Ikaro’s last summer: A moving tale of one man’s final travels with his rescue dog

Julian Machin’s rescue dog Ikaro had only experienced conflict and neglect. Suffering from severe juvenile arthritis, he was given a new lease of life with his new owner. For five of their six years together, they enjoyed carefree travels around Europe. But their worlds came crashing down when a vet confirmed Julian’s worst fears about Ikaro’s health

Julian Machin on his travels with rescue dog Ikaro (Julian Machin)

Of all the places where we could have spent Ikaro’s last summer, I’m happy it was in the Lunigiana, the mountainous, many-rivered historic region of northern Tuscany. Although a city dog, he loved the shallow waters of the nearby river Bardine, which cooled and washed away months of accumulated heat from Seville. Immersed in its lustre, alongside inquisitive brown trout, we drifted towards September while figs and persimmons slowly ripened. With his ball, Ikaro forever watched me swim, though his dark eyes showed little movement. We had driven 85,000 miles together and seemed to be in a paradise without end. I could read, too, in the liquid depths of those eyes, the narratives that Ikaro had always offered in his ardent desire to communicate:

“We’re back in the house in the wood on the hill. There are too many chickens. There’s the river. I guard my ball. The river doesn’t try to take it. My J swims too far. I bark and he comes back. In the mornings we’re alone. Later children come. My J moves stones in the river. He wants it to run free. Children want to block it. I think his idea is better. I don’t love all those chickens. They’re OK I suppose.”

He loved the Italian family above who’d welcomed us back to their house, which grew out of woods overlooking a misty valley and mountains beyond. Hens roamed into our quarters, especially “Tempesta”, seeking to feast at Ikaro’s bowl. She was a beautiful diva, hitching up her feathers like a panto dame and running, as though for her life, if ever he chased her away. But there was no malice in Ikaro. This was clear, in the dewy soft darkness of his eyes, first seen at Battersea, six years before.

His rescue was unconventional. First, Battersea’s request to foster came unsolicited via email and was addressed both to me and Grace, asking if we “could possibly foster a Staffie girl?” Grace, also ex-Battersea and my beloved Dogue de Bordeaux, had died less than 45 minutes before it was sent that Friday afternoon. I said yes. The next morning, Grace was buried in the garden in a pukka grave. Sunday was difficult. On Monday afternoon, there was a late switch at the home and a three-year-old male with severe juvenile arthritis, half-labrador, half-staffie, was led out. I told the foster coordinator: “Do not let me keep this dog.” Then I lifted him into my Mini, “Chesterton”, parked outside.

At home, faced with stairs he wasn’t allowed to climb, I said, “I will carry you.” After that, he waited every second time. That evening I named him Ikaro. Two days later, after the park and while crossing the Bayswater Road, his lead detached itself from his harness and he stepped in front of a moving cab.

“I like him. I like my name. I like it here. The food is great. There’s a space for me, but Grace is everywhere. He’s sad.”

Above the traffic noise, Ikaro heard his new name, turned and came straight to me. The taxi swerved, stopped and next came a terrible noise of metal and broken glass, as a bus smashed into the back of it. Then silence, in which I took note of my inner voice saying “my little Ikaro”, who’d looked so small against its wheels.

“He talks to Grace a lot. I’m being really good. Since the crash he’s mine. How he held me afterwards. We will do OK, I’m not going back. Please.”

For six months, because the vets offered only painkillers, every natural, dietary, homeopathic and hands-on healing remedy was deployed to fix his arthritic legs and ligaments. As Ikaro trod uncertainly in the wake of Grace’s very large personality, I found myself addressing her in “letters” to contain my grief. This helped me more than it did Ikaro, whose clear devotion was making him overprotective. His gradual return to properly functioning legs also had him testing me via rebellion.

“I’m a bit in trouble. I want to keep J all to myself. I want to be taken around for everyone to fuss over me. I’ve been pushing it, but I can’t help it. It will work out. J has to trust me. I’ve to trust him too.”

