Out of this month of blizzards, loss and hair-raising journeys, the stress of Crufts and the passing of our old friend, Bailey, at least some sunshine has supervened. Our newest family member has arrived: Hammy Flora. Early days yet, but she seems a friendly, gentle little soul, relaxed and happy in her new environment which she is busily making her own under cover of darkness. Every night, once she’s up and doing, Kemo Sabe makes a point of bringing her a bowl of fresh vegetables, taking the opportunity to get her used to human touch. So far, so good. She is extraordinarily open to being stroked gently, and never flinches in fear.
Whereas Hammy Bumble was easily disturbed and slept very lightly, Flora is flat-out from dawn to quite late in the day, which makes meeting her a bit of a challenge. Although she has explored all her extensive demesne, she seems to be concentrating on two out of three areas, and has taken to rolling up in a ball to sleep in the connecting tube, plugs of wood shavings and kapok above and beneath her. She is but a baby, of course – but eight weeks old, we think – and obviously feels more secure there, despite in one way being so exposed. This morning, before she curled up for her daytime sleep, Kemo Sabe managed to grasp Flora gently but firmly (and without any hint of a nip!) and bring her out of the cage for her first proper cuddle.
The colour of pale caramel or biscuit all over, Flora takes her Dickensian name from the warm-hearted character in Little Dorrit who acts (and dresses) much younger than her age. As we write this, our Flora is dreaming and making tiny noises in her idiosyncratic nest. Many hours remain before she is ready for her nightly interaction with the rest of the gang; it’s early days, but so far everyone is pleased with her integration into the complicated world of beds, bowls and feeding opportunities which constitute being one of us.
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.
Hammy Bumble died last night, some time between eight and nine-thirty. He was still breathing when Kemo Sabe, Barnaby and I left the study for some time by the fire downstairs; he was warm and comfortable in an impromptu nest we improvised for him upon his wheel, to which spot he had moved by first thing Friday morning. When, before bed, we found him still and lifeless, we gently brought him out from under the kapok and shavings and took this picture. First thing this morning, he was buried near Uncle Johnny and Hammy Jo, with Barnaby and me in attendance, close to where a wonderful yew tree is shortly to be planted, and surrounded by daffodil bulbs bursting into life. In his box, for his journey, there are some of his favourite nuts and dried fruit.
And so another little friend joins the others beyond the rainbow bridge in that undiscovered country over which so much speculation has been spent. Looking close-up at last at his beautiful finger nails and tiny front teeth, his minuscule pink pads and once opulent pelt, it takes some doing to dismiss his being as of minimal significance. Once again we are reminded of how tenacious life is, and what a privilege it is to embrace it.
It seems that little Hammy Bumble’s life is maybe drawing to a close. Over the last month or so he has withdrawn into himself, slowed right down and, as we write this, he is where has has remained recently, in the new-found bedroom he (and we) have put together for him in the part of his labyrinth nearest to the computer. He was making the occasional venture between his various houses until last week but now he has, it would seem, taken to his sick-bed, and indeed we can hear him cough very quietly to himself, now and then. In early February it actually seemed as though he had developed a really serious infection, so stressful was his breathing and so confused his demeanour. But he seemed after a couple of really bad days to overcome the worst and rally into a kind of extreme old age, bed-ridden and with little desire to move far.
It is about two years ago since Hammy Jo went. His was a truly gruelling end, probably a form of pneumonia, and we all hope that Bumble is spared that dreadful gasping, long-drawn-out finale. He still raises his beautiful head and pokes about in his vegetable bowl a couple of times a day, but all the usual routines are now abandoned and he is actually eating very little. It’s unlikely he can endure much longer, as tiny as his resources are, if he persists in this way of living, so like our elderly relatives who withdraw to the comfort of bed, pull the covers up and wait for the call. Mostly his eyes remain at least half-shut now; he is obviously weak and has lost interest in the world he has called his own for so long. Nevertheless, we continue to prepare and serve him every day with his favourite herbs, fresh veg, dried fruit and nuts – never did another hamster eat quite so well as Bumble, who always seemed so anxious about food. Habitually he emptied every bowl, wasting so much because so much of it was hidden, lest anyone else should take it (one can only ponder quite who that might be, in his little imagination). Now most of it gets thrown away, when a fresh selection is offered. Such sadness, once again. Such a dear, sweet, tiny little soul. Doing what all living souls must one day do.
