There is a strong sense of emptiness after our little dog. He passed away only three days ago.
Ever since last autumn we knew he had a bad heart, but he was always a cheerful dog. As time passed on his steps grew heavier and it became more difficult for him struggling up the last slope to our home, but he never said no to a walk: it was his right as a dog, and if we did not understand his intention he used to take his stand at the top of the stairs, looking over his shoulder with a strong urge in his eyes. Canīt you see what I mean? His joy when the leash was put on! His nose in the chink of the door - but both his humans had to come along: it was no good leaving somebody home! Maybe a bit sleepier in the mornings, but he never was much of a morning-dog. Sitting at our breakfast table, we used to hear him rustle upstairs as he woke up, sneezing a couple of times, then a pause to stretch his legs, the soft tiff-tiff-tiff of his claws over the floor, two steps down in the upper staircase, taking a brief look at us between the stairs. We used to wave at his little dog-face: hello Fajt! (His hearing was not so good the last year.) Then down the rest of the staircase and directly to the garden door with determined steps. Time for his morning leak. It was a part of our life.

During the spring he had more problems. His sneezes and coughing would not stop; presumably because of his heart failure. There were anxious nights when he frequently had to go out, but after every visit he called for us with his sonorous "wow" (just one time!) that he was ready for the moment, waved his tail excusingly and climbed up on the end of his masters bed, one paw after another, slower in the upper stairs. If he was really to be pitied, he could even work his way up into his mum's bed (he was also a cunning dog).
We were hoping, but not really believing, he would live to see another beautiful spring and summer. He did.
Inger came home, and it was a great pleasure to be four in the pack once again.
A week before our summer holidays there were trouble, nausea, he almost stopped eating and drinking. Whit Saturday - always Saturdays - we had to wait from 11 am to 11 pm to get in touch with the vet on emergency call. At last, in the middle of the night, he got his drip and a shot of cortisone. It worked, he became like a young dog again, only for a week but it was really a happy week. Walks in the forrest! Pancakes! Until Saturday the 16th of June.

We were out on the countryside all day long. Fajt had a walk with us to the neighbour's, then resting on the terrace until the sun got to hot and the mosquitos to disturbing. Dinner with good appetite, and later on also supper. Gunnel and I drove home with him. His first steps led to the kitchen, to hint a need for an extra treat of some kind. Not getting it immediately, he tried one of his oldest tricks: nicking something out of the wastepaper bin and hiding under the staircase, awaiting our reaction.
I was in the garden when Gunnel called: "Come quickly, there is something odd about Fajt". Then he was lying down on the floor, his legs would not carry him any more, he tried to get up seeming very afraid and upset, the carpet was wet around him and his eyes pleaded: I cannot help it. We put him in his basket and called the vet on duty (whose "beeper" was on), and then to Inger. This was at 9 pm.
He was lying in his basket until he had needs again, tried hard to get up and outside in a last attack of dog-moral (never make it in your own bed!) but reached just as far as the floor where he gave up, lying with his legs stretched out, surrounded by his humans. He was still there when the vet called, at nearly eleven o'clock.
We understod there were nothing to do for him, his time was finally up. The vet was distressed, she had patients waiting and was not even in town. Maybe we could see her at Floda church? We put Fajt in his basket and carried him to the car. Inger sat in the back with him. It was a beautiful evening. Our cars met under the trees by the church. What had to be done was done. Inger held his head and I patted him while the vet put the cannula in, but his reaction was very weak, the passage from life to death was not observable.
Just opposite the church there was noisy party going on and occasional couples were strolling around in the churchyard. "Are you in trouble?" Of course we were, but not any more.
The winding road home: still a beautiful evening, or rather a beautiful night. Veils of mist were dwelling over the fields, creeping up against the sides of the road. A magical, bright swedish summer night: could there have been a better moment? "It would be nice to die tonight."
At home Gunnel was waiting. There were no questions left to be answered. We put the basket in the study. "As if he were just sleeping", Inger said. Then we sat down to talk for a while before going up to bed.

It was not easy to fall asleep. Something was missing, a presence, somebody turning, the gentle sound of breathing. Later that night I woke up, thinking about him laying alone downstairs. Should I light a candle for his flickering soul in the great darkness? I dropped the matter.
The next day we buried him in the garden. Inger dug most of the grave, under the blooming lime-tree. His body was stiff when we moved it to a sheet. In some strange way this made us feel easier, he had become an item. Fresh green leaves under the body, the sheet was folded, a couple of twigs with apple-blossoms on top. Then we put the dirt back. It was enough to form a soft little bump over the grave.
The thoughts of him are constantly popping up in my mind, I guess they will keep on doing it yet for many weeks. A long, very long life of a dog. We are missing but not mourning him. In a sense his life has passed us by: at first he was so much younger, so innocent, then our contemporary, fighting (for fun) with his master of who would be the leader, later a very old dog who carried his age with dignity, spared the last humiliation. How can somebody be mourned, who has had such a long and full life?

Finally, tonight, a sentimental dream. I had reached that moment he was already through, leaning backwards in my chair, my eyes grewing dim. Then I felt a soft push against my legs. Is it you, Fajt? Putting my hands forward finding a lumpy head with soft ears, twisting them between my fingers. Yes Master, I am here now. Everything is well. TO FAJT 'S PAGE UP