At 10.57am last Friday morning I was in the vet’s waiting room with my husband and Norah The Dog. She’d been having seizures (which we now know were heart attacks) with increasing frequency - four in the previous 12 hours. But in recent months, like Kathy Bates at the end of Misery, she had a habit of reaching the brink of death, then springing back to life as if nothing had happened and we were all making a fuss.

Norah turned 16 in October last year, which would make her about 115 in human years. Even by dog standards she was old, more than double the age at which dogs are termed geriatric. But she was so determined to keep on going. With a questionable attitude, a lolloping strut in her step, and having ingested an extraordinary array of drugs, our dog walker gave her the nickname “Keith Richards”.

Time to go

Our vet called us to his room and we took Norah in, expecting him to suggest different medication or some sort of intervention as had been the case so many times before. Norah was in no pain, still lucid, and enthusiastic of appetite if nothing else, having just walloped down a slice of best ham before we left the house. The vet listened to her heart. His face changed as he did more tests. He told us her heart rate should be at around 140, maximum 160. Hers was racing erratically at 220. He told us she had hours left to live, if that, and at this point, putting her gently to sleep would be the kindest, calmest option. I heard a wounded animal sound. It came from me. My husband and I held each other and our big fluffy dog.

We asked to have a bit more time with her at home so we could get our son out of school to say his goodbyes. He’s nearly 15. We got Norah from the RSPCA when she was just eight weeks old, 18 months before he was born, so she’s been his dog, his big sister, for his entire life.

We stole an hour with her at home. Betty The Whippet had a sniff of Norah’s face. We all had our time with her individually, to whisper what we wanted to say into her velvet ears and feel her thick, soft fur running between our fingers. I told Norah, my first pet, my little girl, my best friend, that she was one of the biggest loves of my whole life. I thanked her for letting me love her, and for loving me back.

Hard to believe

Before we set back off to the vet’s she had another heart attack. We knew that letting her go was the right thing to do. And even though I have questioned the decision every minute since, I know that saying a longer goodbye, one that I would have wanted, with a last walk in the park and a plate of her favourite homemade waffles, would have been for my benefit, not hers. That’s assuming she would have even made it through another hour or so.

She left this life on Friday afternoon, with my husband, my son and me holding her, stroking her face, telling her that we love her. Even now, the house feels like a strange place. It’s so quiet, so empty. I am still finding it hard to believe that I won’t ever see her beautiful face again or feel her pushing her cheek into my hand when I scratch behind her ear. Everything reminds me of her. Betty The Whippet won’t get out of bed or eat her breakfast. All of us are hit by tidal waves of grief.

Business as usual

Over the weekend, we decided that we would do whatever we needed to do to get by, then get on with business as usual on Monday. Business as usual, however, was not business as usual for me. At 10.57am on Friday morning, I also received the email from work to say that Ofsted would be arriving for full in pection.

It was a struggle to care. I made sure my paperwork was what it should be, my marking was up to date and my classes were planned, as I always try to. I was content to do my best if I had a visitor and do what I could to support my colleagues, but beyond that… 

When the sense of creeping doom that lots of us associate with an impending Ofsted inspection is drowned out by one the worst times of your life, it’s a bit easier to see Ofsted for what it is. Some people who come and check that our houses are in order. And if our houses are in order (assuming that inspectors are thorough and fair) it really is just business as usual.

Rest in peace, my sweet love. Norah The Dog, 2002-2019.

Sarah Simons works in colleges and adult community education in the East Midlands and is the director of UKFEchat. She tweets @MrsSarahSimons