SRC

Faithful dog does the laundry, tidies up and brings shopping home

2009-10-23T11:22:00.002+08:00

Hazel Carter's home help tidies the house, does the washing and brings home the shopping.

And the only payment she requires is a nice big bowl of dog food at dinner time.

No wonder Connie the Newfoundland is her owner's best friend.

Helpful hound: Connie empties the washing, gets to grips with a watering can ...

When Mrs Carter was struck down with crippling arthritis in her back, she found herself unable to perform simple household tasks.

But she used her skills as an animal behaviourist to teach Connie how to do the work instead.
The two-year-old animal picks out items of dirty clothing from the laundry basket and places them inside the washing machine.
Once it is full, she places a detergent ball on top of the clothes before reaching up and turning on the machine with her paw. When the washing cycle is over, Connie squeezes her head through the door of the frame and transfers the clean clothes to the tumble dryer.
Mrs Carter, 68, could leave the dog to complete the entire task unsupervised - if only Connie understood that dark colours must not be washed with whites.
"My arthritis is slowly improving these days," said Mrs Carter, from Uckfield, East Sussex. "But there was a point where I was almost bedridden and every movement was painful - so to have Connie there to pick things up and pass them to me was a lifesaver."
When Mrs Carter is short of essentials, she phones up the local shop with her requirements and sends Connie along to pick them up.

... and even carries Hazel Carter's shopping bag

And the dog's tidying skills rival that of a professional cleaner. When Mrs Carter leaves anything lying around the house, Connie knows exactly where it came from and return it to its rightful home.

"She really loves helping out,' she said. 'Her tail is always wagging and she just does some of the jobs automatically now.

"She fetches her own dog bowl at dinner time, making sure to put it back afterwards. She picks up items like pens and knives that I drop on the floor.

"Connie can do a lot - she can even unties my shoelaces for me if I ask her. She is a brilliant help around the home - and really enjoys it too. She is a big dog - but she is so gentle.

"At one stage all I could do was lie in bed and Connie would bring me a toy from her toy box for me to throw from my prostrate position. She quickly learnt that to have a game she must first bring her toy to me, a very valuable lesson.

"My idea was to keep her occupied and mentally stimulated while helping me at the same time."

Mrs Carter teaches Connie by giving her treats for tasks that are performed well and is keen to encourage other dog owners to train their pets to help out.

She recently spoke at a conference on animal behaviour and Connie has been successful at three obedience contests.

"I like to try to inspire people who are traumatised with injury that they too can do this," added Mrs Carter. "Even just a little bit of help goes a long

The street dog that changed our lives: The story of one family's love for the starving animal saved from a Thai backstreet

2009-10-22T14:09:00.006+08:00

Ten years ago, the Mail told the heartwarming story of Kim Cooling and her husband Gary, who fell in love with Rama, a street dog, while on holiday in Thailand. Sadly, Rama recently passed away, but not before inspiring the couple to set up a charity. Here, Kim, 52, a social worker who lives in Woodford, East London, with Gary, 43, a roofer, pays tribute to the dog that changed her life.

My love affair with my beloved dog Rama started on holiday in Thailand just over a decade ago, and it ended last week when she was put to sleep in a treatment room at our local vet's.

As Rama slipped into unconsciousness, and slowly stopped breathing, I held her tightly and whispered to her how much I loved her.

When my husband and I returned to the house, my eight rescue dogs, seeing Rama was not with us, started howling.

Puppy love: Kim Cooling with Rama the street dog

They knew she was gone. A week on, and Rama's death feels as raw as ever to all of us.
Yet amid our grief, I have to keep reminding myself that this is not a terrible tragedy, but in fact the closing chapter in the life of a street dog who had incredible good luck.

I can still recall, as though it were yesterday, the moment in November 1998 when I first laid eyes on Rama.

My husband, who was then my boyfriend, had taken me to Thailand for a romantic break.

We planned a week in Phuket, followed by a week in Bangkok. During the first week, we decided to go to Patong, a bustling area with stalls and restaurants.

And it was there, as we sat drinking coffee in a bar, that I spotted an emaciated, fawn-coloured stray dog, weaving through the tourists and stall holders.

She was desperately searching for food and trying to dodge the firecrackers some boys were throwing.

