“I advise you not to be present when it’s done,” the vet suggested, kindly. We agreed later that he only said this to give us permission not to witness the death of our beloved dog. “No,” we all answered instantly, “we’ll be with him when it happens.”
Our family had finally reached the conclusion that Mitzpah, our faithful 15-and-a-half- year-old companion, was suffering too much and wouldn’t get better. The time had come to make the decision every pet owner dreads.
We’d had Mitzpah, or rather he’d had us, since we brought him home from a sheep farm in mid-Wales. I’d spotted a sign saying “Border collie puppies for sale”,and made the notorious mistake of asking the children, “Shall we just go and look?”
He was 10 weeks old when he curled up on my wife’s lap and slept through the journey to the unfamiliar cityscape of London. He was born for shepherding on the hills; I consoled him with the thought that although there weren’t any sheep, he would, as a rabbi’s dog, at least have a flock.
He loved going to shul. All I had to do in the morning was call out “shacharit” and he’d come flying. Sadly, the tactic has proved less successful with humans. He slept during services, responding only in Elul when the sound of the shofar roused him to some remarkably accurate imitations.
Perhaps he felt the need to repent. He was far from perfectly behaved, though, as most dog trainers tell us, the misdemeanours of their canines are really the fault of their owners. There’s never a time when one can say of one’s dog baruch shepetarani, the berachah some parents say at their children’s bnei mitzvah: “Blessed be God who’s freed me from responsibility for this one.” Actually, it’s not true about parenting either.
Mitzpah went everywhere with me. When I say “went”, I don’t mean in a straight line. The moment he was off the lead, he’d race for a tree or wall, from behind which only his huge, eager ears would betray his watchful presence. It was my wife who understood first: “He instinctively behaves as if there’s a flock of animals between us and him.” He accompanied me on my “hundred-miles-in-a-week round London” adventure, gaining special dispensations to enter almost everywhere except the Houses of Parliament. Perhaps they feared that, as Shakespeare put it, “a dog’s obeyed in office” and the country wasn’t to be put at risk.
He shared my pilgrimage up the Rhine, from my grandfather’s synagogue in Frankfurt-am-Main all the way to the North Sea.
At the close of each day’s walk, while I wrote my blog, he’d stretch out full length on the bed, only grudgingly allowing me any space. Once or twice, I found it simpler to sleep on the floor.
He was very photogenic. I think it was the cry of “cheese” which taught him to look the lens in the eye.
He grew gentler in old age, and our love for him deepened. He took to lockdown rescue puppy Nessie with a beleaguered tolerance that gradually morphed into affection. Our children were wonderful with him when he weakened. Even at the close of his life, synagogue was the one place he wanted to go. My walks there slowed as the dog, for a decade the fastest in the park, bravely endeavoured to make it uphill to prayers. I often said the Shema with him. This wasn’t just because I’m sentimental. I felt connected through him with that invisible consciousness which flows through us all from the source of life.
We were equally part of a great and humbling world, embracing humans, animals, and trees. He helped me feel God’s oneness.
I see Mitzpah now in my study, looking at me, then falling back into a doze. But he’s gone. His bowl’s still there, and fur he shed in abandon. I can’t yet bear to sweep it away.
We all held him as the lethal dose took effect. We wanted his last sight on earth to be the eyes of those he loved and whom he knew loved him.
We’ve had hundreds of messages. Love has many paths to the heart, and some are lined with pawprints.
Jonathan Wittenberg is the Senior Rabbi of Masorti Judaism UK
