There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance . . .

20171111_213346.jpgIt is almost as if Ophelia is advising whenever dinner’s being prepared now – there is so much to consider; not so much about symbolic significance as what harm potential ingredients might do. We Dickens Dogs have always benefited from having all kinds of fruits, vegetables and herbs as extras on our meals: apple, banana, orange, coriander, mint, cabbage, carrot, blueberries, rice, porridge – as long as it is wholesome, it is fine with us and eagerly consumed. Things are now more complicated; separate administration is required.

For the three bigger boys there’s still no problem but, in the light of Nicholas’s results, suddenly precise knowledge of the world of herbs, plants, grasses and fungi has assumed great importance. Now everything from which Nico might eat has to be examined in order to avoid the foodstuffs to which we now know little Nico is definitely allergic. On careful reading, we now know that nearly every tin of Lily’s Kitchen, every bag of high quality or even specialized dog kibble, every packet of hypo-allergenic snacks, or otherwise super-duper dog food seems to contain something or other on his banned list. And it is quite a list, so Kemo Sabe has to be really careful and refer to its contents every time a meal is prepared which might casually include a few tasty spoonfuls from a source innocuous to the rest of our gang.

20171112_145757.jpgThe expanded results from the testing laboratory reveal that, when it comes to meat, only chicken, turkey and venison – as well as white fish – can be eaten by the little soul without any risk of reaction. But salmon, whole milk, eggs, soya, and oats all produced a positive reaction. Potato is one of the most common fillers used in prepared dog food, whether wet or dry, and we now know it’s one of Nico’s real nasties, as well as its close relatives, sweet potato and tomato: deadly nightshade family, all. As for the lilies of the field, so to speak, it’s as though the very greensward itself was determined to wage war on Nick’s immune system: bluegrass, perennial rye grass, timothy, English plantain, mug-wort, ragweed, cockle-bur, dandelion, golden rod, nettle, pig-weed. These carpet the heath we walk on every afternoon behind the castle and there are more plants there which adversely affect him than do him no harm, though right now their pollen is no problem, of course.

But Nico himself is in fine form, and his skin has settled down well. His kindly vet will see him again in a few more weeks and then we will decide what, if anything, to do next. Mr Pip will keep you posted but, in the meantime, meal preparation remains a protracted affair, with lots of fiddling about and rumination and reference to lists behind closed doors: unendurable for one as excitable as I!

 

 

 

‘What lovely behaviour . . . ‘

20170718_101406Overhead, as the afternoon comes to an end amidst a warm glow, the sky is full of  shrieking gulls cheering their children on their maiden flights. Gathering confidence, the tyros swoop and hover, embracing and enjoying their freedom more, encouraged by their relatives’ masterly manoevres. Our seagull family has this summer produced three healthy offspring – Teresa, May and Boris – whom they attended with customary attention to detail and aggressive protectiveness. This week, without much in the way of the attendant drama to which we’ve grown accustomed over the years, all three have quickly quit the chimney cradle and local rooftops and headed into the summer sky.

Adult herring gulls take their parental duties with Biblical seriousness, putting many human families to shame. Now that the tourist season is in full swing, some words from No Country for Old Men come to mind: ‘Who ARE these people?’  The piles of astonishing litter replicate daily: little ones’ hats, shoes, sandals, spades, kites, flags, plastic toys, are cast on to the sand, and lie there for days – of little worth and given less thought. Children run hundreds of yards ahead of their elders – focused on their phones or chatty friends – along perilous ground and into unanticipated dangers. Should they break an ankle in a rabbit hole, or gash themselves on another’s broken glass, their parents wouldn’t know until it was too late. Screaming as they run in panic towards doggy-kind of whatever size and shape, cut adrift from parental guiding hand, too frequently they seem more an encumbrance than an integral joy. We trundlers, on our afternoon and early morning routes, held on our leads lest we offend, simply by being there, stand to attention and patiently let them pass, sometimes for ages. No one is really thinking at all, or thinking of anyone else, come to that! Hey ho!

20170728_112659.jpgIn the black elder in front of the house, a collared dove sits quietly and utterly relaxed upon what looks like a really comfortable bowl of a nest. Yesterday while gardening with Barnaby for company, Kemo Sabe glimpsed the tufted baby peeking over the edge, its parent away temporarily to find a bite to eat for them both. Attentive and always alert, yet peaceful in its gloriously comfortable little home, we are thrilled by its presence and honour it silently.

