Just a Dog

Arthur Ryan: 15.06.2020 – 28.08.2026

Apologies for the radio silence, dear friends. We’ve been on an emotional rollercoaster for the past few weeks. I’m going to write about it because many of you knew Arthur, and because it’s another chapter in the saga of navigating difficult situations in a foreign country. And also because writing helps me process things.

If you’re having a bad day today, maybe save this one for later…

You’ve probably gathered by now that Arthur — my epic champion boy, twice (arguably thrice!) winner of the Scotland Island Dog Race and the best dog anyone could wish for — has left us. We are heartbroken. He was only six years old.

This story began in mid‑July. Arthur started making gagging noises, as if trying to clear his throat. We were mildly concerned and checked his mouth for a rogue stick, sock, or miscellaneous object — all perfectly plausible given his Labrador tendency to eat anything not nailed down.

Soon after, a lump appeared near his back end, but he still seemed happy and very much himself.

He still had his Houdini complex, so we were often seen chasing him around the village — sometimes on foot, sometimes in the car, always looking like incompetent dog owners in a French comedy.

He also developed a fondness for the small spa pool at home. Arthur loved the ocean but seemed afraid of swimming pools and would never get into one voluntarily. The spa, however, was just his size. You could look out the window and see his head poking up like a very wet meerkat.

What we did notice was that although he still had his Labrador enthusiasm for food, he was taking much longer to eat it. It looked like he had a sore throat. I started soaking his food, which helped.

A trip to the local vet — who thankfully speaks English — resulted in a diagnosis of kennel cough and a prescription for antibiotics. What followed were two sleepless nights (I’ll spare you the details), and we thought he was reacting badly to the medication.

Back we went.

New antibiotics were prescribed, but he couldn’t keep them down. Then came a worrying few days where he refused to eat or drink — the moment you know a Labrador is truly in trouble.

We returned to the vet. Our usual vet was on holiday, so we saw another English‑speaking vet. She suggested a chest X‑ray.

I expected pneumonia.

I was ready for pneumonia.

I was not ready for what happened next.

She showed us a huge dark patch in Arthur’s chest. Most likely a tumour. A scan would tell us more. It was Friday; the earliest scan was Monday. We spent the weekend desperately trying to get food and water into him.

On Monday we drove an hour to Montpellier. This vet also spoke English. He told us Arthur had a mega‑oesophagus — whatever was growing in his chest was pressing on his oesophagus so severely that food couldn’t pass through. It was collecting and stretching the oesophagus.

Suddenly everything made sense.

For a brief moment, we felt hope. Mega‑oesophagus can be managed. Maybe this was fixable.

We left Arthur for the day. When we returned, the news was devastating. An extensive tumour in his chest, pressing on major blood vessels. The lump at his back end had spread to his spine.

A biopsy and fine needle aspiration were taken. We’d have to wait for results. There was a small chance — depending on the tumour type — that targeted therapy might help.

By the time we got home, Arthur’s breathing was laboured. It was horrible to watch.

We told the kids.

Our middle daughter was so upset she immediately booked a flight to France.

Over the next two days, Arthur deteriorated. I spent a sleepless night listening to him struggle to breathe. In the early morning, I called my daughter — not yet on the plane — and told her we might need to make the kindest decision, and she might not get to see him. There were many tears. She decided to come anyway.

Then the vet called. One of the tests showed extensive lymphoma — treatable in dogs with chemotherapy. He explained the protocol (the same used in humans) and reassured us that dogs tolerate chemo well. The first step was an aggressive enzyme treatment to kill cancer cells immediately. We agreed, though I wasn’t sure Arthur would make it to Tuesday when the treatment was planned for.

But he hung in there.

On Tuesday we drove back to Montpellier. He stayed all day. When we returned, our English‑speaking vet wasn’t there, and another vet spoke to us in French — she promised to speak slowly but inevitably sped up as she began explaining to us. I caught about three‑quarters of it.

Arthur didn’t look better. His breathing was still terrible. I chastised myself for expecting a miracle.

The next day, his back legs were wobbly.

We called the vet — again, not the English‑speaking one — and tried to set up translation apps so that we could understand what was being said. They told us the leg weakness was likely due to spinal involvement, but advised waiting until the next week to see whether chemo helped. We agreed.

But Arthur was struggling. It was excruciating to watch.

On Friday, I used Google Translate to write an email to the vet explaining that Arthur could no longer stand up and his breathing was very laboured. I asked whether his cancer might be too advanced for chemo to help.

The reply came while I was in the supermarket. They had discussed his case and felt we should put him to sleep. I felt overwhelmingly sad, but also relieved — it was the right decision.

The earliest appointment was 5pm. I went home and told the girls.

We sat with Arthur all afternoon. Half an hour before we were due to leave, we gathered around him. His head was in my lap. We reminisced about all the funny moments, shared photos, and told him where we were going and that he wouldn’t suffer much longer.

The girls wanted to come. We carried him to the car in his bed and placed him on their laps.

About 90 seconds into the fifteen‑minute drive, Arthur passed away in the car. He must have known.

We will miss Arthur so very much. He was our first family dog. My shadow. My constant companion. Super protective of me. I think him dying in the car was his way of being his usual obliging self — sparing me the moment of making the final decision. He told us it was his time.

I’m sorry this isn’t an uplifting post. It all happened yesterday. My mind is full. It’s striking how animals become such enormous parts of our families. I know he was “just a dog,” and I chastise myself for being so upset — people go through far worse — but grief doesn’t care about logic.

My poor cousin was visiting this week, so her holiday was dominated by dog drama. She was wonderfully supportive and sent me the poem below, written by vet Noel Fitzpatrick.

Tonight we’re heading into the vines with a picnic and a bottle of champagne to raise a glass to my boy.

I promise my next post will be more upbeat.

Just a Dog – Noel Fitzpatrick

From time to time, people tell me ‘lighten up, it’s just a dog’

Or ‘that’s a lot of money for ‘just a dog’’

They don’t understand the distance travelled, the time spent or the costs involved for ‘Just a dog’

Some of my proudest moments have come about with ‘just a dog’

Many hours have passed and my only company was ‘just a dog’

But I did not once feel slighted.

Some of my saddest moments have been brought about by ‘just a dog’

And in those days of darkness, the gentle touch of ‘just a dog’gave me comfort and a reason to overcome the day.

If you too think it’s ‘just a dog’ then you probably understand phrases like

‘Just a friend’ or ‘just a sunrise’ or ‘just a promise’

‘Just a dog’ brings into my life the very essence of friendship, trust and pure unbridled joy.

‘Just a dog’ brings out the compassion and patience that makes me a better person.

Because of ‘just a dog’ I will rise early, take long walks and look longingly into the future.

So for me, and folks like me, it’s not ‘just a dog’ but an embodiment of all the hopes and dreams of the future, the fond memories of the past and the pure joy of the moment.

‘Just a dog’ brings out what’s good in me and diverts my thoughts away from myself and the worries of the day.

I hope that some day they can understand that it’s not ‘just a dog’ but the thing that gives me humanity and keeps me from being ‘just a man’ or ‘just a woman’

So the next time that you hear the phrase ‘just a dog’, just smile, because they just don’t understand.

A bientôt.