At the weekend, my mum told me a story about my brother from when we were younger, that I have absolutely no recollection of what-so-ever. When he was 11 (I would have been 13, so this can’t have been long after my family moved to Walsall to run our boarding kennels) he took care of a rescued dog that was boarding with us at that time.
The dog, a Labrador called Jake, was re-homed once already, where he was given full run of the house and garden, and enjoyed a happy time there. Unfortunately, his new owners had this house repossessed, and so Jake had to once again find a new home.
However, by now Jake was too old and unlikely to re-homed, so my brother took it upon himself to take care of him whilst he stayed with us. Everyday after school, he would take him into the field and play with him, look after him at weekends, and generally, befriend this old sole.
Jake by now was suffering from Laryngal Paralysis, and eventually the time had come to take him to the vets to put him to sleep. My brother was of course heartbroken, but was keen to accompany his friend on his last journey. When the time came to go into the room and see Jake put to sleep however, my brother couldn’t bring himself to do it. The following two days, he went to sleep crying his eyes out, guilty that he was not there with Jake to the end.
This is obviously a very emotional story, and no doubt a massive part of my brothers growing up—yet I have no recollection of these events.