The Cloak of Grief

When grief first comes into our lives it is like an oversized cloak – it doesn’t fit,

And it suffocates us with its volume and weight, and the excess cloth trips us up as we try to go about our daily lives.

There are dressmaking pins still in the cloth causing sharp pain at unexpected moments.

The darkness created by its excess means we cannot see to find the pins or see where we are going

And so we blunder on in the darkness and our pain

Until one day the cloak flashes open and we see a chink of light.

We can stop and look around and see where the hurt is coming from

And gradually over time, we can sit down with the cloak to find the pins as we think about the one we have lost

We replace the pins with memories which we sew into the fabric

Over time, the cloak gradually shrinks and we can move through our daily lives a bit more easily

But we are still aware of it flapping around and catching on things, 

Stopping us in our tracks.

Then one day, we realise we are wearing our cloak like a second skin

It fits us, it sits well on us, only chafing now and again

And all those memories we added to it bring us comfort now, bring smiles rather than tears.

The Comfort of a Dog's Head

A few nights ago I was reading an article on the internet - it was something that interests me and that which I try to keep up to date with as much as possible.  However, I didn't realise it had a video embedded in it - I made the mistake of watching part of it, and as the horror of it unfolded I found I couldn't stop watching and I knew I would not be able to un-see it.

It was only the arrival of River's head in my lap that made me realise I had tears running down my face - she had seen my distress and gave me the distraction I needed, and so shut the computer down.  

Remarkably I did manage to get to sleep without any difficulty, but at 4am I was wide awake with my mind going down multiple rabbit holes.  I would haul it back like an errant terrier, but it would just disappear down another.  Inevitably I found it seeing the images from earlier in the evening.  I got up, I moved about, got a hot drink, scrolled on the phone for a while, listened to some music - anything to erase the imprinted images.  But when I put the light out again, I was right back there again and at that point I knew those images would stay with me and I would just have to live with that.

Lying in the dark, I knew I had Skara on the other pillow, Fen at the other side of the bed in her usual legs-in-the-air-I-don't-care pose.  Ulfar was on the floor beside the bed and River on the big comfy memory foam bed in the corner.  River got up at that point and climbed up on the bed, laying her head on my lower legs with a big sigh.  Normally I hate my legs to be restricted at night, but the weight of River's head was like a weighted blanket and I eventually drifted off to a somewhat fitful sleep  for what was left of the night.

I remembered reading a social media post by the author and dog trainer Suzanne Clothier where she described how, whenever she had to travel without a dog, she took a particular small travel bag, packed with nothing important but of a weight similar to a dog's head - she would place it over her lower legs to give her the comfort of having a dog with her.

In the morning I found myself thinking about how everyone lives with their dogs differently - some people just "have" dogs - just why, I don't actually know.  They don't engage with their dog, it just exists in the same way as a piece of furniture, and often is discarded in just the same way.  Dogs are abandoned at rescue centres with a note to say they are too old to be kept, or that they wee on the carpet, and all manner of other excuses.  The dog is dispensable, like litter, a worn out pair of jeans or an unfashionable handbag.

Others treat them as accessories, to be dressed to match their own outfits, with little bows and pretty dresses.  These dogs are not allowed to be simply a member of their own species and often end up with some rather sad behavioural issues.

Some are bought as playthings for a child, or to help the child learn responsibility - very often the child grows weary of the dog once it outgrows puppyhood.  If it is lucky, the parents will have assumed responsibility when they realised the child won't.  If it is unlucky, it may be abandoned to a shed outside, or to the rehoming centre.

There are those who keep dogs to use for breeding in atrocious conditions, devoid of the love of a human companion, but expected to produce litter after litter in squalid conditions and with no attention to physical, emotional or mental needs.

Other dogs are simply let down by their owners if they haven't met expectations in the show ring, or as a stud or brood bitch, or perhaps they don't "fit" into the way of life.  I wonder how many of these have never been helped to BE able to fit in.  Some are just ignored like an elephant in the middle of the room.  

My own life with my dogs hasn't always been easy - there are some dogs who come along who press your every button.  Sisko was one such dog - I found him a hard dog to love.  It was no fault of his own, and now I find myself wishing I could have him again, to try to be a better person for him with what I have learned since that time.  