My eyes followed the wretched-looking animal and after gulping down my drink, I raced after her.

In my bag, I had some tins of pilchards, so I quickly opened a can. She wagged her tail in appreciation and gobbled the food in seconds.

And that, I thought, would be it. Our hotel taxi was waiting across the road and it was time to go.
But just as we were climbing into the taxi, the dog appeared and stood at our feet, looking up at us hopefully.

She had risked her life following us across a busy road heaving with cars, tuk-tuks and bicycles.

We made a quick decision to take the dog back to the beach area near our hotel, where it was safer and quieter.

She sat on our laps in the taxi and seemed happy in our company. We decided then to call her Rama, after the Thai King.

Back at the hotel, we took Rama to the beach and sat with her until we had to retire for the night.

We got up the next morning to see her sleeping under a deckchair exactly where we'd left her.

Ready to go: Rama with Kim's husband Gary before the big trip home

After that we became inseparable. Rama would spend the whole day with us on the beach, joining us for dinner at local restaurants, where she'd sit under the table waiting for scraps.

When it got late, Rama knew we would have to leave her - and she hated it. One of us would distract her as the other slipped away, but she would race past the guards at the hotel gate and run into the lobby searching frantically for us.

Every morning, she'd be standing at the hotel gates just waiting, her tail wagging furiously when she saw us. We suspected she'd been there all night.

Naturally, our worry over what would happen to this dog when we left Phuket to go to Bangkok grew, and we went to great lengths to try to find someone to take care of her. But no one was concerned about a street dog.

Then we heard that as part of an annual cull, all the stray dogs at the beach were due to be poisoned.

We were horrified and decided immediately: we would take her back to the UK with us - whatever the cost.

The first step was to purchase a cage so Rama could travel to Bangkok with us. Much to our surprise, at Phuket airport, Rama was checked in with the rest of the luggage.

She seemed to take it all in her stride, sitting in her cage with her front legs crossed as we hauled her up on to the baggage carrier.

As we arrived at Bangkok airport we were frantic with worry about Rama and had no idea how we'd find her.

But when we arrived at the luggage reclaim, we heard howls of laughter. There was Rama in her cage, with her front legs still crossed, going around the carousel with all the suitcases.

We were booked into a first-class hotel in Silom Road and had to plead with the manager to let her stay with us.

Falling asleep on the bone: Rama, far left with some of her rescued friends

Rama was allowed to stay in the basement in her cage. Over the course of that week, Gary proposed, which was the reason he'd arranged the trip in the first place.

I said yes, but the romance of the moment was lost in the sea of paperwork and endless phone calls.

Before we could take her on a plane, she had to undergo a full health check. We found a top veterinary hospital in Bangkok, where we were told she was about two years old.

Blood tests, however, revealed some bad news. Rama had heartworm, a serious but common condition in dogs in Thailand caused by mosquitoes.

She would have to undergo weeks of treatment once back in the UK and the drugs would cost more than £1,000.

The condition, which is linked to heart failure, also meant there was a slight risk to Rama on the flight.

But she was doomed if she stayed in Thailand, so we ploughed ahead.

We didn't see any of Bangkok's sights, instead traipsing around government offices filling out paperwork.

But at the end of the week, we'd managed to get Rama a ticket for our flight back to the UK and had arranged her quarantine in England.

When we boarded the plane, we were frantic with worry. Would they remember to put Rama on the plane? Would she even survive the flight?

Suddenly we saw an old truck racing towards the plane. On the back of the truck was Rama in her cage, and we were able to watch from our seats as she was loaded into the cargo hold.

We were so relieved, but it was only when we arrived at Heathrow that we dared to hope Rama now had a chance of a life she deserved.

Rama spent six months in quarantine, undergoing treatment for heartworm. Each week, I drove around the M25 from our home on the Essex borders to visit her, using up all my annual leave.

Meanwhile, I was busy planning our wedding and any plans for an extravagant affair were quickly shelved.

In all, it cost us almost £5,000 to bring Rama home.

Rama was finally able to leave quarantine a month before our wedding. As Gary and I drove home with Rama, we could hardly believe that after everything we'd been through, she was finally about to become our pet.

