Faced with a pet’s serious illness, Renee Karena reflects on life with her chilled-out, handsome French mastiff.

 

Nīkau is my eight-and-a-half-year-old Dogue de Bordeaux French mastiff. Dogue de Bordeaux were bred to guard vineyards, butcher shops and the homes of their masters in France.

Nīkau is big in stature, chilled-out by nature, handsome, and an expert at sleeping. He’s capable of clocking up more hours of sleep than a baby. Although friendly enough with men, he has a penchant for young women and flirts with them by hanging around them or lying on his back to show off his chest. Nīkau loves roast chicken (de-boned, of course) and mince and rice. My attempts at feeding him veggies over the years have proved pointless.

Nīkau is more than a beloved pet. He is whānau.

I don’t have kids, but I have nieces and nephews. I know the business of raising and nurturing little humans because my 14-year-old nephew lives with us. We have a few houses on our section, and it’s generally brimming with hau kāinga, manuhiri, and our pets that move from house to house.

Nīkau is very social. He’s had to learn maanakitanga. When manuhiri leave, without prompting, he walks them to the letterbox. We wave goodbye, and he waits with us until their car has left our street before heading back inside. There are many visitors, mostly whānau and friends. Manuhiri who don’t live in Auckland often crash here. It’s good.

The statistics that show we love our pets aren’t surprising. The proof is everywhere. Dogs go to cafes with us, have playdates and attend regular appointments with the groomer. Some dogs are in daycare. With the cost of living and other pressures, many young couples are delaying having children and, instead, find comfort with their fur babies.

Three weeks ago, I received unexpected news about Nīkau. The news that no pet owner wants to hear. “He has a mass on his abdomen,” said our vet. “It’s cancer.”

“Wait, what? Are you sure?” I said to our vet after a few seconds of stunned silence.

I’ve been lucky with Nīkau. He’s never had any major health issues, so the ugly c-word was a shock. On receiving the news, I did that thing that some of us do. That thing where we harden up and save our crying for our private time. It was a shit drive home.

I was 40 when we got Nīkau. It was an eventful year because I started the process of building my house from scratch, beginning with the council consent process. Nīkau arrived when everything was in full swing.

He grew up in the new house. And he was a very good boy during the build, even though he was young, just three. He hung out with the builders and tradies onsite for half a year. They loved him.

My siblings and I grew up with dogs — a labrador and a collie. My dad’s old school, so he reckons dogs should live outside in kennels as our labrador and collie did in the ‘80s. But times have changed, and my dad’s had to adjust to the dog wandering in and out of the house and crashing inside on his dog bed.

We were introduced to the Dogue de Bordeaux breed about 27 years ago because my sister saw them at a dog show in Auckland. There weren’t that many in New Zealand at the time. The breeder and his puppies were there. My sister was on her way to a Flight Centre to book tickets to Thailand, but she never made it. She bought a Dogue de Bordeaux puppy instead.

Ever since then, we’ve only owned mastiffs. I’ve been told that’s snobby and to “get a rescue next time”, but I think if you find a breed that you like, you can stick with that breed without judgment. We like mastiffs because they’re calm, gentle and very emotional — their emotions are written all over their faces.

Nīkau was born in Matakana Hill, an hour out of Auckland. I named him Nīkau after the grand Nīkau palms on the breeder’s property. Before Nīkau was old enough to come home, my family would drive up on weekends to see him. Holding Nīkau and the other puppies, even for a brief period, made everyone feel good. We always left the visits on a high.

Nīkau adapted to suburban life in West Auckland. When he joined our family, there were already six cats here. It seemed none of them were ready for a playful puppy with endless energy, and Nīkau quickly learned his place in the pecking order — at the bottom.

A few months later, my dad brought home a skinny stray kitten that had been abandoned in Puketī Forest up north. My niece named the cat Ngeru, which means cat in Māori. Ngeru had all the traits of a wild cat, and at first, he didn’t like people or the other animals. But he bonded with one pet on the property, and that was Nīkau. Ngeru sleeps on Nīkau’s dog bed with him.

