Published at 09:43, Friday, 12 March 2010

BLACK ties and solemn expressions have been the order of the day at Hextol Towers this week.

For at the advanced age of 12, the Hextol Hound has finally gone to the great Boneyard in the Sky.

The curse of German Shepherds, wonky hips, finally became too much for her – and us – to bear.

Simply getting to her feet was a major enterprise, requiring block and tackle and a Swan Hunter’s crane.

Once up, she could only careen where gravity took her, the look of bewilderment on her kindly face wrenching the hearts of all who knew her.

A couple of episodes of indoor incontinence left her mortified and distressed, and she had also taken to staring intently into space, and then barking ferociously at something only she could see with her near sightless eyes.

She was deaf as a doornail, and the ears that could once detect the opening of a bag of Maltesers from three doors away would only respond to a two fingers in the mouth blast from two feet away.

She was an Alsatian of such impeccable breeding that she could trace her Teutonic ancestry almost as far back as the Royal Family. If she could talk, she certainly would not have spoken to the likes of me.

That being said, she was perhaps the most craven of her breed ever to draw breath, and a positive disgrace to the Fatherland.

She ran away from rabbits, and let puppies bully her, but what really upset her was the smoke alarm going off.

In her increased decrepitude, she had to be lifted into the car because she could no longer jump in, and certainly could not manage the stairs.

That was, of course, unless the smoke alarm went off, in which case she was up there cowering beside the bed quicker than Bobby Thompson on dried egg.

Towards the end, she was still eating, and didn’t seem to be in a lot of pain, and when Mrs Hextol, through floods of tears, took the momentous decision to take her to the vets for one last time, there seemed to be a palpable air of relief about her final journey.

Mrs Hextol was inconsolable as the lethal injection was administered, completely understandably, as we had had the dog longer than any of the grandchildren who had pulled her tail, lain on her bed with her and ridden on her back.

They had to be told, of course, and took it all with great stoicism, with only a couple of tears from the girls.

Little Alex, who is three, is not much given to public displays of affection, but he squeezed his Nana as fiercely as though his very life depended on it.

Hextol Major’s puppy Lexie, who tormented the life out of the old dog, now wanders round the house on her visits with a puzzled air, wondering what the deuce has happened to her favourite plaything.

Mrs Hextol and I have had dogs for virtually all the near 40 years of our married life, and were adamant that the Hextol Hound was to be our last canine companion.

The roll call includes a Border Collie and a Biafran hunting dog – don’t ask – but the last three have all been German Shepherds.

Wouldn’t it be great, we reasoned, to be able to go on holiday without the bother of seeking board and lodgings for the pining pet?

What a relief it would be to get up on a wet and windy morning, and not have to don a sou’wester and mukluks to take her for her morning constitutional?

What a joy it would be to go to bed, and know you would be able to sleep the night through, without the hairy mutt becoming over excited about visiting hedgehogs, provocative cats, bleeping mobile phones and the waning batteries of the smoke alarm

And furthermore, there was little risk of getting up in the morning, and discovering the Hound had suffered major gastric mishaps at either end, as she did with distressing frequency.

Mrs Hextol would also be able to pursue her desire to re-carpet the entire house, without fear of the Axminster being sullied by the muddy paws and shaggy pelt of the world’s hairiest dog.

Yet there appears to be no rush to dash off to Conrad Dickinson’s Kingston Park emporium with measurements and matching curtains.

Instead, Mrs Hextol can still be seen looking wistfully at the RSPCA’s adverts in the Hexham Courant ....

Published by http://www.hexhamcourant.co.uk