Today is the last day for my dog, and he sits quietly before me, softly whimpering. Hes on the sofamy spot, at least in theory. But about nine years back, I gave up the struggle with a sturdy, thirty-kilo English Bull Terrier over the rights to the furniture… and, from then on, it was his.
His name is Sergeant.
I called him that because I couldnt quite let go of the Armylong after the Army itself had let go of me.
Tomorrow morning at ten oclock, Dr. Harris will come to the house. I shall hold him in my arms as she helps him fall peacefully asleep. And then the only soul who truly saved my life will be gone.
Sergeant didnt just amble into my world.
He arrived during the blackest night of my life.
I came back from deployment in Helmand in 2014. Two tours. Thirty-one years old. To the outside, all seemed in order.
Inside, though, I was crumbling.
Early 2015 saw me closed off to the world. I barely slept. Ate even less. Ignored the phone. I sat on this very sofacurtains drawn, lights offtrying to drown out memories that clamoured for my attention.
My family tried.
My mates tried.
The NHS tried.
I pushed them all away.
Then, one evening, I heard a scratching at the back door.
It would stop, then begin again. Over and over.
For two hours, it persisted.
When at last I opened the door, there he wasa battered old Bull Terrier, ribs showing, his gaze tired, as though hed endured a battlefield or two of his own.
He didnt hesitate.
He marched right past me as if hed always lived here, hopped up onto the sofa, circled twice, and settled down.
Then he looked at me with eyes that seemed to say, About time, too.
I hadnt been looking for a dog.
I hadnt been looking for anything.
But Sergeant cared not one bit what I wanted.
He was hungryso off I went to the shop.
He needed walkingso I drew open the curtains and stepped into the daylight.
He needed a vetso I picked up the phone, made the appointment, and actually went.
He didnt save me in any showy, thunderous moment.
He saved me with small, stubborn daily needs.
The date Id marked for myself came and went.
I was too occupied seeking which brand of kibble might suit an elderly bull terriers delicate stomach.
That is the true face of healing.
Not fireworks.
Just responsibilities.
Just a dog who needs his supper.
For nine years, this burly, brindled companion stood by my side.
Through three flats.
Two jobs.
A wonderful woman who chose both of us.
And the arrival of my daughtershes four nowwhos quite convinced Sergeant is her personal bodyguard.
He sleeps at the foot of our bed.
He tails my little girl down the hallway as if hes on a patrol.
And each evening, hes there on that sofa, his great head heavy on my knee, checking Im still here.
And I am.
Thanks to him.
Last month, we learned he had an aggressive tumour. Inoperable. Weeks left, not months.
So life changed.
Shorter walks.
More treats.
Longer evenings on the sofa.
My hand resting on that broad, weary headan old friend who once scratched at my door and wouldnt take no for an answer.
My little one gives him her soft toys so he wont be lonely when he naps. He lets them pile up around him like a fortress, and doesnt budge a single one.
Hes tired now.
I see it in his eyes.
The same eyes which, nine years ago, decided I was someone worth saving.
Tomorrow, I must show courage for him.
Hold him tight.
Tell him hes the finest of dogs.
Say thank you.
And let him rest.
Hes given me nine years of loyalty, protection, and boundless love.
The least I can give him now is peace.
If you have ever loved a bull terrier…
If a dog has ever rescued you when you thought yourself undeserving…
Youll understand.
Goodnight, Sergeant.
My dear old brindled soldier.
Thank you for scratching at my door.
Thank you for needing supper.
Thank you for choosing me when I would not have chosen myself.
Ill spend the remainder of my days striving to be worthy.