Taking in a stray dog is never straightforward, let alone one from Thailand. Rama suffered terrible separation anxiety for the first months, and howled in despair every time we left the house.

Before: The Coolings spotted the emaciated Rama after she begged for food

After: Rama, back in the UK and looking much healthier

But despite having never lived in a house before, she was very clean and had good lavatory habits from the outset. She loved having her baths.

And about eight months after she came home, her separation anxiety suddenly came to an end.

She learned that if we left, we would return and she was no longer on her own.

Rama constantly made us laugh with her antics. Once, she fell in a swamp when chasing a fox in Epping Forest.

I didn't recognise her when my husband dragged her out. She was covered in slime and you could only see the whites of her eyes.

She also had a phobia of having her claws cut and as soon as you said the words 'clippie clippie', she would be off under the bed or hiding behind a shrub in the garden.

Rama quickly settled into a wonderful existence. But I don't think she ever completely forgot of the horrors of her life on the street.

She always slept on a cushion next to my bed, and throughout her life would frequently have nightmares. She'd twitch, before waking up whimpering or howling.

As I watched Rama blossom, I found myself thinking about stray dogs and their plight. The more she flourished, the more I wanted to help other dogs.

In 2000, a year after taking in Rama, I went to Battersea Dogs' Home and got Tulip, a black poodle.

That same year, I returned to Thailand and came home with another stray, Peggy.

Then, the following year, I went on holiday to Sri Lanka. I was so upset by the problems experienced by stray dogs there that I started to return to the country as often as I could afford.
I'd fly there with a friend and spent my wages paying for stray and sick dogs to be treated by a vet.

It always broke my heart to leave stray dogs behind and, in 2004, I returned with one called Lavinia.

A year later, on another trip to Sri Lanka, I came back with two more, Scooby and Sid, who had both had their tails cut off.

In all, I've spent more than £10,000 bringing dogs home from Sri Lanka.

In 2006, I rescued Tinky, an apricot toy poodle, from a local dog shelter and Molly from another shelter.

The following year, I formalised my efforts in Sri Lanka by setting up a charity, Animal SOS Sri Lanka.

It was a lot of work and, even now, I often stay up until 3am working on fundraising and organising our local help.

But as a result, we've recently acquired a plot of land that we are turning into a shelter for unwanted dogs.

Finally, last year, I rescued Harry, a 14-year-old poodle who looks like a monkey and was abandoned when his elderly owners died. He's 15 now, but still going strong.

As for Rama, she seemed to love the new additions to our family and over the years became the definite matriarch to what was now a pack of dogs.

Happy family: Gary and Kim with the late Rama

And her devotion to us never wavered from the moment we met. Every morning, she'd leap up from her cushion at my bedside to lick my hand.

If ever she saw me in tears, she would place her head on my lap.
Rama was 13 this year and, in early May, I noticed a number of lumps clustered around her neck.

The lumps were removed and tests inconclusive. I was told they were fatty deposits and nothing to worry about, but from the outset, I feared the worst.

At the end of May, one of the lumps on Rama's shoulder suddenly grew rapidly and my vet removed it.

The lesion was sent away for pathology and a week later Rama was diagnosed with an aggressive form of lymphoma.

We were told there was no cure, and she had just weeks to live. Rama had chemotherapy, but the cancer was already overwhelming her. I think she knew her days were coming to an end.

One night I heard her stirring and turned my bedside light on to find her with her nose resting on the mattress. She let out a tired sigh and had a look of resignation in her eyes.

Then, Rama stopped eating. The Sunday before last, she started lying in the soil in the garden, which she'd never done before. It seemed as though she was asking to go.

The next day - June 8 - we took her to the vet and she was put to sleep. We didn't want her to suffer any longer.

Heartbreaking as it was, her death was peaceful and I know she would have felt loved as she left this world.

Rama was cremated and I'm planning to keep her ashes and have them scattered with mine when I die.

Rama's death has left a terrible void and I honestly don't think life will ever be the same again.

She's played such a big part in our lives and, by inspiring me to do all the work I do now, really changed the course of my life.

The last words I said to Rama were that I will see her at the Rainbow Bridge. I'm sure she'll be patiently waiting, wagging her tail, just as she was outside our hotel in Phuket all those years ago.