Thanks to Nīkau, we’ve made many friends at our local dog park, in the Dogue de Bordeaux dog community, and online too. Our local dog park, Taipari Strand in Te Atatū Peninsula was once a dump in the ‘80s. It was gross. As a kid, none of us would go anywhere near it.

When the dump closed, there were all sorts of discussions about what should be done with the land. It almost became a property development but stalwart members of our community, including a legendary primary school teacher, Mrs Butterworth, fought the council.

It took many years and a lot of hui to turn the dump into a green space for the community, but they did it. Today, the park is humming with people walking, exercising and meeting other dogs and dog owners. West Aucklanders from all over come here. Nīkau’s grown up there.

Nīkau has his own Instagram page and has far more followers than I have. There’ve been dog birthday parties for him, and he’s been featured in a dog photography book called Dogs of Ponsonby. And every year, save for the Covid era, he’s had his photo taken with Santa and my nieces and nephews. The Santa photos are important to our family, because we see Nīkau’s growth from a pup to a full-grown dog, and the children’s growth, too. It’s our family history, and it’s neat.

Dogs are often credited for being able to sense and feel things. We saw this when a family member went through her own battle with cancer. Nīkau was beside her more than usual. When she was slow on her feet, out of nowhere, he’d appear. That’s a protective dog doing what’s natural.

Nīkau has also had to listen to years of me complaining about my work as a criminal defence lawyer.

He’s heard things like: “The criminal justice system is shit — it’s broken.”

I’ve told him that it’s going to take a miracle and fresh ideas to change things. He’s listened as I’ve despaired that no government in power is ever bold enough or willing to do what needs to be done — take a good, hard look at the entire system and get rid of what isn’t working.

Our stats for chucking people in prison are shameful. We’re good at building more prisons and slack at building rehab facilities for addicts. And sadly, many Kiwis think that locking people up and throwing away the key is the solution.

Of course, it ain’t the solution because people get on a treadmill of offending that they can’t get off without proper help. There are better ways.

Nīkau has absorbed all this kōrero, many times over, allowing me to get it off my chest, and carry on. Thankfully, there have been lighter topics as well. And waiata.

I’ve been on my te reo journey for six years now, and Nīkau’s been right there with me. He’s heard me practise my aromatawai (assessments) and mōteatea too.

And he understands te reo now too because I speak it to him. I reckon if he could talk, one of the things he’d say to me is: “You have insecurities about your reo because you didn’t grow up speaking Māori. But you have it now. You can speak it, and you can write it. Keep practising. It’s enough.”

Dogs will always put their human first because you’re the most important person in their life.

The three weeks since Nīkau’s diagnosis have been a blur. Too much has happened. One visit to our regular vet. One referral to the specialist vet. One CT scan. Email exchanges with pet insurance. A sit-down with the lead vet and the news we did not want to get. Pancreatic cancer — a nasty cancer that often doesn’t show the ugly signs until it’s too bloody late. Nīkau can’t be operated on.

Three weeks to digest all that. Three weeks to say goodbye. It’s cruel.

You have a friend who knows a love like this. You have a neighbour who knows a love like this. And I hope that you, too, know a love like this.

Taku haumi, taku Piri pāua

He kōrero iti pounamu mōu

He pīki whara hūmārie

Wētahi wā he āhua koroua koe, wētahi wā he taiohi tonu koe

Nāu tēnei whare i mahana ai

E mokemoke ana tō whare mōu    

Nīkau, October 1, 2016 to July 21, 2025. Rest in aroha, darling boy.

 

Renee Karena (Ngāpuhi, Hauraki, Ngāti Maniapoto) has worked as a barrister for 15 years, specialising in criminal defence. She is currently writing her grandmother’s biography.                

E-Tangata, 2025