By human standards, dogs’ lives are considered very brief, something their owners’ lives will encompass and have to move on from, the awful effect of death of a beloved canine so unendurable that many humans afterwards proclaim: ‘I can never go through that again.’ Yet when you consider their lifespan more carefully, even just taking a decade as a conservative estimate, it’s striking what changes in their family circumstances our canine companions have actually witnessed and, of course, the powerful effect they have made on us resonates well after they have left us. Just think what you were doing and where you were ten years or so ago.
When the Great and Original Newman Noggs was born, the Jaguar Land Rover plant was a bustling place near his family home but curiously still quite rural in its own way for a Solihull kennel. In moving to London, he benefitted from the last vestiges of a social system Mrs Thatcher soon dismantled but he ended his days back in the Midlands in a lovely Victorian house, buried in a private bluebell wood within the garden where he lies to this day. Willie, his closest friend, was born in the Black Country, enjoyed regular visits to a country cottage but soon came to live in London too, always happy within Epping Forest and, like Newman, was a school dog through and through. The last few years of his life were spent making people smile within a south of England grammar school, enriching the daily lives of the students. In a final twist, he was laid to rest in a little London garden south of the Thames. Such is the whirligig of time and place.
The biographies of Uncles Johnny and NuNu create their own memorial kaleidoscope of joy and sorrow, economic change, views and viewpoints, ups and downs. All of them have eaten their dinners in extraordinary places, watched by a whole host of friends and called all parts of the country home; remembering this makes remembering them poignant and often painful, but it is part of the measurement of our relationship with them all. When we contemplate the eventual death of a dear dog – which will happen several times over a dog-owning lifetime – so much of life is brought into sharp relief. Such is the unique bond from which both species benefit and which makes experiencing such sweet sorrow so worthwhile.
Because Barnaby had recently been so ill, it looked unlikely that anyone would be going to Crufts this year. However, three weeks after his operation he had clearly made a complete recovery: the seaweed blockage and infection were happily just memories, his tummy wound was completely healed and his strength restored, so our dear vet told Barnaby that a well-earned change of scene was just what he needed. Instead of manning the golden retriever stand at Discover Dogs, as he usually does with Newman, he spent Gundog day enjoying the sights, most stunning among them the giant Frontline spaniel, which came as a great shock to most passing dogs, as he moved about encouraged by the presenter demonstrating the dangers posed both to dogs and our homes by fleas and their eggs. Inside the giant spaniel was an actor who could only stay there for short periods because it was so stifling and because of the strain on his legs and back from the tortuous pose he had to adopt in order to look so realistic. Designed and made by a specialist firm used by the BBC, the spaniel proved a popular draw, teaching and selling in equal measure.
Barnaby loved sharing himself with the people he met, behind and in front of all the stands, as well as being useful as an example of his breed. He patiently allowed a goldie breeder whose dogs were over on the show benches to use him as a model, so she could try on him various sizes of the special harness she was after. Who knew there was so much choice, and how precise one has to be to get exactly the right fit for a retriever’s muzzle. For what it’s worth, size 3L in the Dogmatic harness is perfect for the breed! We have never used such an item, always having been trained to heel with a slip lead – pulling isn’t a family trait, so to speak, though it’s obviously something far too many dogs do. Barnaby’s gentle nature was much praised, but it’s a pleasure to do a dog-owner a favour; Crufts is all about sharing one’s love of dogs, telling stories, and bonding over similar canine experiences. One meets so many visitors there who have lost their own beloved , and who long to reach down and feel the warmth and comfort of a gentle retriever once again.
Though we glanced at the scores of entries being judged in the golden retriever rings, it was hard to ignore the fact that most of these qualifiers (an achievement in itself) were completely wasting their time as there are so few top prizes and, as is the case with most breeds, the winning kennels seem increasingly familiar in every show one attends. This magnificent cocker spaniel came all the way from Sweden in order to compete but, despite wins throughout his home country and across the Baltic states, he met with no success at Crufts. One honestly does wonder how the majority of exhibitors maintain their enthusiasm for the contest when it is so difficult to supervene on such a stage. Meeting him after he’d left the show benches after 4pm was one of the highlights of this trip, however; though tired from his day on duty, he sat atop his wheeled crate, born proudly aloft by his well-dressed human family, who love and treasure him, no matter what – precious winners all, as someone famous once said.