● To help Kim's work in Sri Lanka, visit www.animalsos-sl.com

Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1193525/The-street-dog-changed-lives-The-story-familys-love-starving-animal-saved-Thai-backstreet.html#ixzz0UdtniIOp

The enchanting love affair between a high society girl on holiday and... a small dog

2009-10-22T13:24:00.002+08:00

Suddenly, there was a frantic scrabbling from behind a dry-stone wall. A black nose and a ginger and white face appeared, followed by the rest of a small dog. Then he hurled himself into my arms.

He was - debatably - a spaniel, with a beautiful head and dark, intelligent eyes. His stocky body, I noticed, was carried on stubby lamb-chop legs that gave him an entirely original shape. He licked me confidently.

It was one of those hot afternoons on Paxos, the Greek island where I often come to detox from London, as far from the canape circuit as possible. I was just a visitor; but I knew by sight almost everyone in the tiny village of Loggos.

Woman's best friend: Belinda with her beloved spaniel Goofy who she brought back to the UK after he was given up by his owners in Greece

My friend Spiro, who'd rented me a house in the olive groves, identified the refugee dog. 'That's Goofy! He runs away from his owners up the hill.'

Goofy, it turned out, had escaped from his short chain in their yard, where he was left all day and much of each night, and decided to claim me.

The night wore on, and I had to meet a friend at the port of Gaios. Farewell Goofy, but, in a single bound, he jumped on to the back seat of my car, front paws squarely placed so he could lean out the window.

As his ears flew back in the wind, it looked as if he were smiling.

In the morning, when I threw open my bedroom doors, there - having curled up for the whole night outside - was Goofy.

Not long afterwards, I tracked down his owner, who shrugged his acceptance when I offered to look after his dog. Goofy was temporarily mine.
My funny little timeshare dog may have been short in the leg department, but he was long on wits.

At first, when I lay down on the terrace to do my exercises, he clambered all over me..
But within a week, he was taking a position exactly parallel, and as I stretched a leg forward, one white furry leg stretched out in imitation. I was becoming awfully fond of Goofy.

One morning, when I happened to drive to where his owner worked, he saw where we were heading and hit the floor, pressing himself as flat as possible.

Two desperate eyes looked up at me, willing me not to betray him.
By then, I'd heard rumours of beatings. But was I increasing the alienation between Goofy and his owners and making matters worse?

Perhaps I was just another silly foreign woman, feeding a dog until it became attached to me. I made a painful resolution: I would give him back.

Goofy was mute and stiff-legged with resistance when his owner arrived to reclaim him. The dog was unpopular with the neighbours, I was told.

'He is always screaming,' his owner said with a grimace.

Even making allowances for the wrong English word, this didn't help at all. Goofy looked at me in desperate entreaty, but I had to let him go.

Thus began a distressing game of hide and seek all over the island as, again and again, I heard that Goofy had escaped and was looking for me.

I told myself he'd probably have a better time at home if he forgot me, but being cruel to be kind was terribly hard.

A week after giving him back, I returned late one night to my car, parked in a village by the sea.
Something small was curled up in the dust, below the driver's door. It was Goofy; he'd recognised my car and was waiting for me.

My Greek idyll was over. Back home in London, where I worked as a literary agent and publisher, I plunged into city life, but for once it didn't swallow me up. I kept ringing Spiro. Had he seen Goofy?

Finally, there was some real news: Goofy's owners wanted a bigger dog - and that, said Spiro, meant they might well dump Goofy on the mainland.
It would be a death sentence: if he wasn't run over within a week, he'd be shot or poisoned as a stray.

I paced up and down, noting my pale carpets and soft furnishings - all totally unsuitable for a dog who, to the best of my knowledge, had never been inside a house.

Surely it would be insane to accommodate Goofy in my London flat - let alone my London life. . .
Taking a deep breath, I ran to the phone. Spiro scoffed indignantly when I told him to offer Monopoly numbers of drachmas to purchase Goofy from his owners.

But it had to be enough money to make the transaction irrevocable.
As soon as I could, I flew back. I fretted: it had been several months - perhaps the dog would have forgotten me?

There was Goofy, still on that short chain. As I approached, he stared a moment.

