When I die, I want to die like Jemma.

Jemma was a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel that my dad bought for himself after he split from my mum. Cavaliers are a very noble breed of dog, majestic in their soft fur and long ears. They were built purely as affectionate lap dogs, and while they still held some relics of their bird-hunting pasts, they are content to quietly sit and ponder life as the days go by.

At least, that’s what the breeder told us.

It didn’t take long after Jemma came home to my dad’s two bedroom flat for us to figure out that she was perhaps a little different from the rest of her breed. See, we’d been promised that she would grow into her eyes, which as a puppy bulged uncomfortably out of her head like one of those Goldfish you see in children’s fish tanks. But even with this great protruding spheres, which seemed to be attempting to escape the confines of her eye sockets, she seemed unable to express any emotion that wasn’t vague disappointment. It was unsettling.

But Jemma truly was a beautiful dog. She was an amazing companion to my father as he battled through the separation. She lived with him as he jumped between different houses, seemingly unfazed by the constant stream of cardboard boxes and moving vans. Whilst we’d been told to expect that she would spend most of her days comfortably resting, we did expect her to have slightly more grace that she seemed to possess.

For while her Cavalier Counterparts would lie in an almost yoga-like position, Jemma seemed to find it more comfortable to sprawl herself in all four directions of the compass at any one time. Down hallways, across couches and tangled in linen and dirty laundry, Jemma could find herself asleep in her strange position anywhere she could rest her head. And while this was cute when she was a puppy, it became completely unmanageable as she grew into a full-sized dog. For while they aren’t particularly big animals, when flattened out and spread-eagled across a narrow hallway, they will get under your feet.

And it didn’t help that she was unwakeable. And I mean that in the literal sense of the word. When she found herself sleeping in a most inconvenient place, and was accidentally stepped on, she would remain firmly asleep. If a smoke alarm went off, or one of us kids screamed, or if pans were dropped in the kitchen, Jemma remained fast asleep as though nothing had happened. You could tell this, quite obviously, by the great roaring snores that echoed from her squashed nose as she slept.

It is hard to put into words just what this snoring was like. Imagine the sound of a freight train going past your house, derailing, grinding along the ground and then finally smashing into an oil refinery before bursting into flames. The sound that made, along with the following explosion, screaming and sirens from emergency vehicles, is roughly equal to the noise that emanated from this lap-dog’s nostrils as she napped.

Jemma was not a graceful dog.

But when my mum and dad decided to get back together she fit in quite nicely with our odd family. And she made a great friend for my mother’s new Maltese-Shitsu, Bella. Bella was the anti-Jemma. She was a neurotic, anxious mess, who would shake at the sound of a car pulling into the driveway, and hide behind my mother’s feet when it came time to wash the dishes, just in case a noise came that she couldn’t handle. And while Jemma and Bella were the canine odd-couple, they got along famously.

They’d spend every waking moment together, which, while admittedly a limited amount of time where Jemma was concerned, meant that they grew closer and closer. And as my mum and dad repaired their broken relationship, they seemed to grow closer and closer. And I have a suspicion as to what might have sparked their true love for one another.

Pork.

It was after a particularly hearty dinner in my household that the time came to throw away the leftovers. We’d been having pork-cutlets, a personal favourite of my father’s. And as we cleared out the plates, something amazing happened. As my mother looked down from the sink, she was met with four big brown eyes staring at her hungrily.

Not only had the promise of left-over pork drawn out the neurotic shivering mess that was terrified of the kitchen, but it had also managed to awaken the thundering slumber of Jemma, who came bounding into the kitchen with such life and pep that I’m fairly sure my mother questioned her authenticity as our pet. Shocked, my mother gave both of them a fairly large serving of pork, and stared in amazement as each of them scoffed it down like it was their last meal.

Let me be very clear, we fed our dogs very well. And although Bella managed to burn most of her calories through the constant shakes throughout the day, Jemma had grown to a fairly plump size as she reached the stature of a full-sized Cav. Thus this outrageous display of pork-fuelled passion came as such a surprise to the family. And it only got more exaggerated from there.

While Bella was content to wait until after the meals had been served to receive her share of the porcine deliciousness, Jemma became increasingly impatient. As the smell of our dinners began to waft through the house, she’d shift her sleeping position from being sprawled on a couch somewhere, to being sprawled on the carpet looking into the kitchen. From this position she would snort contentedly as she watched her treat being prepared. Then, as it was served, she’d follow the smell to the table where she would sit on the ground at the far end of the table from me. Whilst she initially would wait there for the dinner to be over, after a certain time this wasn’t enough for her. At this time, she began to leap heroically off the ground in a near Olympic display of athletic prowess, just high enough for her hair to clear the top of the table. There, she’d get a split second view of the food, before collapsing in a heap on the floor, just to repeat the steps only a few moments later.

What was most amazing about Jemma’s passion for pork was that it was not evident in any of the other food we’d eat. Sure, she’d accept food scraps if we personally hand delivered them to her on the couch, but she would never bother to move herself from her comfortable seat.But it was something about the smell of pork that motivated her to become the most life-grasping inspiration of any dog in the history of the world. She went from overweight Cavalier King Charles to perky Labrador in a matter of seconds.

