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Liz Jones's diary: In which I lose a loyal friend

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It's time to say goodbye to my beloved german shepherd/collie cross Jess - and I can't stop crying

It gets worse. I am so sorry to depress everyone, but it does.

On Tuesday, the horses Lizzie and Jac were in overnight, mainly so Lizzie can eat lots of high-calorie food without it being stolen by the ponies.

As Nic and I led them out to the field, I noticed Jac had a nasty wound on his hock, which was bleeding. Lizzie was desperate to join the others in the paddock, so I carried on with turning her out, while Nic took Jac back to the barn to have his wound washed and slathered in Sudocrem. As he stood to be ministered to, Lizzie kept calling to him.

After about 15 minutes, we led him out again. The ponies were by the first gate, so we figured it was too dangerous to open that one, as he would get kicked. So we carried on down the lane to the next gate, Jac shying at the row of daffodils which have eventually thought it safe enough to bloom, with Lizzie trotting alongside on the other side of the dry stone wall. And then she did something really strange, and completely out of character.

She started to climb the wall to get to Jac, pulling with her a heavy iron-bar gate. Her front legs became trapped in the gate, now at 45 degrees, and she started to panic. I screamed at her to stay still, but she just kept on scrabbling, eyes rolling desperately.

Eventually, shocked and bleeding, she was in the lane, shaking from head to toe. She could have broken both her front legs. I had to lead them both back to the barn while Nic tried to repair the wall. Lizzie is now covered in wounds, and her back legs are swelling up ominously.

And then, the next day, I noticed Jess, my 18-year-old collie/german shepherd cross, was just sitting by the front door instead of joining the others on the lawn. ‘Come on, Jess,’ I said, touching her on her shoulder, which is my method for telling her she is wanted, as she’s as deaf as I am.

She couldn’t get up. I summoned Nic, who carried her to the lawn. Jess was panting and very distressed. I had to drive to London to work that afternoon, so I left Nic to take Jess to the local vet, where she was given more tablets to help her confusion, an injection of antibiotics and more painkiller.

‘I’ve been up all night with Jess,’ texted Nic. ‘She’s very frightened’

 

I woke up this morning to a text from Nic. ‘I have been up all night with Jess, who has been crying and has not slept at all. I managed to get her to eat some of the cats’ organic chicken, but she is very frightened, and now can’t get up. She keeps falling over. The vet said last night that if she doesn’t improve overnight it’s time to let her go. She seems to have a mass in her womb, but is too old and exhausted to operate on. I don’t think that would be fair. I think it’s time to call the vet and put her to sleep at home. Michael is with her. I’m not leaving her.’

I got Jess when her owner lost her farm in Somerset, and had to move into rented accommodation that wouldn’t accept pets. Jess was already 14, but in the few years I’ve had her she has had a fantastic time, cantering after the puppies, using her big tail like a propeller.

She is like a big carpet, or a bear, and loves nothing more than being stretched out by the log fire. She particularly took to Grace Kelly, whom she thinks is her puppy, always washing her pointy face and pink tummy while Gracie grins with ecstasy.

I sit and wait. Nic calls. ‘She was so distressed this morning when she couldn’t get up. Gracie came in and said goodbye to Jess and she’s now squirming in my lap: I’m hoping she’s not going to stress wee because I can’t stop crying. Amy the vet’s just left. Jess has gone. She slipped away. She was ready to go.’

The thing is, I wasn’t ready to lose her just yet. I wanted her to have one last, lovely summer sunbathing on the cobbles, dipping a hairy paw in the river at the end of the lawn. I hope she knew how much she was loved.

  More... Liz Jones's Diary: In which the Rock Star cheats on me Liz Jones: In which the Rock Star drops a bombshell Liz Jones: In which I call the Rock Star a cab

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