Then he went beserk: I was nearly torn apart by a frantic, jumping, licking, ecstatic creature. His owners offered the chain, which I declined. And Goofy bounded down the hill without a backward glance.

We had eight packed days. At night, he'd curl up with a contented sigh at the end of the bed, as I began to tackle the little presents he'd brought me - of ticks and fleas.

In the first of many challenges to my bank balance, I chartered the island's sea taxi to take us to Dino, the vet in Corfu, for Goofy to be given a microchip and an anti-rabies injection.

My week was up, and Spiro agreed to look after my dog for the winter, until he was free to enter the UK under the new pet passport scheme.

As I stepped into the sea taxi, Goofy saw that I was leaving. With a desperate effort, he broke free from his leash and hurled himself off the jetty.

The last thing I saw as the boat pulled away was my dog, swimming desperately and hopelessly in the water towards me, until he was pulled out by a fisherman. My cheeks were wet with tears all the way to Athens.

Over the winter, I kept finding myself back in Paxos. Whenever I arrived at Spiro's house, Goofy threw himself into my arms, and then got straight into my car to leave. 'Little b******, he didn't even look back,' said Spiro, a little hurt.

The Greeks have a saying: 'One trouble brings myriad others along behind it.'
Somehow, Goofy's blood sample, required for verifying his immunity to rabies, got lost in transit, pushing back our departure by three months.

Then there was another six-month wait at a vet's home in Corfu before he could be admitted to the UK.

By the time he was cleared, it was mid-August, the worst possible time to transport a dog.
I arranged for Goofy to be packed in a massive blue crate and flown from Corfu to Athens, where I'd pick him up for the next leg.

Is there anything worse than that sinking feeling as you're waiting at the luggage carousel, and everyone else seems to have got their bag?

When your luggage is alive, you begin to panic.

My worst nightmare was unfolding: Goofy was lost and trapped in 40c heat.

The woman at Information said he might be in Cargo. Where was Cargo? 'Not permitted.'

Happy days: Belinda pictured with Goofy who adapted well to his new life in England

I explained I had permission to inspect the dog and brandished some documents with an embossed crest. (The crest actually said 'Formula One 50th Anniversary'; the papers were from a charity dinner I'd organised, but luckily she wasn't a motor-racing fan).

She'd only give me the name, but not the address of the building that might contain Goofy.

It was 20 minutes' drive away, she added unhelpfully. Outside, I flagged down a taxi and showed the driver the name. Did he know it? 'No,' he said. I got in.

We eventually arrived at a depressing series of warehouses and I started searching past miles of disintegrating pallets and rotting boxes.

In anticipation of his arrival, I'd rented a cottage in Wiltshire. There, Goofy, the dog from Paxos, was in his element, breasting the long grass in the meadows like a child jumping waves

Finally, in a corner, I spotted a blue crate. It had turned over: Goofy's spill-proof water bowl was broken; his bedding was soaked and he had no water.

I rectified this and walked him up and down for as long as I dared, before asking the taxi driver to take us on to the terminal.

When I finally boarded the plane to London, I was so anxious that I marched straight into the cockpit to ask the captain to confirm my dog was in the hold - the right part of the hold. Goofy, of course, was fit as a fiddle when he landed.

In anticipation of his arrival, I'd rented a cottage in Wiltshire. There, Goofy, the dog from Paxos, was in his element, breasting the long grass in the meadows like a child jumping waves.
He seemed to know intuitively how to start pheasants up like skyrockets, and I even found him picking ripe blackberries with his teeth.

As for me, I felt transformed. Gone was the soignee siren who tried so hard in designer suits; I'd developed a ruddy, abandoned look, in shapeless mac and muddy boots.

Interesting muscles appeared on my legs from hours of dog-walking. There was nothing lonely about my cottage in the woods, miles from a road, when there were two of us by the log fire, sharing roast chicken for supper.

When I got into bed, he'd wait until I turned off the light, then take an almighty flying leap on to the end of the bed.

A deep sigh was followed a few minutes later by contented little clickings and licking of lips.

Next stop central London, which I'd assumed would be particularly unfriendly to a dog with Goofy's needs. Wrong. Goofy presided happily over my office and soon made Mayfair his patch, a cheerful mutt among the pedigree population.

Almost immediately, everyone in the neighbourhood seemed to know him. And he quickly learnt English ('Goofy, don't even think it').