These things, these things were here and but the beholder/Wanting, as Gerard Manley Hopkins – whose birthday falls today – once said.

 

 

‘Out of this wood do not desire to go . . . ‘

20170618_174941.jpgTiny achievements and homely happiness have done their best to counterbalance the awful uncertainty from which this country as a whole has suffered over the past several weeks.  When we learnt that young Frederick had won his class at the Border Union Championship Dog Show (beating his own breeder’s splendid young dachshund to boot); that the very next hannah rccday at the same show our dear Dalmatian friend, Hannah (Buffrey Hanky Panky by Dalleaf) had won her class, having only recently won the reserve Dalmatian Bitch CC and Best Puppy at the Scottish Kennel Club Championship Show; that our blue tits have, as we suspected from the silence surrounding their now-abandoned box, successfully fledged – a deep feathery mattress being all they’ve left behind; that Kemo Sabe has decorated the 20170401_105338circumference of our pond with fossil-encrusted swirls, and paved under the garden bench and made the composter more approachable as a result; that we are, as of now, all well and free from medication (a daily benison – good health – and we thank God for it); when we catch sight of the soaring martins chasing dreams across the whitewashed walls, gobbits of mud in their beaks, charged by the sun’s intense rays to build something and build it now, now that their tummies are full and the time is ripe; when we welcome friends and laugh with them, and choose 20170618_174857.jpgnew tiling and consider floors; close the new shutters against the beating afternoon sunshine, and cut the fragrant roses, pale and creamy, for beside the bed; feed Hammy spindly pea shoots and fresh basil, which he dips into day long. All these things and many, many more. Well then the strife, the discord, the amazement of recent events begin to diminish in intensity, becoming merely part of what there is, the ‘remote continents of pain’, as someone famous once said. So, you that way, we this way. Remember: I’ll give thee fairies to attend on thee.

 

‘Mr Dick sets us all right’

20170524_124526Today is the tenth birthday of our dear friend and biggest brother, Newman Noggs, so just this once – instead of speaking about him – I shall let him speak for himself, on this most auspicious day:

I am not sure why I have been asked to talk to camera but I am always happy to meet new friends and reach out in the hope of recognition. I am named, so I’m told, after a Dickensian character; a gentleman who, down on his luck and against his better judgement, makes terrible mistakes and finds himself drawn into dreadful deeds which play appallingly on his conscience. Sounds awfully like me! Ever since I was a boy, and there were only Uncle Johnny and me in the gang, I’ve got it wrong. Chewing the bathroom carpet, chewing the mat in the back of the car, leaping and bounding after any- and everybody – all in the best possible taste, though, you understand; an irrepressible spirit as sunny as that sunny August day I came Newman and Jackhome with Johnny from my Loughborough kennels and began the life I love. Johnny would look serious, indeed worried, in case anyone might think he’d done the wrongs which were down to me, but his worry turned to dismay and, eventually, acceptance and then real understanding. He was a true friend and I loved him so dearly. I miss him, every day, but see him regularly in my own way.   It’s part of the special way my mind works. Everyone knows I see dead people, like the Vikings drawing their long-ship up the beach at Bamburgh, and the weary departed souls in Nunhead cemetery.  We so loved our daily walk with Kemo Sabe around its perimeter, for the demands of a day at school would often upset my tummy, after bringing a teddy to comfort the tearful and those as prone to getting it wrong as me. It was a stressful world but I made my contribution to calming it, so I have done good in my time. One of my friends even painted a portrait of us together: that was something special. I remember you still, Jonathan.  That was all before we came on this long, long holiday to the seaside and stayed, and stayed . . .

 20170525_064546I know I sometimes leave people dazed and confused but, believe me, no-one is as dazed and confused as me. I wonder sometimes why Uncle Johnny left us, but he only did that after Mr Pip had joined Barnaby in our gang. Perhaps he couldn’t stand any more mess, or silliness. I wonder what he would have made of Nicholas. He’s such a sweet affectionate little soul, particularly to me, so I let him chew my fur as he needs me just as I needed Johnny, to love and guide. It reminds me of my school work and the comfort that I gave.  But now I follow Barnaby, as he is a bear of greater brain, and is cleverer at getting his muzzle off, whereas I’m better at eating seaweed through it! Seaweed and swimming are my best things!