But for me, each individual dog comes to teach me something new - very often about myself.  All of them give unconditional love which is something we humans struggle to give, and that most of all is perhaps the biggest lesson.  I am still not the perfect owner...... I don't teach them tricks, or do military-like obedience, or understand everything about what they do and why they do it.  But they are allowed to express themselves in their own canine ways whilst living in a human world.  And I express myself in my own human ways whilst living as part of a dog pack.  They share my bed and my sofa and are my main companions in this life.  And, as it turns out, my comforters too. 

Humanity's Pause

 It’s a while since I wrote on this blog – Tussock’s death floored me for long enough, and much has gone on since then.  I started another blog on an entirely different topic, but I think my heart stays with this one.  This post isn’t dog related, but momentous times need marking in some way.

I ventured on to the BBC site (not something I do very often now, having ditched the TV in 2020 and the BBC with it) and took a while to watch the people viewing the Queen's coffin - reading their emotions and watching their body language.  Some are so obviously distressed, some are full of love towards the Queen (and actually generally full of love), some are bemused, some are curious, there are kids who don't really know why they are there.  There is amusement, there is disgust, there is awe.  There are utterly obsequious curtseys and bows, and there are deeply respectful ones, and actually the most respectful are the nods of heads which say "I acknowledge you as a fellow human" or “The sovereignty in me recognises the sovereignty in you”.  Or, quite simply “Namaste”.  

All races, all faiths.  Some look as though they are just doing what they think is dutiful and others are recognising the deeply historic time we now sit quietly in.  There are servicemen.  There are people who are so obviously ill, but have still come out to pay their respects.  There are people in suits, dresses, torn jeans, t-shirts, parkas, turbans.  Men of the cloth.  It doesn’t really matter who they are or what they look like as there doesn’t appear to be any judgement.  It is quite remarkable and I could sit and watch this story of humanity for hours.  Such a coming together of many souls, many lights, each holding their own thoughts, realisations and emotions.

For some it may not be so much as a paying of respect, but more a marking of history – a recognition of a world we have all known now coming to an end.  No matter any individual opinion as to what the royal family stand for, who or what they are, the Queen has steadfastly carried out her duty as figurehead – not just for the UK, but the entire world.  Everyone knew who she was, and whether we accept it or not she has kept some stability around the world throughout her reign.  While we may not think her death affects us all personally, I believe it will affect us all, indirectly, in the months and years to come.

In some ways it almost feels as though the Queen has held on until she knew it was time to let go.  The placement of planets at this time is momentous, signalling great changes, great movements.  The Mayans knew this, the Egyptians knew it, the Atlanteans, the Lemurians…..

It will begin a general and slow unravelling of all we have known bringing discomfort, pain, sorrow and growth.  We will learn to appreciate one another, we will learn to love unconditionally, and we will learn the truth about who and what we really are.

This short window of time is almost like we, as a species, are in retrograde, and once the funeral is over, we will begin to move again, slowly to begin with, gathering speed and momentum.  It might get messy at times, but the destination will be awesome.  And all of us chose to be here to witness it, in the same way all those people have chosen to view the Queen’s coffin.

Losing a Part of My Heart

It doesn't matter how much we think we are prepared for our dogs leaving us - it still hurts like hell when they do.  Sometimes we have a long period of decline during which we can say goodbye - old age or illness does gives us that opportunity, although the downside is watching our friend slowly become less able to enjoy life until the time comes when we must make the decision.  We can stop the suffering for them, bring an end to the decline, allow them to leave this life with dignity.

On the other hand, sometimes we lose them suddenly, and the shock can be something that consumes our minds and our thoughts.

I guess when Tussock left me, I had the best and worst of both worlds.  I knew she was slowing down, I knew she was tired, I knew she had mammary tumours, laryngeal paralysis, a weakening back end - but all these things seemed to be kind of under control - not so bad that she couldn't still enjoy life.  Indeed, the supplement I put her on in the last month of her life had given her a new lease of life - she was playful, trotting along on walks, more able to get into the back seat of the car.  I really didn't see it coming so soon.