A particular Goofy friend was that quintessentially reserved Englishman Mark Birley, whose private clubs - including Annabel's - dominated London high life.

The only time Mark sent me a love letter, it began: 'Darling Belinda, I know I only saw you last night, and will see you again in a few days, but there is something I wanted to put in writing.
I want to tell you how much I love and admire you (here, I caught my breath) for rescuing that divine dog.'

The rest of the letter was not about me at all; it was about Goofy.
If we shared a mutual infatuation, it was, in its finest points, canine. Goofy adored the sociability of town.

In the early morning, he'd find his friend the road-sweeper sitting on a bench, and jump up beside him, giving him kisses in exchange for pieces of cheese roll from a battered tuck-box.

Then he liked to visit the laconic and perceptive tailor Doug Hayward, frolicking through the shop while the celebrity regulars sat chatting on the kilim-covered sofa: Terence Stamp, Michael Parkinson, Alan Whicker and the photographer Terry O'Neill.

Full of character: Goofy was short in the leg department, but long on wits

It was a meeting place where they gleaned information - much as Goofy sniffed lamp posts.

One morning, Goofy and I went in for a bit of company, and came out with the name of a first-rate removals man, a first-night review of a new show and the truth behind a prime piece of society gossip.

One day, my heart stopped when he escaped from the office... I discovered that two women in Grosvenor Square had been seen taking him away, probably because they thought he was a stray

Last thing at night, Goofy made a farewell tour of his patch: he'd go to the back door of the kitchens of the Richoux cafe, where the manageress would give him a big sausage.
At Harry's Bar, whose owner had made Goofy a member, Mark the doorman would sneak out cheese straws or a slice of mortadella.

Finally, in Serafino, the family restaurant in Mount Street, Goofy would demand two amaretti biscuits for dessert.

One day, my heart stopped when he escaped from the office while I was at the doctor's.
I had visions of a small dog with no traffic sense crossing Park Lane. On top of that, his identity disc was still being engraved.

Eventually, I discovered that two women in Grosvenor Square had been seen taking him away, probably because they thought he was a stray.

It was Daniel, the young doorman at Connaught Hotel, who saved the day.
Seeing the two women walking past, one carrying my dog, he said - as if surprised that she didn't know: 'Madam, that is Goofy.'

Lunchtime dog-walking played havoc with my social life.

Nowadays, lunch was a swift dash into a self-service cafeteria, returning to the dog outside with a sandwich that we shared in the rain.

In the evenings, Goofy would react with a deep sigh of disapproval and a wintry look if he saw a pair of high heels.

High heels meant dinner parties, which were usually dog-free zones; he approved of boots, suitable for dog-walking.

One weekend, alone with Goofy in the country, I had an accident. As he pulled energetically on the lead, I tripped on some stone steps, and the shoulder socket to my arm fractured vertically in three places.

Mark Birley volunteered to take Goofy. At first, my dog held a lonely vigil by the door of Mark's flat.

He then opted to sleep with the prettiest of the live-in maids ('More than I've managed to do,'

Mark observed dryly) and then, finally, he mounted to the master's magnificent bedroom, where he displaced Mark's dog, George, on the master's bed - to George's life-long resentment.

As I could no longer drive, another friend, the designer Jasper Conran, also came to my rescue - grandly arranging for his chauffeur to drive Goofy and me in a Jaguar to my cottage each weekend.

Goofy adored the car. So much so, that if the doorman at the Connaught happened to open the door of a Jag as he passed, some elderly American lady was likely to be greeted with a lapful of dog.

As time went on, Goofy wanted me more and more. When I had the temerity to go away for a week and leave him in kennels, he wouldn't eat for three days - and sent me to Coventry for two days on my return.

Shopping was no longer a matter of browsing through boutiques - shopping was for essentials, like liver and pig's ears.

There was no escaping it: I was no longer inclined to be a party girl. Nor was I at the time in a relationship; if I woke at night, there was Goofy, as constant as grave gods, guarding me for the whole of his eternity.

Then, one grey January day, Goofy fell ill. He was hunched over with pain; he couldn't eat and he was very cold.

At the vets' hospital in the country, they were perplexed; they put him on painkillers and antibiotics and said I could take him home next morning - where he collapsed.