20170525_070027Today, for some reason, there were hot steak pies from the Bamburgh butcher with our dinners and then there was a walk over the dunes beyond the castle, under the darting, chuckling birds that share our lives. And there is something new for me to chew on, too. Everything fits together –  just about – and I am happy to go along with the gang, cheerful and straightforward in my own eccentric way. I do think, though, that I am even more like Mr Dick than Mr Noggs. But I’ll leave you to check that out.

 

 

 

Blow the wind southerly

Newman and Barnaby AprilMay is nearly upon us and at last the wind has finally changed. After over a week in which Winter dug its claws firmly into us all again, all springtime activity has resumed in the bustling households of our sparrows, jackdaws and blue tits. However, this change for the better was not before we were attacked, on two consecutive days, by an aggressive Weimaraner unknown to us. He went for Barnaby first, and then me! I suppose we should be relieved that Kemo Sabe’s authoritative shouts of ‘No!’ as he barrelled into us and dug in to Barnaby’s back were insistent enough to weaken his resolve. Discipline and someone who knows what’s what are obviously unknown to him, whatever his problem is. Unfortunately, as has always been the case in such unfortunate circumstances, even after the first incident the owner made no attempt to prevent the second run-in, let alone intervene to stop her dog (and its companion) troubling us by putting it on the lead.

IMG_20170430_075027Our dear friend Bailey, pictured with us only this morning, has herself been seriously attacked on a number of occasions, mostly by the visiting dogs who are under-exercised at home and over-excited about being given free rein on the beach, by owners who care little about the consequences of both.  The family of other good doggy friends of ours put it well this week when they spoke of local dogs being under a lot of pressure from the tourist dogs. This week’s unprovoked attacks have certainly put me on my guard and I know for a fact that Barnaby is always on edge, watching for possible ambush from the dunes. We are, as a result, finding out more about an organisation called FIDO, ‘Fighting Irresponsible Dog Owners’ which gives advice – legal and otherwise – on how to deal with such people and their dogs; people who seem incapable (because obviously so unwilling) of securing their dogs to a lead, or considering the safety of others, let alone their own well being, should they find themselves investigated for having a dog dangerously out of control.

Still, the return of the first two pairs of house-martins greeted us at the end of yesterday afternoon’s walk and additional sand-martins were visible as well. Things are definitely on the up, nature-wise. As for me, I had my teeth professionally cleaned and polished this week – my third veterinary intervention this year. What have I done to deserve this, as someone famous once said? To finish, a silly bit of verse. Each morning, there comes a moment when Kemo Sabe is simply unable to get Newman to move. He is utterly transfixed, whether by a leaf, or a smell (which he so often is), and he digs his considerable heels into whatever surface he’s on with the strength of a steam roller. I imagine these to be his thoughts: ‘O blade of grass so green and bright/ I cannot see you in the night/ But now the sun is in the sky/ I cannot merely pass you by.’

Finally, we’ve been listening at every available opportunity to An Ancient Observer, the new CD from the wonderful Armenian jazz pianist, Tigran Hamasayan. Have a listen, and listen to it all – again and again! It helps to put things in perspective, as does Newman, of course.

The dews of comfort

It has taken a very long time – and it’s been a tedious and painful haul, for everyone involved – but I am now almost completely over my horrible abscess. Lancing the enormous thing left a gaping hole at least two inches in diameter, through which my chest wall was clearly visible. Kemo Sabe winced as she ensured it was completely clean every day, checking for any signs of another infection taking hold. Since returning from my weekend at the vet’s weeks ago I’ve been wearing a veterinary t-shirt, which is tight and buttons right over my haunches, to keep the 20170301_103809dressing over the wound in place, but I’m glad to say that as of yesterday those two layers have now disappeared because the hole has miraculously mended and, moreover, my own furry suit is growing apace over the top.  All that is left is the distinctive doughnut, which provides comfort as well as protection, and I am hopeful that we’ll soon be doing away with that, too. The capacity of the spaniel body to heal itself is truly astonishing; in three weeks, not only has the skin regrown and knitted over the muscle but the lovely pigmentation of my blue roan ancestors is clearly back as well.