Our early morning wander into the wooded area over the road from the house is just that - a wander.  Okay, so the youngsters tear around and chase one another, but of late, Tussock and I just went as far as she needed to go to have a pee and a poo.  This was a wander we had if I had to leave them for a couple of hours in a morning.  That Saturday was such a day.  We wandered over, I saw her poo, then she had a long, long pee, kicked up the leaves, looked at me as if to say "can I go home now?".  I nodded yes, and she set off on the path to the gate.  I shouted the others to come, and as I walked back, they shot past me, and round the bend in the path.  I came round the bend, and Tussock was laid out flat.  My first thought was that the others had knocked her over.  I reached her, she took a breath - but then I realised that breath had just been her body closing down.  I don't actually know if I reached her before she died, but I hope so - in time to tell her I loved her, to tell her to go free, to tell her I will see her again one day....  I was lucky in that I had told her I loved her many many times over the years, and certainly over the last few months.  But it still doesn't seem enough. 

It's amazing how much emotion and how many thoughts can be in your brain and mind at a single moment.  At that moment in time I felt peaceful and I felt grateful - for her long life, her good health, her rapid exit, at not having to make a decision further down the line, for her not having to go through pain and loss of dignity.  I felt immense sadness, concern about the others, and a bizarre train of logical and practical thoughts which enabled me to function.

I had to find someone to help me carry her home - a passing friend came to my aid.  I laid her on the sofa in the conservatory, arranging her so that it just looked as though she were sleeping.  Then I just sat with her, and cried.  At some point I pulled myself together enough to phone the pet crematorium to arrange to take her there. That evening, I put on the radio for her, and lit a candle, and we kept the door to the conservatory open, despite the cold.   The candle burned all night, and the radio played until we left for the crematorium on the Monday morning.

Skara kept approaching Tussock's body, have a sniff, and look at me in puzzlement.  She seemed to be processing it.  River wouldn't go near her, and I realised she would be the one who would need the most support in the coming weeks.

The journey to the crematorium was stressful for a whole load of reasons.  But we got there.  We said our last goodbyes, and then we had to leave her.

A week on and we are beginning to adjust.  Skara is very clingy, and River is looking for reassurance from me.  It is as if she knows she is boss-dog now, but she doesn't know how to be.  It will come in time, I'm sure.  Her respect for Tussock was immense.  She came along when Tussock was in her prime, and got flattened on many occasions.  But it wasn't just respect - there was a love there, too.  I would catch her quietly and gently washing Tussock's face on many occasions.  The whole dynamic has changed and is still changing as River and Skara find their feet.  

And me?  I miss her nose in my hand out on a walk.  I miss feeling her eyes upon me, watching my every move, and that intensity of her eyes.  I miss helping her in and out of the car, and up the stairs.  I miss her suddenly sitting down in front of me and tripping me up.  I miss her coming for her morning bum scratch, her excited voice when I came home from somewhere.  Today I missed her at work - carrying her blanket into the cottage where we were working and having her under the table.  I miss her stretching out beside me on the bed.  I feel as though I have lost a part of me.  Yes, I still have River, and Skara, and Talulah some of the time, but - they are their own "people", not Tussock, and I wouldn't have it any other way.  All our dogs are special in their own particular way.

And I will miss Tussie for a long long time.

Time and Age Marches on......

That awful moment when you realise your dog is getting older, and that time is now limited.  You start to think of the things you didn't do, the places you didn't go to, the games you didn't play.  But your dog doesn't really care about those things - all he or she knows is their life with you - your love, your time, your attention, your company out on walks or even just at home.  Nothing else really matters.

That moment hit me hard this morning with Tussock - or perhaps it was when I actually admitted it to myself.  She passed 12 back at the beginning of April.  This hot weather has made me fully realise that she definitely has a touch of laryngeal paralysis - the change in pitch of her voice and its accompanying hoarseness.  And she pants more in the warm temperatures.  It's supposed to cool down a bit this coming week, so I daresay that will be a relief to her.  And I might invest in a cool jacket for her.  Surgery is always an option, but it is at what point to jump - and I must take into consideration other stuff going on with her.