Back in hospital, he went on a drip; a sorry figure shivering in a cage. When he saw me, he'd make a magnificent effort at a welcome.

There followed long days and nights of waiting for test results, my heart thudding in staccato jumps as I phoned for the results.

Goofy had become both swollen with fluid and emaciated, but he was concentrating his small being on coming home.

When I left him, he'd struggle to come with me. I'd sit in the car park, holding back tears.

No one could identify the cause of his illness, and one young vet even mentioned 'letting him go'.
They suggested I drove him to a referral clinic, over 100 miles away. There, he had gruelling tests which showed there was serious kidney damage.

Quietly, the vet Clive Elwood told me that Goofy might have weeks, not months.
The dog who came out was skeletally thin. But from the minute I got him home, Goofy fought for life.

I wish I could say what followed was dignified or beautiful. There, while he was still conscious, I had to hold him tightly as the lethal injection turned him into something very alien

In the night, he couldn't rest easily, and every groan or turn made me anxious. I nursed him right through each night, both of us near exhaustion; and with heart-rending effort, he came back to me.

Soon, he wanted walks in the fields; he dug a delightfully muddy hole in the garden; he got out his favourite toys and he regained weight.

I began to nurse wild fancies that he'd beat the odds. Then, for a few days, he was unable to keep food down. I took him back to the country hospital, where the senior vet said I could return later that day to take him home.

At six, the vet had further news. 'I'm afraid I was misled in my first diagnosis because Goofy's trying to pretend he's all right, in order to come home to you. It's bravado. He's much sicker than we originally thought. You asked if it was time - I think now it is.'

Part of me wanted to grab Goofy and run away. But then I thought about what the vet called the 'catastrophic event' ahead.

And I decided it shouldn't be Goofy's catastrophic event; it should be mine. Somehow, I found the courage for my decision.

I will never, ever forget the next 20 minutes, as I prepared to kill the dog who loved me.

Goofy pushed out of his pen when he saw me, nosing at the door for us to leave.

He was given a sedative injection, and I was told I could walk him round while it took effect.

Outside, Goofy saw the car, and tried weakly to walk towards it. When he looked at me aghast, no longer able to move, I carried him to the bare operating table.

I wish I could say what followed was dignified or beautiful.

There, while he was still conscious, I had to hold him tightly as the lethal injection finally turned him into something very different and alien.

The vet's eyes, too, were a little wet, perhaps because he saw the moment my heart broke.

Now Goofy was gone, and his absence was everywhere.

Clutching an empty collar, I drove home alone for the first time in ten years. Walks in the fields and woods round the cottage became painful and somehow pointless. Every path was familiar; but it led only to where he was not.

People may say he was only a dog, that I allowed him to mean far too much. But our deepest communication is without words, and what Goofy gave me was a canine lesson in love: utterly single-minded devotion.

He gave me his whole heart - so I simply did the same.

● Adapted from Mad About The Dog by Belinda Harley, published by Souvenir Press on October 19 at £9.99. Copyright Belinda Harley 2009. To order a copy (p&p free), call 0845 155 0720. Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1216226/How-I-resist-Goofy-Greek-The-enchanting-love-affair-high-society-girl-holiday--small-dog.html#ixzz0UdrxvzqW

Cruelty in Pulau Ketam

2009-05-08T08:36:00.002+08:00

I read the news about the dogs dumped by the villagers of Pulau Ketam in an inhabitant island. There is no food and water for them to survive which lead to cannibalism. When a dog died from starvation the rest will feed on the carcass. The stronger dogs will fight for a small piece of meat and the weaker dogs can only sit aside and watch. Half the numbers of the dogs on the island

died. Some tried to swim back to Pulau Ketam but were chase away by the villagers before they reach the shore this caused them to drown. I always bear this in mind, ‘try putting yourself in other’s shoe’… This is what makes me who I am today. I might not be the best person but at least I have my conscience and I tried to be good. I find this world to be so cruel nowadays. Every living thing is created by God. We should treat each other with respect and love; especially these dogs are helpless and not able to defend themselves. This is a very unfair treatment given to man’s best friend. Please help this dogs:

http://www.mycen.com.my/rescue/index.html