Tara has enjoyed the affection of two sets of grandchildren over the years.
Her patience knows no end!
She was a cute fluffy bundle of black, white and tan, an interesting mix of Jack Russell and Maltese Terrier, with bright little eyes encased in a body wriggling with endless energy. Her razor sharp teeth were ready to pounce and gnaw on any unsuspecting fingers that came within reach. To try to keep her occupied I tied an elastic bandage to the front of the chair, which she took to with gusto, pulling and tearing with ferocious growling. Her energy was enormous for such a small bundle of fluff.
My husband, Terry, was seriously ill, and I thought she might bring some joy into his days which were now wracked with pain from the cancer that had spread throughout his body. And it seemed this would be so as she finally curled up, exhausted, on his chest and he smiled. We decided to call her Tara. Something to do with our Irish ancestry perhaps.
Sadly it was not to be so, as the next day Terry was taken by ambulance to hospital. The pressure of the tumors on his spine had caused paralysis from his waist down and radiotherapy was the only answer. He didn’t come home again. But Tara continued to visit him in hospital. Probably against all hospital rules I carried her through the corridors discreetly tucked into a basket covered with a tea towel, with a biscuit or two to keep her quiet. Once deposited on his hospital bed she would wriggle her way slowly upwards until she was tucked under his arm, with a lick deposited here and there.
Even from the puppy stage she seemed to have an empathy for those who were sick or sad, her soulful eyes conveying a world of sympathy. When my youngest daughter was in bed recovering from having all her wisdom teeth extracted, Tara snuggled up beside her, and didn’t move all day, as if to say, “I’m here for you.” When I was coping with the early days of being alone, Tara was always by my side, following me from room to room, sleeping next to my chair, watching me eat my meals – of course, always hoping for a tasty morsel to drop from my plate. If I wept over some distressing incident, she would hover close, or press up against my legs, to try to comfort me. After I broke my foot and was on crutches, with a boot to support the injured appendage, she was most puzzled and followed me wherever I went, watching my strange efforts at walking.
Most of all she loved playing with the three little daughters of my oldest daughter when they came to visit. She patiently put up with being dressed up, often sitting patiently with the doctors glasses on her nose and stethoscope around her neck. If things got too boring, she would snatch a piece of the dress-ups, and take off around the house, with the grandchildren in hot pursuit. Playing tug-of-war with an old towel was a favourite, with much furious shaking and growling to add to the drama, often with a grandchild being towed around the room on slippery socks. Those grandchildren have grown into adults now, and my younger daughter and her three boys come from Tasmania to visit from time to time. Although Tara is older, she is just as patient and tolerant with them and their games, and they love her with the same passion as their predecessors. Her energy for the tug-of-war isn’t quite as great, but she still trots off to the laundry to get the towel and drag it out to have a go. There isn’t any malice in her little body – in fact she’s a bit of a sook, so can be trusted around little children and is clever enough to dart in and out for a quick look all the while keeping well out of range of those waving baby hands that love to grab handfuls of fur and pull.
It’s 16 years since she joined our family. Now she is old, her hearing has gone and her eyes are clouding over, but she still bounces about with all the excitement and joy of a puppy at the possibility of a treat or a walk. She understands sign language extremely well, and can interpret all my hand waving and thigh slapping without any problems. Her endearing ‘one ear up and one ear down’ look hasn’t altered, and her feathery tail still curves over her back, waving furiously like a banner in the breeze when she is excited.
We are growing old together, and I will sadly miss her when she is gone.