For almost half the time that we have had dogs, we have had Jag, and only Jag. It doesn't feel like that, of course. As one grows older, the years pass faster. Having four dogs in the first 14 years (1997-2011) also made for so many more memories then, especially as they were all more social than Jag, and had more ailments --- he did not go blind, or lame, or doolally, or incontinent. But still, 13 years is a long time, especially in dog years. For Jag, they were surely happy ones. By the nature of his breed, he was very centred on his human family, and quite content being an only dog. That was new for us, as we had mostly had our other dogs in pairs. Now, we are experiencing the huge hole that one little dog used to fill at home. The rhythm of the day, around his 5 small meals and one short walk. The furniture of the house, from the attack cushions made by Grandma to the ramp down the back steps made by Grandpa. The furniture of the mind, automatically shutting gates, leaving certain doors ajar; and expecting his sweet face to be waiting at the first, or emerging past the second.

At first, Jag was very submissive, and a perfect lapdog. But this must have been a psychological consequence of many months being locked up with larger dogs in the shelter, and whatever preceded that. For, over the weeks that followed, his true self emerged, which matched the descriptions in the several Dog Breed books we had: "independent and self-confident", "gay, assertive, and intelligent", and, most frankly, "a rather self-important little animal". He was always joyful to greet me when I came home, licking me on the nose and enjoying tummy rubs, but otherwise maintained his personal space. Also as the frank book said, his "distrustful attitude towards strangers makes [him] a good watchdog". But he loved his extended family, even my parents whom he saw rarely.


Jag's attitude to other dogs also transformed as he got his mojo back. At first scared of them, then more confident, and finally showing classic "small-dog syndrome", wanting to take on larger dogs to prove his virility. But he was not stupid, only snapping at gentle breeds like labradors, and only when their toothy end had passed. We quickly learnt to keep him on a short lead and, if we passed a large dog, to pop a miniature squeaky tennis ball in his mouth for him to take out his aggression on instead. With dogs his own size or smaller he was polite but not particularly interested. His only real dog friends were those he met as puppies, most especially his "cousin" Lori, a Shetland Sheepdog only a little larger than him when grown. In the above she is a real puppy, and he looks like one after his first, rather severe, hair cut. (Miniature tennis ball for scale.)


Jag developed a close relationship with his miniature squeaky tennis balls. They were the only toy he retained interest in. After returning from a walk, we would throw a ball up our side path and he would run after it and catch it, or pounce on it, looking very satisfied. He would never bring it back for another throw, but rather chew on it for a bit. But they lasted a long time, as his bite was not very powerful. He would also collect them in his bed and roll on them, and if he couldn't contain his excitement when someone came home he would run to grab a ball before greeting them.


As well as these balls for redirecting aggression on walks, Jag had his attack cushions for home. When he heard a noise he didn't like outside, his instinct was to attack the nearest piece of furniture. But we manage to train him to mostly target the particular bean bags which Nadine's doting mum made for the purpose. Once, he attacked one of them too vigorously, although he claimed it exploded all by itself, as you can see.


I never felt that Jag's short-as-they-come name suited his appearance or personality. In his mature grooming style, I think he could have shouldered "Lorenzo the Magnificent". He was so pretty that people often assumed he was a girl, but luckily he didn't know that.


There is no particular story associated with this photo. He just looks so happy in it, as do I. But he did keep me company at this kitchen bench when I was making my lunch each day, for the treats that came at regular stages in the sandwich-making.


For the most part, Jag aged gracefully. His aggression to other dogs faded, which was good. He stopped hearing the delivery man's knock at the door. His daily walks became gradually shorter, though he was almost always keen to go, even if he only got as far as the neighbouring few houses. And he never stopped wanting a ball chase at the end, even as that ball became an ever more elusive prey. He became less and less tolerant of car trips, so we stopped making weekend visits to foreign parks, and Grandma had to start coming to our place for babysitting. He got arthritis, and he got confused, sometimes, about who was family and who was an visitor, when both were present. And he slept, more and more.


In the end it was his gut that gave out. He had always had a sensitive tummy, and we had to restrict his diet more and more over the years, and spread it out over many small meals a day. A month ago he got persistent diarrhoea, and ended up needing to go to hospital, on his 15th birthday. He recovered, and two days later even made it around the block and poked his nose into our park (above), for the last time. But we decided that, come what may, we wouldn't send him back to hospital. On the 20th December, he enjoyed a pre-Christmas gathering with his favourite people, but that evening he started vomiting. In the morning he would not even drink. At 2:30pm we made one last trip to the clinic, where he gave up his life ever so gently dropping his head into my hand.

"Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust."

--- Shakespeare (Cymbeline)

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