I saw that he had lost more weight. He slept all day, didn't eat, and didn't walk, my friends and the hotel staff to me worriedly as they brought him for review after review. 

We all feared he would slip away during this time. 

When I finally got home, he was sickly. He was recovering ever so slowly, too slowly, with the prescribed medication and eye drops but all he ever needed was me. 

'It's ok, you're a good boy.' 

I whispered as I held him to my chest when we reunited, rushing him to the vet the same day.  

He whined for my contact, his eyes muddled with medication. 

My brave boy started walking, and eating the next day. I smiled, and his eyes began to clear up - the brown blue peepers peering back at me as I gave him treats and cheese. He lapped it all up; the food and the attention. Everyone breathed a huge, exasperated sigh of relief - almost like we were upset he was tagging us along. We let our exasperation negate that little voice at the back of our minds; he wasn't alright, he's slowing down. 

With his age as well as the aftermath of his many and varied illnesses, he became slower. He slept more. He started to lose his eyesight, could only hear high pitches or familiar, louder voices calling for him. He lost control of his bowels, and started having digestive issues, so his fur was trimmed and cropped short to help keep him comfortable, as well as keep him clean after his accidents. We had to clean him up often, and he often stood to the side, watching us quietly as we cleaned up after him.

'It's ok, you're a good boy.' 

I would say to him after. Sometimes i said it to him in the shower, scrubbing poop off his legs and his paws as he squirmed. 

Soon after, the end came for my good boy. 

Seizures. 

That's what came for him. 

Violent, terrible seizures that removed bits of him with every convulsion. 

He never returned after those seizures. His eyesight was completely gone. He couldn't walk without bumping into walls or furniture. He couldn't even drink water, only recognising the gleam of the steel bowl but not knowing where the water actually was. 

My father, heartbroken with grief, broke the only rule of the house since the day he came into our lives 16 years ago - he was allowed to sleep in my bedroom with me.

'It's ok, you're a good boy.' 

I said as I held him through those three nights, easing him back to me post-seizure, confused and wailing from the blackouts. He slept restlessly, jerked away by his awful seizures, only able to sleep surrounded by my scent in the bedroom he had always snuck into during thunderstorms or when dad wasn't home. I was helpless, tired and heartbroken at how it had to end for him. Nothing about it was fair or right - my boy had been nothing but joy and light to our lives; this wasn't the ending we saw him having. We all thought he would suddenly recover, would live to die another day, peacefully even, without the threat of a brain hiccup seizing him into blackouts. 

The next day, he left quietly, without a single flinch or jerk as the fatal injection administered by his favourite vet. I cradled his head in my hand, kissing him before that happened. I cried into his fur, rubbed his belly, kissed his eyes. His body was still warm, soft black paws curled almost like he was just asleep. 

'It's ok, you're a good boy.'

I said, as his heart stopped beating; the vet gently informing us as she removed the syringe emptied of its lethal green liquid. The vet and her technician shed tears quietly in our kitchen, trying in vain to remain professional - they had seen and handled our boy through the years. The vet wiped away her own tears, smiled at us to reassure us that there was no pain - i gave him a sedative, it makes him relaxed but he can still hear us and smell us - she said. It meant nothing to me and my grief. 

Through my tears, I remembered to remove his collar, holding it in my hands as I sat with his cooling body until the crematorium staff arrived to collect him an hour later. My mother, absolutely grieving, pulled out a beautiful pink cloth from her own collection to drape over his body -- it was always his favourite colour -- with cream, pink bunnies and cherry blossom flowers printed all over it. We placed plenty of beautiful pink carnations around him in the casket; a gift from close friends who'd visited him to say their own goodbyes. We put his favourite ball next to him; wanting him to have it in the afterlife. 

'It's ok, you're a good boy.' 

I would say again, as I pressed another kiss to his now cold head; the crematorium staff kindly allowing me and my father say one final, quiet goodbye to our precious boy, before closing the casket and driving away with his body. 

His urn returned to me the next day. A little white ceramic pot, with blue peony flowers around it. A little bag of white ash and bone fragments inside; a tag around it stating his name and the date which he left the world, left us, behind. That was all that i had of him, including a few of his things that I kept for myself and my family to remember him - his pink fleece, a snip of his fur, the spoon we used for his food everyday. 

We would set up a little spot on his balcony for him. Some flowers, saved from his casket. His favourite treats, a candle we would burn at night in the hopes that his spirit would find its way home to us somehow. A ritual to comfort the living when the dead are gone. My parents grieved without my comfort - I locked myself away for days, refusing to see the world or acknowledge it in my pain. I still ache, it still burns, and I still cry. 

I sit in his balcony every night, hand on his urn and now fight back at the tears, at the unfairness and at the pain of it all. 

'It's ok, you're a good boy -'

I whispered through my pain, 

'- you will always be my good boy.' 

2003 - 2019 

Peter Pan