Although a couple of years ago I learnt the hard way, our lovely vet made it quite clear yesterday that the terrible dangers posed by the seaweed we get along our Northumberland shore are not generally appreciated by those whose dogs habitually gleefully devour it. Not, that is, until there is a problem. And boy have we had another problem this week.
The first signs that something was wrong came on Tuesday morning, when he had sudden onset vomiting, though he had nothing in his stomach to being up other than saliva, though the reflex was very dramatic and he declined visibly, not wanting to eat anything. After consulting the vet and being reassured over the phone early on, Kemo Sabe soon rang again as poor Barney continued to try to be sick and because he was just not himself. A hundred pounds’ worth of treatment later she brought him home, reassured that little seemed wrong that would not soon be rectified but the following day, he was worse and by then hadn’t eaten for two days. He looked and seemed so despondent, so before the vet was even open, off they went to seek further investigation.
Although X-rays didn’t indicate the presence of a foreign body in Barnaby’s gut, the vet thought it prudent to investigate surgically because she could see gas in the ileum; inside they found the two chunks of seaweed in the picture above, and the damage already inflicted by the spiky root. Peritonitis. As you may recall, a few years ago I also had seaweed removed from my tummy, but by comparison that was a fairly straightforward (and much cheaper) procedure. Barnaby’s operation was much more complex, involving flushing the gut and removal of some damaged bowel. He spent two whole days on intravenous medication and liquids and is now on six different types of pills but, thank God, he is happily hungry again, enjoying easy walks on the lead and seems to be making a good recovery. The only thing that matters is that he has returned to us – with a relatively small scar, considering that his digestive system has had to be rearranged – when, for an anxious post-operative time, we all thought we might lose him. Dearest Barnaby, welcome home. I can’t tell you how worried we all were.
Jeoffry’s hut, as it is called, has really come into its own lately. During the last few weeks of sweltering heat I have taken myself inside, rearranged the bedding and made myself a nest, much to the consternation of all. I don’t know which was worse: the unremitting intensity of the sun – something to which none of us up here is accustomed – or being forced reluctantly to accept that we simply would have to take notice of what the England team was up to in the 2018 World Cup! For, amazingly, England’s young team astounded us all with their achievements and, as always, the media’s attentions swerved from initial cynicism to unrealistic expectation in double-quick time. No one could ever have predicted we would come fourth, and that one of ours would win the Golden Boot. As a great believer in the power of the ball to bring folk together, I can only applaud. But the summer temperatures have been a trial for us all and, despite the fun provided by young Nico’s apple-shaped paddling pool, we Dickens Dogs are glad that at last things are beginning to cool down. Today we even had some much-needed rain.
But dogs want to keep going, their routines uninterrupted, no matter how hot it gets, so it takes loving owners to intervene and make sensible choices on our behalf; to allow us our fun, but prevent us from hurting ourselves. On a very hot Sunday, when we thought the event might be called off because of the heat wave, Nico’s sister Tiggy still enjoyed winning the Weiner Race during the Dachshund Walk and Fun Day at Musselburgh Racecourse. Astonished to find she was allowed to chase something for once – a fake squirrel – she blew the opposition out of the park. Afterwards, though, she was showered with cool water and she and Freddie left soon afterwards, as the heat intensified, her prize left unclaimed. Better safe than sorry. Yet still we hear every day about dogs dying locked in parked, airless cars in soaring temperatures while their wanton owners idle in the shops, ignorant or careless of their fates, whatever is more reprehensible.
