Tomorrow is the fourth anniversary.

The beautiful old dog came to me in her senior years, and I promised her that she would be loved and happy.

Mostly Labrador, with a little Rhodesian Ridgeback and some German Shepherd, she was majestic, queenly in looks and posture, and she had a heart of gold, drawing people to her like a magnet.

But three years later, at almost fifteen years old, she passed away in my arms on the back lawn, on a sunny Autumn day under a cloudless blue sky. I wanted to bury her in our yard. The veterinarian agreed to keep her in the morgue until I had prepared a place for her.

We had recently moved, and the gardens were not yet established, but I knew where I wanted her to rest.

My idea was to bury her in an above-ground planter tub outside the bedroom window. I would place her body in first, then fill the tub with good quality soil, and plant ferns and trailing plants. She would return to nature, but she would remain close to me, and she would be part of a beautiful garden.

I rang the local council to make sure this was acceptable – for there was no way we could dig a grave deep enough for her to be buried six feet under! They approved, but did mention they had never had this request before.

We ordered a large tub of appropriate dimensions, constructed it in the yard, then carried it to the chosen spot. Next, the soil was ordered, after calculating as best we could how much we would need to cover her as deeply as possible. It was delivered a few days later, onto our driveway, the closest point. Fortunately, we had got the car out before the soil arrived!

We then made a quick trip to the vet to retrieve her beautiful body, which was protected by a lovely calico wrapping. Once she was here, we would need to move swiftly and complete her burial the same day.

But our dog was a dead weight. She had been thirty-five kilograms (about seventy-seven pounds), and now she was frozen solid, and very stiff.

We carried her with due solemnity to her final resting place, and then needed to lift her up over the edge of the 1.2-metre-high tub and then down into it. I made sure her dear face was looking towards the bedroom window.

Leaning forward with her weight and lowering her in was not easy. I slipped, and she slipped – and I couldn’t stop myself from uttering a small disrespectful laugh as I dropped my end and she fell headfirst the last twenty centimetres into her grave. Funny, but not funny. 

I straightened up – and that’s when my back went out! Daggers of pain through my back matched the daggers of pain through my heart. I was certainly no longer chuckling.

I gently threw some soil over her calico-wrapped body. I collected myself, and paid her due homage, thanking her for the enrichment and joy she had brought to me. My husband had to shovel the ton of soil into the wheelbarrow and make multiple trips to bury her by himself. I could scarcely move.

I wept in real pain as I watched the burial from my bedroom window. Physical and emotional pain.

"Honey, come back .... each lonely day's a little bit longer."