Ikaro with his beloved tennis ball (Julian Machin)

Needing clear, logical instruction, I managed to source the right dog trainer, Suzanne, who found more to criticise in me than Ikaro. He learnt visual signals as well as audio commands, his attentiveness serving him so well. We practised his training like it was fun, which it was. After three more months, his behaviour was exemplary. He’d wait, rooted, outside a shop or cafe; his recall and “leave” were faultless.

A plan to drive through Europe suggested itself, whereby Ikaro could be inside shops and cafes; wherever we went together, this would be how we went, so if I couldn’t take him in to a place, I’d think carefully before going there. By the first anniversary of his rescue, we were in a chateau hotel in Brittany.

On the evening before, I wrote my last “letter” to Grace, as Ikaro bounced around enthusiastically as to the manor born, though it seemed unlikely. By the time his name first appeared in print (The Independent 30 October 2017) Paris and various vineyards were also behind us and we’d driven into a tense Barcelona, with Catalan separatist protesters in the streets. Their beating of pots and pans was charming, but I learnt the hard way not to park Chesterton in the street overnight.

On trips to the beach, Ikaro met his Mediterranean joy with, and sometimes without, his ball, depending on the cunning of the waves.

“I like my travels. My J finds good places to eat and rest. I run and play with other dogs. One bit my ear. Wine places smell of rats hiding. So many trees and flat land, so I sleep. Snowy mountains. I like warm Chesterton. J always comes back when I’m in Chesterton. My space in the back is mine. Or I sit next to my J. Hoping for the sea.”

Ikaro’s ear wound, inflicted in France, festered. In Barcelona, I found Cristina Fenoy, whose deep understanding included the original conflict and neglect he’d experienced prior to rescue. Following her instructions, I gave him a plethora of homoeopathic remedies with rigorous frequency. It fascinated me to witness his trusting responses, despite the alarming aspect of his swelling; his eyes partly closed, their dark lids calm throughout a four-day process of resolution. It was a privilege to be his caregiver. Our bond deepened.

We headed to Andalusia. On our first night in Seville, I met my dear Jonatan. Seville eventually became the base from which Ikaro and I would take long trips in Chesterton. We went all over Spain – sometimes with Jonatan – to Portugal, and often to London by varying routes through France; or from there via Italy to Seville. It was a huckleberry existence and in six years, Ikaro and I spent only two nights apart.

The summer of 2022 was too hot to spend in Seville. We took the car ferry from Barcelona to Civitavecchia, Italy. The immediate richness of the Italian countryside was cast in the evening light, gold on green, where in Andalusia the sun-bleached landscape had read colourlessly.

Ikaro suffered from severe juvenile arthritis and would often wait to be carried down stairs (Julian Machin)

In the Lunigiana, our river paradise continued to meander. Then an uncomfortable truth came to light.

“I’d like to stay here forever. My J can see I’m not well. It’s not the heat that makes me pant.”

There was no doubting the ultrasound images shown by the vet, who bizarrely tied Ikaro’s mouth with a cord without asking. It disturbed me almost as much as the spread of cancer he revealed. There was no hope. Except in finding a more sympathetic vet.

“J says I can’t get better in my body. When it goes, I won’t leave him. My J takes me to the city after the rain. For the smells, because I’m a city boy. I won’t travel far now.”

A week is a long time in the life of a dog. We had nine days. We went to the river, to the city, to eat, to hold in sleep, and to communicate. Ikaro had much to say, ever an expressive being. He wanted music and for me to dance. He thanked me for choosing him, although actually I hadn’t, which he knew. He watched our friend Alain show me the spot chosen for his grave, above the house and in sight of the Apuan Alps, and he said it would make him a king.

“Don’t be sad. Feel my rich life. So much. Cover me with leaves and flowers. Put me where I can hear water running, watch the sun go down and know that it will rise again. Love deep. Accept things how they are. I will still be there running for my ball. Still there to laugh with.”

I buried my little Ikaro Rex with his ball. I covered him as he’d asked. The sound of the river was in the stones that I hauled from the Bardine to enthrone him. Shafts of evening light slant on his hilltop grave and in the morning.