And as I grew I began to respect the passion that Jemma felt for her pork. And even though her look of vague disappointment permeated through most of her existence, it was nice to know that there was something that could bring joy to even the most apathetic of animals. When I was eight, I decided that I would write her a song to sing to her every time we made pork. It was called “C’mon Jemma” and while I can’t really remember how it goes I remember the first verse:

C’mon Jemma

Crack me a smile.

Cause at dinner time,

You know it’ll be worthwhile!

And while she never made the connection between my master song writing and the promise of pork, I like to think that behind the blank stares of contempt was at least a subtle enjoyment of my song for her. I certainly got a kick out of singing her the song, seeing as it also signalled that I would be getting pork for dinner.

We had pork on November 14, 2005. I don’t know why I remember the date so well, after all of these years. I’d just finished singing my song to her, receiving my usual vacant stare, and mum had pulled out the fillets from the fridge. As they were tossed into the pan, you could hear the sound of both of our dogs pattering excitedly towards the kitchen. Jemma’s bug-eyes stared wildly at what was happening as dinner was prepared.

Dad was home early from work, and while I’d like to think that it wasn’t just so he could put on his loose pants and prepare for his favourite meal, I have serious doubts that there were other motives. Mum whisked around the kitchen, wary of stepping on her two faithful disciples, preparing the roast vegetables and scooping jars of store-ready apple sauce onto a saucer so that it would look like she made it herself. When dinner was ready she called out to us, and both my sister and I quickly appeared to help set the table.

We were joined, of course, by our constant pork induced companion as we sat down ready for the meal. We didn’t usually say grace as a family, unless it was a special occasion, and so we quickly jumped into the meal. Jemma made her presence known by leaping up and down at the end of table, excited by the impending delicious winnings coming her way.

When we finished the meal, my sister and I helped clear the table, and then dad set about clearing the plates. By this point, Jemma was no longer content to just leap up at the end of the table. She would spin and leap in the kitchen as well, ready to receive her pork. Dad cut up the left over pieces into small enough bits that the dogs could eat them in one bite, and as he cleaned up fed them to both the dogs periodically.

Between each bite, Jemma would jump up and down, ready for her next piece.

Up. Down.

Up. Down.

Up. Down.

And then nothing.

Suddenly the sound of Jemma’s euphoric leaping was gone. It sounded oddly silent.

Confused, dad looked down, to see Jemma lying in her usual sprawled sleeping position, completely flat against the ground. He nudged her with his foot, and when she didn’t respond dropped to his knees. I remember hearing the crash of the plates he was holding hitting the metal sink, and his yell to my mother to come quickly.

We never really knew what killed Jemma that night. We have a running joke that the excitement for pork just overwhelmed her little brain, and it couldn’t take it anymore. The vet suspected a stroke.

Mum brought me and my sister into my room, with Bella, and had us sit on the carpet. She was crying as she tried to explain what was going on. Dad came in after having been on the phone to the vet shaking his head, his eyes damp and swollen. I can’t say that I saw dad cry that day, but it was the most emotional that I’d seen him up to that point.

Jemma had been with him through the hardest time of his life, and he had known her at her first and last moments. He got to say goodbye first. I don’t know what it is that he said to her, but I know that by the time I got out there he’d wrapped her up in towels, and had her sitting nicely.

He placed his hand on my back as I sat down next to her. Her eyes were closed, and although that was the way that I’d seen her for most of her life, it just looked wrong. The way she was sitting was like a normal Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, and even from far away you knew that she just wasn’t there anymore.

She was silent.

I stroked her head, and it was very cold. I almost lost it then, tears were running down my face as I looked at her. But there was one more thing I had to do.

I sang her song for her one last time. As I sang it, I tried to imagine the look she would have been giving me. I tried to picture what it was that was missing from the lifeless body in front of me. When I finished, dad walked me back to my room, and my sister came out to talk to her.

After everyone had said their goodbyes, dad pulled the towel over her face and brought her to his car. He drove her to the vet, and I never saw her again. We received the urn with her ashes inside a few days later.

It came in a blue jar, and it now sits on a shelf in my house. Around the outside of it was her collar, with her collar tag at the front. Jemma.

Next to it sits a green urn, also with a collar. This one is from a few years later, from our other best friend, Bella. The two of them were always together in life, and they’re still together now.

She was a beautiful dog, despite all her flaws. And although I don’t have fond memories of quiet Sunday afternoons curled up with her, I do have fond memories of shouting conversations to one another so that we could be heard over the cacophony of snoring she produced. I do have fond memories of seeing her and Bella charge into the house as they were let out of the laundry every morning. And of course, I have fond memories of her and pork.

I can only hope that one day I love something as much as Jemma loved pork. And when it is my time to go, I hope I die in the same was as Jemma did: totally absorbed in that which I love most.

I miss you Jemma.