This story is called Petra - its about a Boxer dog....

PETRA

To the side of my house, I have a garden. It is South facing and it enjoys the suns rays all day long. 

In the far corner of the garden, I used to have a rhododendron bush. It was beautiful. Lush green leaves and vibrant purple flowers adorned my property with colour to welcome in each spring and to herald out the last days of autumn. It had always been my favourite part of the garden. 

I remember the day when I planted the tiny bush that was 7 years ago. A hole 2 feet long, by 2 feet wide, by 2 feet deep, the booklet said. I dug that hole with such diligence. I am no gardener and have never managed to get anything to grow properly before. This bush was to be my horticultural triumph. All my best intentions went awry, I had to stop with the hole only half dug. Do you know how difficult it is to wield a spade when you have a lively, curious puppy running and scampering around your ankles? 

I got cross at first, “Petra!! Get out of the damned way!”, but her large black eyes just stared lovingly up at me, and her little tail began to waggle even faster. In a gesture of defiance, she yelped a squeaky bark at me and continued jumping into and out of the hole I was digging. 

9 weeks old, this dog was going to be a handful. I had been warned that Boxers were an exuberant breed and that the puppy in them would last a life-time, I remember hoping that she would calm down at least a little. “And no thoughts of digging this bush out of the ground, young lady” I bellowed. My stern words were met with a quizzical look, her little head tilting to one side in a manner that I would come to recognise and love in the years to come. After a momentary pause, she lurched forward and her needle sharp teeth took a firm hold of the leg of my jeans and she began tugging at the material with surprising strength, almost causing me to lose balance. 

I dropped the spade and fell to the floor, growling in my best doggy voice as I took her jowls in my hands and began to play-fight with her. Petra eagerly joined the game, ducking and weaving nimbly from my grasp and attacking the back of my collar, all the while making the sounds of a ferocious hunter, albeit a tiny baby one. 

We often had play fights after that. As Petra got older, so the odds were levelled out and I was often forced to submit to her. It takes total and utter trust to allow a large, powerful dog to stand over you with your arm in her jaws. Equally it takes a huge amount of trust for a dog to allow you to pin it to the ground on its back and pretend to bite at its throat. 

I suppose if I had ever had children, I would be playing these games with them, but as my wife and I are childless, so my affection for Petra grew day by day. One gets used to having one’s shadow around and Petra was indeed my shadow. She followed me everywhere around the house. When I went through my ritual before leaving for work, putting on my tie, fixing my hair, she would look so sad and would slink away and sit under the table. The two minutes before I left the house were more or less the only time we were separated. 

Bath time was especially notable.  If I were to take a bath, she would sit just inside the bathroom door, sniffing at the air as the steam lifted the scent of bath-oils into the atmosphere. When I closed the door and lowered myself into the water, she would be there, her chin resting casually on the side of the bath, looking at me. There was no room for modesty in my home. 

I work shifts, and when on the late shift, I take my shower late in the day. Petra allowed me to take this particular act of self-grooming on my own, but, without fail, when I returned to my bedroom to get dressed, she would be there laying on the bed. 

Petra was not allowed on the bed, she knew that well, and everyday the same drama unfurled. I would feign surprise as I walked in and she would bury her muzzle deeper into the blankets, so that just those huge dark eyes were left, staring pitifully up at me. I would growl in a low voice “what are YOU doing up there my girl?”. She would then turn her head coyly away from me and her tail would begin to wag slowly. It appeared to me that if Petra could not see me, then I could not see her, and so she would settle comfortably back into the sheets and begin to breath the slow deep breaths of a dog who is in a contented sleep. 

She never watched me dress, and yet, when I walked from that room, she always leaped to her feet and followed me out as though she hadn’t been asleep at all. 

We even watched the TV together. For two or three years I tried to cuddle my wife when we were watching something good on the telly. Petra would carefully haul herself up onto the settee and inch between us until we were apart, then she would sit by my side, her large noble head level with my own.  In time habit dictated that my wife and I chose different chairs to sit in, Petra simply decided that my lap was to be her TV-watching position. I would stroke her lazily behind the ears and she would yawn and stretch at my touch, as happy as a dog could possibly be, I’d like to think. 

Petra was loved by all of my family. We once visited my brother and his wife and of course my dog came too. She would sit quietly at my side at all times. I recall that one night we were watching a film and we were disturbed by a cry. My brother immediately looked panicked and dashed for the stairs. They had a stair-guard at the top and as he rushed out he shouted something about the damn guard coming open again. Fearing the worst we all ran to the stairs to find my brother halfway up, shaking his head. There, at the top of the stairs was their son, Charlie. He had got out of his cot and had crawled to the landing. As my brother had feared the stair-gate was open, but laid across the aperture was Petra, blocking Charlie’s dangerous advance. I hadn’t even noticed her leave my side. As we walked up the stairs, she trotted nonchalantly down into the living room once more and took her position beside my chair. I believe that she ate steak that night. 