She not only has LP, but it is just a part of GOLPP - Geriatric Onset Laryngeal Paralysis and Polyneuropathy.  First symptoms are in the voice and breathing.  Then it affects the rest of the nervous system - the back end begins to weaken, heading steadily to a point of uselessness.  I am seeing it slowly happening with her.  Initially it was just the times she was thrown off her feet because she insisted on catching the tails of the youngsters as they charge by.  They just carried on, leaving her with a mouthful of hair, sprawled on the ground with a look of - a look of what?  I think it was indignation.  Mixed with a bit of "how did that happen?" 

Now I give her a help into the van - just to make sure she doesn't stumble.  And a hand under her bum going up the stairs to make it a bit easier for her.  This morning I realised I will have to give her a hand going down the stairs, too.  She has always gone down stairs like flowing water, but always under control - the control was rather lacking this morning and her back legs almost over took her front ones.  So I will make her wait and hang on to her tail going down so I can keep the brakes on.  Or use a towel sling.    I have done all this before with Leroy some years ago. 

Where we have been walking most recently - down on the shore where it is cool and they can swim - there are lots of fissures in the ground - a couple of times her back legs have fallen into them.  But she has pulled herself out and carried on.  Occasionally I need to give her a bit of a helping hand.  But she still has her sense of humour, and dignity, and bloody minded determination, and so I will not coddle her.  She can still get up on her own, still lay down, still walk and still run - but the balance goes if she turns quickly.

So, yes, I could have the tie back surgery done - but I have to question if the stress of that, and risks of complications, are really worth it at this time.  We might have another year - maybe two.  She also has a couple of small lumps on her boobs - the last one we had taken off was benign.  Do I assume these are the same?  They are slow growing.  Chances are the GOLPP will take her before they do.  Getting this balance right, making decisions like this are so hard.  What would she opt for?   Would I be doing it just to appease the part of me that feels I should, because not doing so would be classed as neglect?  Would SHE really benefit?

I hadn't been giving them their turmeric paste this last few weeks - I have begun that again as the natural anti-inflammatory should help the LP.  As well as help the stiffness.  All the girls get it - and me, too.

And what happens when the legs don't work anymore?  Do we get a pair of wheels?  I don't know.  Much will depend on her, and how she is generally in herself.  I hope it will be sometime before we get there.  But all of these thoughts have overwhelmed me this morning - that knock on the door to let you know that the time will come, and that in the meantime a few small accommodations will have to be made.  Tears have flowed this morning - but perhaps they are a preparation for an inevitable event in every life. 

And in the meantime she still rushes out to bark at a passer-by.  She doesn't think about it all in the way I do.  As long as I am here for her, and she can be with me, she is content.  I hope.

And finally - at least she has been allowed to get to 12 and I am grateful for this much. Laren never made it to 7, and there are folks out there who know their dog won't make old bones, and those folks have my heart felt sympathy.

The Hairy Army

Casting time has come again

The dog hair’s on the move

It’s gathering up its armies

And hiding in every groove

The dogs are just a breeding ground

For soldierly recruits

Ignore them at your peril

As they polish up their boots

The dog shakes once and more come out

And scatter round the room

There’s no point trying to sweep them up

They’re faster than the broom

They march to all the corners

And hide up in their squads

Exterminating all of them

Is much against the odds

You do your best to make believe

They really are not there

You also do your very best

To pretend you do not care

But the morning comes when your patience snaps

And you stamp your foot in frustration

“This is my house” you shout at them

Not a bloody army station

War has been declared by now

As you approach a bloody fight

“It’s me or them” you calmly shout

And the dogs shake out of spite

The Dyson cleaner roars to life

And starts to gather its prey

Up and down the room it goes

Like a combine making hay

But still they hide in all the corners

Under sofas and the rugs

And now you’ve started disturbing them

They attack like bloody thugs

They turn from army to RAF

As they find their hairy flight

And float in front of your very eyes

And dance like Faery sprites

A new tactic must now be found

To tackle the hiding troops

And you unleash the Dyson nozzle

With a loud and victorious whoop

The suction is relentless

As they are pulled into the abyss

“At last!” you cry, “the house is clean”

