In Stockinged Feet

In Stockinged Feet               30 March 2011       8.18pm.

This morning, feeling cheerful and dressed ready to go out, wearing glossy tights, I’m half-way downstairs when I slip on the bare wood and swiftly bump from step to step, mostly on my bottom; I arrive in a shocked state sitting on the Hall floor wondering if I have done myself any damage (or ruined an expensive pair of tights). ‘Dog’ comes to sit beside me until I feel robust enough to try to stand up.  I talk out loud as much to comfort myself as to reassure her. I feel quite cross at not being more careful, more aware and more ‘present in the moment’.  I was thinking of the things I had to do in the busy day ahead; how unwise. This evening I feel achy and stiff and relax in a long hot bath.

But back to this morning. ‘Dog’ and I must still walk around the neighbourhood before I leave so I make a huge effort and out we go. It is a gloomy overcast day with a hint of rain to come. When we get back I supervise her frolics in the front garden –she seems especially to love this as it’s not usually permitted; I look at my plants. There are hyacinths and grape hyacinths; Pieris with new red leaves; self-seeded white violets up the edge of the path and favourite bulbs, Snake’s Head Fritillaries in the lawn; only a few because the squirrels will dig them up for dessert.

‘Dog’ bounces in through the opened front door, to ‘Reward’ biscuits and Radio 4 and settles into her bed by the child safety gate which will keep her in the kitchen until I return. I move her bed temporarily from its customary place to the doorway because that’s where she waits for me and I like her vigil to be as comfortable as possible. A while ago I discovered this is where she sits, by feeling how warm the floor was where she had obviously been. (Oriental fashion we always leave our shoes in the porch outside so I was, as usual, in my stockinged feet). When I drive home she hears me arrive and barks her welcome before I’m even out of the car. Once I’m inside with the shopping bags on the kitchen floor she nosily inspects each one – just checking!  How I love that dog.

Sombre Thoughts

Sombre Thoughts     28 March 2011     5.30pm. 

Last week ‘Dog’ was unwell and still hasn’t completely recovered her usual vigour and lively looks; I have been worrying about her health, remembering my terrible sense of loss at the death of my first spaniel and of other dogs in my life. The earliest memory of losing a dog was when I was in my teens – never an easy time – and this poor dog was run over by the milk cart very early one morning. He had been a friend in a troubled world; he had listened to my rebellious teenage angst; his neck had been cried on and he had accompanied me on village walks which otherwise would have been solitary. He was my parents’ dog but I was sorry indeed at the loss of him.

As an adult though, the unexpected death of my spaniel one beautiful summer’s day left me distraught for many weeks; I remember clearly details from that day and though the pain has dulled with passing time, tears could come even now; how she lay in the cool of the long grass and how I didn’t realize she had had a stroke; how my elder son and I took her for her last evening walk and how the Vet helped me carry her from the car. I cried bitterly in disbelief, calling out ‘I want my dog back. I want my dog back’; a grown woman, utterly bereft, not making any sense.

This came after the death of my mother – not a harmonious relationship – and I was shocked to realise that I mourned more for my loving dog than for my fierce mother. The unconditional nature of the human / dog bond is so strong and so re-assuring to us humans. I grieved for two years before I could get another dog, partly to recall her lovely dog-ness, partly to avoid a repetition of such pain, to avoid the ties and responsibilities of ownership and even the expense of Vet’s bills (such things concern pensioners on a fixed budget if dogs are to be cared for properly). Now I am older, I also worry about being physically able to exercise a dog properly on ‘bad days’, but ‘Dog’ is Spaniel number three.

I hope I’ll have the courage, when the time inevitably comes, to have another dog because of the joy and affection they bring; the feeling of life and activity there is in a quiet home if a dog is in residence. And oh! those ecstatic welcomes!

The Lost Dog

The Lost Dog      27 March 2011      01.47am.

Spring is rushing on apace now; I can hardly keep up with my observations. There are lots of different kinds of daffodils, the standard yellow ones; the tiny ‘Tete a tete’ variety; the pearl pale white ones with cream or coral centres, and lastly a new favourite of mine which Parks and Gardens gardeners have planted widely on verges and roundabouts. They are a strong bright yellow with long slender trumpets and the petals seem to turn back slightly, giving the flowers a surprised wary appearance. They look wide-awake and alert almost as if they are going to fly away. Many spring flowers I mentioned previously are blooming more abundantly and yesterday on our Sunday Walk I noticed Aubrietia  and a delicate tree with pale blossom like ‘Autumnalis’ but I don’t know its name. (I must look it up).

Training continues slowly and biscuits are being given out more frugally. When we reach home after our expedition in the cloudy gloomy afternoon I hear a lot of anxious screaming and shouting – a man and a child – they are racing up and down searching for their lost dog.  I see them in the road just as it is found; a car behind it slowing carefully. The man bends down to gather the dog to him; the little girl is crying and shouting for someone to bring its collar. It is a dramatic and touching moment.

I feel deeply for them because on a couple of occasions in the past, ‘Dog’, who must be related to Houdini, has slipped past my legs completely unnoticed, while I stand speaking to a visitor at the front door, and she escapes into the exciting wide world outside. I shut the door and only after a few minutes realise she is not in the house. That special silence and stillness! Mild panic ensues as I rush out and call for her; we live in a quiet street with little traffic but there’s a main road nearby and I fear she would be quite brainless in finding her way back home. (Nowadays I shut her in the kitchen before the door is opened.) I can hardly express the relief I feel when she runs back to me or casually emerges from a neighbour’s garden looking sheepish, probably having wolfed down something she should not eat. When they are young or vulnerable it is our responsibility to keep our children and grandchildren safe and so it is with our animals; if not, allowing them to come to harm is like a dereliction of duty and we feel guilty if we fail. 

