Opinion:Dog gone: tribute

Our Cara is dead. In the midst of the frenzy of meetings with governments and others, and endless flights across the Irish Sea, Cara Adams, a 10-year-old Rottweiler and a cherished member of our family, died.

He hadn't been himself for some time. His predecessor, also a Rottweiler (also called Cara) had died around the same age. So his decline wasn't unexpected. By the way, Belfast dogs generally take the family surname. We've always had canines. Darkie Adams was my uncle's dog until he went to Canada. My uncle that is, not Darkie. Darkie stayed. He became my dog. Ever since then I've never been without a doggie friend. One thing you can be certain of, no matter how long you're away from home, a dog will always be glad to see you. Sometimes we've had two or three mutts. For 20 years or more we've never had less than two. That way, they always have company. And of course they've had their friends. Spot Flynn. Bruno McAuley. Bran Brennan. Ginty McGuinness. Snowy McArdle.

One time – on the issue of names – a young niece of mine came in crying to her mother with her little pup in her arms.

"Mammy, mammy, will you tell them wee lads that my dog's called Tiny Adams? They say he's called Jack Russell!"

The British Army used to poison dogs. You always knew the Brits were in the neighbourhood by the way the dogs barked. One of our dogs, Micky Adams, was knocked down and killed by a Saracen. He was a good dog – a mongrel collie. Another – a German Shepherd, Shane – was stolen by them. We met later in the cages of Long Kesh. By then he had been forced to change sides. Until he saw me. Then he remembered who he was.

I don't even know if Cara ever met a British soldier. Probably not.

He was about the same age as the IRA cessations and although the British are still in republican heartlands, there hasn't been a foot patrol in our street in a very long while. Cara was a very intelligent dog. Very placid. And when he got to about eight he grew a little grey beard, not unlike my own. I thought it made him look very distinguished.

Rotweillers have a fearsome name and undoubtedly they could do damage, particularly to a child, so you have to be careful. Cara was very good with human beings, provided they were friends. His problem was with other dogs. But he was biddable as well. When our granddaughter Drithle arrived almost five years ago, he took to her, and she to him, though we never left the two of them on their own.

When Cara got sick – the vet diagnosed it as cancer of the bone – he got stiff and slowed down, and got a wee bit grumpy as well. We knew eventually that he would have to be put to sleep. That's how the vet described it anyway. We had to tell Drithle.

I brought her out to Cara and told her that he was going to die.

"Is he going to Heaven?" she asked.

"Yes," I replied.

They bid each other farewell. An hour or so later, when I took Cara for his very last short walk, Drithle and her friend Padraig were in the street.

"Is Cara really going to heaven?" Padraig asked me.

"Yes," I said.

When Cara and I returned 10 minutes later Drithle and Padraig were engrossed in earnest conversation.

"Is he back from heaven again?" they asked.

"No," I said. "He's going now."

Cara loved to go to Donegal. He and our Osgur and I would walk for miles along mountainy ranges or long, deserted beaches. He was never as energetic as Osgur. After a short period of exertion, running about and doing things that dogs do when they get out of the back of a car, he would tuck himself in behind me and swagger along at my heel. Because he was a big dog with a dense black coat, to cool himself down, he would lie in a pool of water, a bog hole, a river or a mucky swamp along the way, even in the winter. One of my best memories of him is on seashore walks, when periodically he would lie in the tide and let the waves wash over him.

Going to Donegal was the only time he ever got into the car. In a way I suppose he associated the car with Donegal. He always got excited when he knew he was going on a journey. So as the car arrived he became his old self again and sprang up into the back seat. I didn't go with him. He gazed out the back window as the car headed off to the vet's and I knew he was looking forward to the long white strand and the tide coming in off Tory Sound. Drithle and Padraig and I waved goodbye.

"Now he's away to heaven," Padraig said.

"Slán, Cara," said Drithle.

Nollaig shona daoibh.