And sit down in contented bliss

But unobserved behind you

A dog has shaken once more

And lots more hairy soldiers

Have been released upon the floor……

                                    

 

Judging the Judges

Well, that's the annual pilgrimage to Crufts done and dusted for yet another year.  As always, I enjoyed the travelling up and down the road with Min and her dogs - the chatter, the snippets of wisdom I always glean from her, the chance to see countryside other than my own little neck of the woods which I seem to leave less and less.  I also enjoyed meeting up with good friends, and spending some time with them, swapping stories, enjoying laughter, teasing one another.  And seeing other people I know less well, but nevertheless enjoy meeting up with - the usual hugs from some of them, the genuine pleasure in meeting up again.

It was also good to meet some folks whose names I know, but hadn't yet had the pleasure of putting faces to them.  (Accompanied by the worry that I might forget them by the time I get there next year!)

This year there was a little bit of time to wander around and look at some of the "shops" and see all the things you really don't need, but really would like.  So many smiling faces, so many dogs, so much colour and atmosphere.  It really is a planet all of its own, and any dog lover who has never been really should go, if only once.  It is a celebration of all things dog.

Our hotel this year, wasn't the best - a bit dusty and grubby, but the beds were clean, and I was allowed to take River and Skara in at night (but the receptionist didn't tell me that!).  I would sleep in a shed rather than be parted from them at night.

All in all, it was great, and I loved it.  My only gripe was the judge.....

Some people may think this is sour grapes, but honestly, it isn't.  I am really chuffed with the two yellow ribbons we brought home to add to our little collection of coloured ribbons in the cabinet.  Yes, I am always a bit disappointed that River's glorious and powerful movement is overshadowed by the colour of her eyes (too pale), but I understand that that is the standard, and I guess I am actually delighted that we do consistently well, on the whole.    I don't do much showing, I have never attended ring craft classes, never really taught my dogs to stand "properly", never fiddle with them when they position themselves, other than to move them to rebalance themselves - it is their natural stance and my feeling is that that is what they should be judged on - not my fancy grooming, or masking something - that's a thought...... I wonder if you can get coloured contact lenses for dogs???
I don't really take it all too seriously, and never want to, to be honest.  I see (and hear) the bitchiness that emanates from the people that do take it seriously, the virtual pushing and shoving, the dirty tactics.  I want no part of that - I want to enjoy it and for us all to get on together and enjoy being with our own dogs, and seeing each others' dogs and be delighted for those that win their classes and have that joy.

The judges I have so far met, on the whole, have been friendly, compassionate, gentle - and genuinely interested in the dogs they are meeting - showing pleasure in each individual, and making you feel relaxed and comfortable.  Their write-ups have been insightful, helpful, informative.  And they have expressed their pleasure at meeting the dogs and their owners.

Our judge this year was, in my opinion, rude and brusque.  For my part, a smile, or eye contact, or a greeting from the judge is something that adds to the day.  And a greeting or endearment to my dogs.  All of this would help to relax both human and canine participants.  And audible instructions for those of us that are a bit deaf would be very helpful.  This particular man did none of this and apparently he commented, within earshot of another handler, that it was like taking a kindergarten class, and that we were totally unprofessional, and that we should be watching and taking note of what he did with other entrants and therefore know what to do.  I beg your pardon?  Excuse me, but I am not professional!  And in my first class he seemed to do a slightly different routine with one or two of the dogs so how could I "know" what he wanted me to do?  And if he wouldn't speak clearly enough, how can I hear him?  Must I start to wear a badge to say "I am a little deaf, please speak up"? He seemed to have an attitude that we should feel privileged and honoured that he put his hands on our dogs, that he would give his opinion (an extremely brief critique).  He acted like a little god.

If it is such a trial to be pleasant to dog and handler, why do you do it.  Does it not give you pleasure, in which case perhaps it is time to stop, as you are certainly, for me, not a good advert for the joy of showing my dogs. 

Finally, I am sorry matey, but my dogs might just be another dog you must judge, and I might be just another unprofessional handler you must tolerate, but my dogs are my WORLD, and YOU are honoured to have had the opportunity to see them.