Boxer dogs, like most pedigrees, don’t live to a great age. You can maybe expect 10 to 12 years for a breed that has a snub-nose. I had contemplated what it would be like to lose Petra, but not too much, as the image was an extremely painful one to me. Still, in the summer of last year, when she was six, I was happy in the knowledge that we still had several years of companionship left within us. 

The warnings had been right, Petra had never really grown out of puppy-hood and as we walked in the forest, she was her usual manic self, jumping and running about like an excited child at the zoo. She often chased the ducks by the pond, only to be thwarted as they waddled and scrambled into the water before taking to air in graceful flight, hooting their triumph at Petra as she barked and wagged her tail below. She would crash into the pond, water spraying all over the place, and swim in circles looking up at the birds in the sky. 

On this particular day, the pond was frozen over, and the ducks were sat in small groups, their heads turned backwards and nestled into their wings for warmth. Petra bounded after them, her low impressive bark causing them to scatter in a maelstrom of disorder. As the birds took to the sky, she ran onwards, preparing herself for the usual leap into the water. 

I laughed hysterically as her legs made contact with the ice and she back-peddled furiously in surprise, skidding out of control on the ice. Her momentum carried her forward in a comical arc towards the centre of the pond and I swear that for a brief moment she looked as if she were enjoying this new experience. 

The noise the ice made when it cracked will stay with me forever. Not loud and startling, but my recollection is that it made a slow straining noise before the merest of snaps. The next sound was the yelp from Petra as she fell into the freezing cold water. She disappeared under the surface for 5, maybe 6 seconds before emerging several feet away from the edge of the ice. Her strong paws clawing at the water. I ran forward in blind panic. I was three of four feet out onto the ice before it gave way beneath me and I sank to my knees in water. Forced to go back, I shouted for Petra to come to me, to head in the right direction at least. 

I could see the desperation in her eyes as my dog fought against the water. She made it to the ice but was unable to lift herself onto the slippery surface; again and again she tried to no avail. I started out across the ice again, on my belly this time, remembering from somewhere deep inside that this would prevent the ice from breaking. As I fell into the water and darkness took me over, I noticed the look of determination on Petra’s face. She would not succumb to the water as easily as I. 

As I regained consciousness at the side of the pond, I could hear people clapping. The man who had pulled me out of the water cheered loudly and I turned my head to see Petra stood wearily on the ice, shaking. She moved slowly towards me, her eyes fixed on my own. As she reached the place where I lay, she gently licked my face and I am sure that I recognised the look of worry in those features. I hugged my dog close to me, and our bodies kept eachother warm. 

I had to stay in hospital for the night to be ‘observed’ by the doctors. Forget it !! My wife had taken Petra home and had come to visit me after arranging for my brother to stay at our place. When she arrived I was dressed and ready to discharge myself. After arguing for 20 minutes, we left. 

We got home soon after and my fears were realised. Petra looked very ill indeed. Her eyes looked even darker than usual, and when she looked at me, my heart froze. She looked like an old man, tired and frightened. As I stroked her behind the ears, her tail swept slowly from side to side and her spirits rose again. She followed me to my chair and sat in my arms all evening. 

The next day, things had almost returned to normal. Petra was a little slower and calmer than usual, but the spirit had returned to her eyes. I was much happier as I went about getting ready for my late shift at work. I sang as I took my shower and I felt as though yesterday had been nothing more than a bad dream. 

Petra wasn’t on the bed as I walked into my bedroom. My smile instantly disappeared from my face as I dropped my towel and raced into the living room. 

Her lifeless body was laying outstretched at the foot of my chair. I cried and cried as I cradled her sweet head in my arms, rocking her backwards and forwards. All the stroking and pleading in the world would not bring my friend back to me. 

The vet told me later that Petra had suffered a heart attack. Boxers are known to have weak hearts.

To the side of my house, I have a garden. It is south facing and it enjoys the suns rays all day long. 

In the far corner of the garden, there is a patch of bare soil. Newly dug and smoothed over. Where my rhododendron bush used to grow, lay the remains of Petra. I will be planting a new bush there soon, to be nourished and fed by the unique spirit of my departed friend. It will have lush green leaves and vibrant purple flowers.  It will always be my favourite part of the garden.