Rachel Moore

When people talk about making the hardest decision of their life, it rarely really is.

The toughest decisions are matters of life and death.

Last Thursday, I was faced with the worst decision of nearly six decades; to say goodbye to the greatest, faithful, loyal giver of unconditional devotion, joy and comfort.

His big cloudy tired brown eyes told me it was time. My gorgeous, mischievous, loving Golden Retriever, Leo, needed to let go, two months’ shy of his 16th birthday.

Never had I needed to decide to end a life, but this decision lay with me, and me alone - to put my companion, supporter, mood-lifter and all-round-best friend through thick and thin to sleep.

So desperate to please, as ever, he stoically struggled through the arthritis gripping his back legs to hobble to the door to come with us wherever we were going. No longer able to jump into the back of the car, he’d wait patiently to be lifted.

He didn’t care where we were heading, he just wanted to be part of what was going on. If it turned out to be the beach, he was ecstatic, barking his joy to feel the water on his paws and have all the seaside sniffs.

In the last few weeks, his increasing pain was clear. Conditioned to please, he struggled on. But no one wants their loved ones to be in pain.

Super strong pain killers turned our cheeky, perky friend into sleeping zombie.

His walks had dwindled to 100 yards up the road. It was no life for a dog.

A Facebook video from two years ago popped up of him running free across the fields between Acle and Upton with his canine mates, Reggie and Sidney. Now, a centenarian in dog years, running was a distant memory.

Even last year’s New Year’s Day, he could walk the hour to settle in front of the fire at Upton’s White Horse and home again. This year, he had to be taken by car.

A venerable old gentleman who napped, nestled close and wanted to be part of whatever we were doing, he loved being a pub dog.

I can see him clearly snoozing, his head propped against a barrel in Winterton’s Fisherman’s Return, the day after Boxing Day, and sniffing his way across the city centre on Sundays for lunch with friends at The Golden Star, where he’d try to sneak into the kitchen when no one was looking, and under the highchair of a small child. He adored children.

Everyone who had dogs – Leo was my first and only – told us we would know when the time came.

Last Wednesday night, I knew. His back legs were giving up. He needed to be lifted to stand. His exhausted eyes told me all I needed to know.

I’m so thankful we gave him a swan song the weekend before - a walk at Caister beach, the Winterton pub and the White Horse lunch.

It felt apt to return to Upton, where he grew up, arriving at eight weeks, becoming Leo from his kennel name Leonardo Saturn Star, and because he looked like a lion cub.

One of six boy puppies, he was the naughtiest, funniest and barkiest, winding up his brothers. He was never going to be the easiest dog, hyperactive and headstrong, you could feel his excitement trembling through his lead. He was wired to bounce.

He was never a training star, to put it mildly. My most embarrassing moments have been with him.

Known as the Houdini dog, he could escape through the smallest of holes, open closed gates and open a lever doorhandle with a deft paw, disappearing on an adventure in seconds.

He regularly rocked up in neighbours’ homes sniffing out their Chinese takeaways or joining children for breakfast in their kitchens.

We’ll gloss over the night he was picked up by a dog warden and had a night in the dog pound.

Food obsessed; his selected deafness was always rumbled when he could hear the rustle of a cheese wrapper from 100m.

A whole Christmas ham, complete with studded cloves, was devoured when my back was turned, and I can still see the shredded fancy frock a delivery person left hanging over the garden gate and feathers flying from cushions he attacked and birds he chased.

He life was long and happy, sailing on the Broads in his red lifejacket, pounding the streets of London visiting his human ‘brothers’ and trips to Devon.

Faced with the muddy or dry route on walks, he would choose the muddiest every time.

When he arrived, my sons were at primary school. They have been through school, university and are settled into jobs and living in London.

It’s been a week now. His long blond hairs remain everywhere. My first waking thought is still him; I still expect to see him where his bed was and can still feel him nudging my elbow for attention as I type.

As my friend and his dog sitter, Gillian, described him, he was a legend. A glorious spirit, comfort and steadfast companion who saw me through the toughest of times.

I’m glad I could tell him as he fell asleep, munching on chicken being stroked by us:

Thank you so much for everything. You were, and will always be, Leo the Legend.