20170317_190519Last week I resumed the beach trundle with the others in the morning – such a pleasure to feel part of things again – though I’ve been keeping close to Kemo Sabe lest I pull anything and cause further bother. I’ve also began a love affair with the bed in the spare room, a goose down resource I must confess I have previously overlooked but which I am having troubling appropriating, despite its offering a superbly comforting nest. Disappointing to admit, I often find the door closed now, so I turn instead to the merino wool bed brought back from Crufts especially for me. This was a consolation prize: the abscess prevented my attending Crufts this year, so Nico kept me company back home.  Though I am still fighting infirmity a little, I am deeply struck by the love and care my family has provided throughout all this. I have seen and felt all sorts but couldn’t adequately communicate anything useful about it, when my temperature was so very high that all I could do was lie and lean upon the Lord, and the throbbing of the swelling across my elbow and chest was utterly unbearable. I have been there and back and, I think everyone agrees, it has in some ways changed me. But nothing of this is wasted, as that extraordinary seer, Thomas Hardy, explores in his poem, ‘A Wasted Illness’:

Through vaults of pain,

Enribbed and wrought with groins of ghastliness,

I passed, and garish spectres moved my brain

  To dire distress.

 

  And hammerings,

And quakes, and shoots, and stifling hotness, blent

With webby waxing things and waning things

  As on I went.

 

  “Where lies the end

To this foul way?” I asked with weakening breath.

Thereon ahead I saw a door extend –

  The door to death.

 

  It loomed more clear:

“At last!” I cried. “The all-delivering door!”

And then, I knew not how, it grew less near

  Than theretofore.

 

  And back slid I

Along the galleries by which I came,

And tediously the day returned, and sky,

  And life—the same.

 

  And all was well:

Old circumstance resumed its former show,

And on my head the dews of comfort fell

  As ere my woe.

 

  I roam anew,

Scarce conscious of my late distress . . . And yet

Those backward steps through pain I cannot view

  Without regret.

 

  For that dire train

Of waxing shapes and waning, passed before,

And those grim aisles, must be traversed again

  To reach that door.

And they say, ‘If only we could talk . . . ‘

20170212_120857Last Saturday, at the usual time at which everyone  – including us – was getting ready to go to bed, I was bundled into the car and taken off to the vet, fourteen miles away. I had been unwell since the Tuesday, when Kemo Sabe noticed my changed demeanour and wrongly deduced that I had pulled a muscle once again when madly retrieving my beloved ball while Tiggy and Freddie were here. By the end of the week I did indeed seem a lot better after a few painkillers, and enjoyed the resumption of afternoon bounding over the heath behind the dunes but, by Saturday morning, it was clear I really wasn’t up to the beach trundle and we all had to be rescued half way: things had taken a definite turn for the worse and, this time, it was obviously my left arm which was immobilising and making me wretched.

Because there are no flies on Kemo Sabe and she understands everything I say, my distress became ever clearer to her. I felt enormously hot and bothered and everything throbbed around my chest and elbow, where a terrible swelling began to develop. It was this which finally decided my fate and the late-night rendezvous with the caring young vet at our practice, who’d left home to meet us and do her best for me. It would have been so easy for her to conclude that this was another episode of orthopedic trauma but from the start she was convinced otherwise and thus it proved to be: I had an abscess above my right leg and was kept in at the surgery on bed and breakfast rates until Monday afternoon.

Intravenous antibiotics and painkiller brought my temperature down but it wasn’t until Tuesday that the ghastly thing could be lanced and since that time I’ve been wearing an attractive, tightly-fitting doggy t-shirt, which poppers-shut at my rear end. It is Metropolitan Police blue and both snugly holds the dressing in place and stops me worriting at the wound, which is gaping but, the vet said yesterday at my most recent check-up, clean and looking good.

My exuberance is in direct proportion to my inability to withstand pain. Kemo Sabe knows this and registers my mood thoughtfully. She knows I over-react to both good things and bad and this makes it hard to know what’s what. The boys said it was very quiet – unnaturally so – while I was confined to the vet’s; normal service has now been resumed on the noise front (painkillers certainly slow you down!) and I am down to just one kind of antibiotic which stops in another day or so, I think. Even with all she has to do, Kemo Sabe has made time to take me separately for circular local walks and I am grateful to see the world once again. I can’t wait until everything is healed, which will take several weeks; then I hope to celebrate my wholeness with joyful shouting to the heavens in thanks for those who love and care for us, no matter what. And, you may well ask, what caused this dreadful thing?  We do not know for certain but I almost caught a rat a couple of weeks ago and the vet said that that could well have been the start of this series of unfortunate events in a spaniel’s life.