This week we also caught sight of our new friend, Honey, the Shar-Pei pup, who has arrived in the family of our old friend Bailey, who died earlier in the year. Being only three months old, she needs her final inoculation and another week before we get to greet her properly; we only saw her through our car window very early one morning, taking in the cool sea air and the magic of her new environment. She was like a kind of exotic piglet, with tiny, trotty feet.
This has been a stressful few weeks, noteworthy especially for the terrible weather we have experienced so late in the winter. Today the wind and snow are at it again, tearing into our chests as we pound the beach – the only ones around. And, sad to say, things have changed for ever; for our dear friend, Bailey the Shar Pei, will no longer be there to greet us as we reach Seahouses, ready to chase Mr Pip, as she has done every day for many years. This picture was taken the day her cancer finally caught up with her and the decision was made to release her from the illness the magic pills had done so much to help. She poses, pensively, the dawn behind her, upon the sand she loved, as if aware she cannot struggle further; she is ready to call it a day; leaving her family behind, baffled by her loss. God bless you, dear Bailey: rest in peace and without pain at last.
One of the first things we hear on BBC Radio 4 every morning – after our beloved shipping forecast that is – is ‘Prayer for the Day’, a surprisingly diverse two-minute slot, presented a week at a time by a wide variety of professionals drawn from all kinds of religious denominations. Unlike ‘Thought for the Day’, which is broadcast before the 8 o’clock news during the stations’s flagship news show, Today, the earlier slot is a true prayer, sent out into the ether on the wings of a carefully considered personal reflection, and all the better for that.
This week’s presenter is Jonathan Wittenberg, in whom we first became interested when we heard him on a previous stint on the programme. Senior Rabbi of Masorti Judaism in this country, Rabbi Wittenberg has a warmth and a breadth of vision which is expressive of his ministry. He loves, respects and draws strength from all of the natural world, but especially from his collie, the inspiration for one of his books, ‘Things My Dog Has Taught Me: About Being A Better Human‘.
It was a delightful surprise to hear our doggy selves placed at the centre of yesterday’s prayer; what an honour to be the Rabbi’s inspiration; to be publicly acknowledged for our natural goodness and how this can draw those who live alongside us to a more numinous way of being. Do listen, or read the transcript available on the BBC’s iPlayer, available here:
As the old year passes and the new year begins, we remember things about the Old Guard: those wonderful Dickens dogs who have done their bit and gone ahead to join the great Newman Noggs, who himself died at the very beginning of January several decades ago. The day he died the earth was frozen so hard that it took two days to excavate his grave, under mature, majestic trees. Left briefly alone to carry the banner through a long, harsh winter was Wilkins, the gentlest of bears but never a natural leader.
Shortly thereafter into the clan came young Tommy Traddles, seen here with Uncle Willie in front of Noggsy’s springtime grave, bedecked with daffodils. Were he still alive, Tommy would be twenty-two tomorrow, which is worth recalling, in view of the arc as long as a rainbow – both familial and magical – which stretches back from Barnaby today, through our own Newman (Uncle Noggsy) to Jack (Uncle Johnny) and thus through Wilkins to the Great Noggs himself. The line of fun, frolic and foolishness remains unbroken to this day, a small but real comfort given that dogs like us live such short lives and our passing causes such pain.
Tommy – or Tonto as he came to be called – was an obedient, gentle creature, emotional and highly sensitive. You can see from his expression here how he hated the sensation of walking on the big pebbles at Brighton with Uncle Johnny, mainly because the unevenness hurt his arthritic joints; he preferred the smaller stones at Southwold, into which he would dig himself a cool scrape to avoid the sun. The palest of the Dickens Dogs, and at a time when it was unusual and not bred for, he had a ghostly, other-worldly air, which made him a sweet companion. As a pup he was a persistent chewer (an uncommon trait for our family), demolishing table legs, plaster-work (a particular favourite) and shoes, all without embarrassment. Greatly loved, his end was made more dreadful by his having two conditions, necessary medication for which conflicted, with dire results. He died at the vet’s, under emergency circumstances, which saddens us all even to this day. He alone of all the Dickens boys has no earthly resting place.
It 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.
The 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.
mr pip ponders 