Birthday Musings

Birthday Musings         27 March 2011

Last week I wrote a Disgruntled Blog which I didn’t post, but sent out by email to a Chosen Few probably because I was ashamed of my grumpiness and a little apprehensive of potential bad reactions by my readers (if many!). It detailed a lunch to which I was invited and a dog-less walk up a very steep hill in misty cold conditions. So that’s that out of the way!

This is my Birthday Week and I always extend the festivities for at least a week; (typical Aries apparently). The weather has been astoundingly gorgeous – warm (almost hot for England) 18 degrees C and it being my birthday week I am in a joyous mood. The world is positively bursting with blossom; almond, pink prunus and white prunus, great yellow shouts of forsythia, cascades of purple aubretia falling over sun-warmed rockeries, huge velvet magnolia buds fattening up for explosions of creamy white; a delicate Magnolia Stellata stands like a little dancer.

Red tulips join the ranks of yellow daffodils – the pale snowdrops are gone – and in my own garden there is a crescent of ‘Tete-a-tete’, tiny bright daffodils around the edge of the lawn. Everything is calling out for attention, tidying, sorting out, cutting back and weeding. Oh wonderful wilderness!

‘Dog’ and I have had some pleasant walks – ‘Training’ not withstanding; the weather has brought picnickers out into the Parks. People sitting on rugs on the ground with food spread temptingly out, are an open invitation to her, a target which she can spot from several hundred metres away. She doesn’t make a impolite rush for it but hurries along at a good pace which I cannot match nowadays; so to avoid embarrassment, discomfort, apologies and sometimes rudeness (once people threw stones at her) I keep her on the long lead. 

On my birthday morning, she was unusually slow and unwilling to go into the garden and soon came back indoors, and trembling in her back legs, she collapsed into her bed.  Uncharacteristically she didn’t touch her morning food.  Upset and anxious for a couple of hours, I waited before making a Vet’s appointment; she seems now to have recovered; I am aware she’s no longer a young dog – Spaniels live to around 10 – 12 years old, but recalling my deep grief at the totally unexpected death of my first spaniel, I selfishly didn’t want to associate such a sad event with my birthday. Why not?  On any day it would be very bad. I expect most dogs look woebegone when they are unwell but, for me, Spaniels win all the top prizes for displaying the ‘Pathetic Sick Dog Syndrome.’

Happily today the rattle of the dog biscuit tin and the sound of me taking her collar and lead off the hook, rouse her and she bustles to the front door making little sounds of delight. Long may they continue. An enormous brown bumblebee is trapped in the porch where the boots and shoes are kept. However could it have got in? Did it hibernate over winter; was it woken by the warmth of Spring? Carefully I open the door; it buzzes out noisily and we follow into the sunshine.  Happy Birthday, me.

The Willow Tree

The Willow Tree     

 

Sunshine and long leads and off we go again to the park, ‘Dog’ and I.  She is very good at coming back promptly at first; I give her lots of praise (and biscuits) she wags her tail vigorously; and is so obedient that after ten minutes of Training today I think I can safely let her off the lead. This is a bit of a mistake. She bounces away barking loudly, and runs off so confidently that I change direction and walk on; soon she’s back following me!  But I can see that I have to maintain my dominant status consistently. I put her back on the lead and we go home.

 

The forsythia hedges are in full bloom now; an old camellia bush in a protected corner by a friend’s front door has superb red flowers with dark glossy leaves; birds are singing enthusiastically and nearby a willow tree has new leaves all down its weeping branches, swaying in the March wind. They look like tiny green bows. Very beautiful.

Broken Daffodils

Broken Daffodils    4 March 2011     9.30pm.

 

Today is a beautiful sunny day and after the last few days of ‘Training’ Dog at home I feel ready to tackle getting her to ‘come back’ in the Park. As I have no training lead or rope, I fix all her leads together and following the ‘Dog Listener’s’ instructions, we set off. The idea is to let her go for a short distance, while still attached, and reward her with a biscuit when she responds to my command to return, gradually lengthening the distance and finally letting her off the lead altogether. I feel this is going to take some time!

 

In the Park, she responds well and we will work on it again tomorrow but there are dogs to meet and greet; smells to follow and vast areas of tempting grass to race over. I feel so mean keeping her tied to me!  I think that this is the worst aspect of the Training; that I am taking the wild joy out of her life; she doesn’t seem so lively or funny; she looks quite depressed in her bed and it’s all down to my restraint. There is no doubt that I have let her be ‘Top Dog’ for too long but, if her enthusiasm is stifled, the price of a well-behaved dog is very high. Oh dear.

 

At the end of today’s training, I allow her the full length of her leads to wander under the trees and in the shrubbery.  There are lots of small daffodils and crocuses in great drifts, looking wonderful; I take care she doesn’t trample over them; but before us, people have walked there more carelessly so there are lots of broken little flowers, wilting gold in the grass. Those with long enough stems I gather up and take home, hoping no-one will think I picked them; I trim the stems and put the flowers in a vase on the window sill. By evening they have revived, looking crisp and fresh, smelling faintly of the world outside;  they cheer me up as I tidy the kitchen.