was a gentle, humorous spirit sent to be a companion to human beings who did not deserve such straightforward affection. Generous, forgiving, she seemed to me to embody the spirit of Bethany, and I felt that when she died something of the place would die too: a special, lowly innocence.
Even Simon, who, while insisting that animals be respected, made it clear that they were not to be regarded as equals,recognised Estherâs quality. He described her as a âmature dogâ, meaning that she had developed to the limits of her nature. He inclined to the view that in her previous incarnation she had been human. The other members of the group also seemed to believe this â certainly Alex did. I did not. For one thing, try as I might I had never been easy with the doctrine of reincarnation: I found it intellectually repugnant. For another, if Esther had been a human being and was now a dog, presumably she had committed some very bad sins in her previous existence to merit this demotion, and I was sure that Estherâs soul was unspotted. I also failed to see why one should assume that a bad human being would make a good dog. Surely a soul that made a bad job of being human would be likely to make a bad job of anything?
Esther bore her pain with dignity. Alex and I had decided, as soon as the first lump manifested itself, that having her âput downâ was out of the question. We had taken that decision in principle years earlier when two of our kid goats, clumsily dehorned by the vet, had suffered brain damage resulting in a gradual twisting-round of the neck. The spectacle was grotesque and evoked extreme reactions in visitors, who could not understand why we had not had the animals killed as soon as it began to happen. It was clear to Alex and me that the visitors were far more concerned with their own emotions than they were with the kids, about whom they had made the unexamined assumption that they were suffering so much they would rather be dead. Alex and I were not at all sure the kids were suffering, and even if they were, was death necessarily better than pain? How much did pain matter? How much did life matter? It seemed to us that no human could answer these questions, and that the average human, confronted by these deformed goats, would kill them because he could not bear the sight of them, and would call it pity.
We refused to do it. We helped the kids to feed, and waited until the day when they could no longer do anything at all to feed themselves. On that day, since they had ceased to be viableorganisms, we called in the vet with a humane killer. For some time afterwards we suffered strange looks from people we knew.
We felt we had done our best to handle correctly a situation in which we had been at fault in the first place. We should not have had the kids de-horned. Henceforth, we vowed, no vet should set foot on the premises; if any disease arose among the animals, we would treat it herbally. However, we had reckoned without Esther. When an animal shows clear signs of a malignant growth, for which there is no known natural cure, what do you do?
We took her to a young vet whom we trusted: he had not been practising long, but was capable and compassionate. Or, rather, I took her. Alex had gone to London. I went home in my lunch-hour and took Esther to the surgery, and collected her at half-past five after the operation. Poor Esther. Barely conscious, drugged, shocked and sick, she opened her eyes as I entered the room and her tail thumped once on the floor. I carried her in a blanket into the back of the Mini and took her home. It was difficult, on my own, getting her out of the car, carrying her up the steps and into the kitchen and putting her down, all without altering the position of the hind legs, but I managed it. When Alex phoned that evening I was able to tell her that Esther had come through the operation well and was asleep in her usual corner.
Six weeks later, when Esther had
Even Simon, who, while insisting that animals be respected, made it clear that they were not to be regarded as equals,recognised Estherâs quality. He described her as a âmature dogâ, meaning that she had developed to the limits of her nature. He inclined to the view that in her previous incarnation she had been human. The other members of the group also seemed to believe this â certainly Alex did. I did not. For one thing, try as I might I had never been easy with the doctrine of reincarnation: I found it intellectually repugnant. For another, if Esther had been a human being and was now a dog, presumably she had committed some very bad sins in her previous existence to merit this demotion, and I was sure that Estherâs soul was unspotted. I also failed to see why one should assume that a bad human being would make a good dog. Surely a soul that made a bad job of being human would be likely to make a bad job of anything?
Esther bore her pain with dignity. Alex and I had decided, as soon as the first lump manifested itself, that having her âput downâ was out of the question. We had taken that decision in principle years earlier when two of our kid goats, clumsily dehorned by the vet, had suffered brain damage resulting in a gradual twisting-round of the neck. The spectacle was grotesque and evoked extreme reactions in visitors, who could not understand why we had not had the animals killed as soon as it began to happen. It was clear to Alex and me that the visitors were far more concerned with their own emotions than they were with the kids, about whom they had made the unexamined assumption that they were suffering so much they would rather be dead. Alex and I were not at all sure the kids were suffering, and even if they were, was death necessarily better than pain? How much did pain matter? How much did life matter? It seemed to us that no human could answer these questions, and that the average human, confronted by these deformed goats, would kill them because he could not bear the sight of them, and would call it pity.
We refused to do it. We helped the kids to feed, and waited until the day when they could no longer do anything at all to feed themselves. On that day, since they had ceased to be viableorganisms, we called in the vet with a humane killer. For some time afterwards we suffered strange looks from people we knew.
We felt we had done our best to handle correctly a situation in which we had been at fault in the first place. We should not have had the kids de-horned. Henceforth, we vowed, no vet should set foot on the premises; if any disease arose among the animals, we would treat it herbally. However, we had reckoned without Esther. When an animal shows clear signs of a malignant growth, for which there is no known natural cure, what do you do?
We took her to a young vet whom we trusted: he had not been practising long, but was capable and compassionate. Or, rather, I took her. Alex had gone to London. I went home in my lunch-hour and took Esther to the surgery, and collected her at half-past five after the operation. Poor Esther. Barely conscious, drugged, shocked and sick, she opened her eyes as I entered the room and her tail thumped once on the floor. I carried her in a blanket into the back of the Mini and took her home. It was difficult, on my own, getting her out of the car, carrying her up the steps and into the kitchen and putting her down, all without altering the position of the hind legs, but I managed it. When Alex phoned that evening I was able to tell her that Esther had come through the operation well and was asleep in her usual corner.
Six weeks later, when Esther had
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