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:
Early Saturday morning, we were met at the end of our run by a bonny seal pup, resting on the beach between fishing expeditions. As the unaccompanied Kemo Sabe approached him, he turned and snorted, then returned to his laborious struggle towards the unhelpfully wave-less sea. Even when the water kissed his nose, he was reluctant to take to it, but there was no doubting he would be safer at sea than on land once the sun was up and the number of curious and interfering dogs running on the beach increased. Recent news reports from around the British coast have highlighted the plight of record numbers of seal pups – brought ashore by the wintry storms – where they’ve been troubled by the public and their pets. This has all too frequently resulted in pups being abandoned by their mothers.
Day by day we up here are unsure which season we are meant to be in, even though country-wide – and not too far south of us, either – the winter has been making its presence felt. On the ground here, in our little corner of north Northumberland, we were until yesterday afternoon’s bit of a blizzard snow-free, and all that excitement had completely disappeared by evening. Mostly, despite varying wind strength and direction, things remain calm, though every day is different and, prevailing over us, is Jack Frost. The intensity of the cold varies from day to day; it has been bitter here but, more often, the brightness of the sun is a joy and, this coming Wednesday, we are once again in for temperatures in double figures. And so the days rumble by, giving us a bit more light as they do so.
A few days ago on an undistinguished morning – certainly un-spring-like, the sky grey, a bearable chill in the air – one of our local blue tits stopped his back and forth from the nuts and fat balls and flew across to the nest box in which he was born. He sat at its entrance, comforted perhaps by happy thoughts, and pulled at a few tufts of retriever fur which Kemo Sabe had stuffed inside on top of last year’s bedding. He then paused for several minutes on his perch, poking his little head inside a couple more times. There, in the depth of Winter, it was as if one tiny creature among countless others could contemplate something distant yet fateful which we cannot begin to comprehend. Some glimmer of a future back and forth; as though rehearsing a part for which he is as yet un-cast. Truly, ‘the world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper,’ as someone famous once said.
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.
Tiny Nico’s skin problem is still very much under investigation, which has kept everyone busy over the last few weeks. Quite apart from regular visits to the vet (who calls this business a saga) to see the effect on his symptoms of different antibiotics, and subsequent medications, everything we eat has come under scrutiny and, as a result, we seem to have waited extra long for the bowls to be served up. Feeding time is always complicated in our house, but it has become still more deliberative now that sensitivity to something or other – and it may well be food-related – is affecting Nico’s health.
As far as the little fellow himself is concerned, he is as cheerful and full of beans as ever, though the return of the odd sore spot to the back of a paw means he is no longer with us on the morning beach trundle until we get to the bottom of all this. Now Autumn is here, he’s missing the excitement of completing our run entirely in darkness, but we greet him and Uncle NuNu at the end when we are all reunited, swathed in our fluorescent suits of lights, illuminated by Kemo Sabe’s head-torch. Apart from seeing one very pleasant holidaying husky a couple of times this week, we see nobody else at all, only the curlews crying at the shoreline, and we see them only with our ears, as it were.
What to give us dogs to eat has become a hot topic in the last few years and one on which Kemo Sabe finds herself frequently consulted, whether it’s about avoiding allergies, preventing weight gain or whatever. Innovative dog food manufacturers have cheerfully joined the grain/wheat/gluten-free/raw-food band-wagon (perm any one from whatever angle you like) and many dog owners – perhaps most – now think seriously about what they put on our plates. Over all the many decades Kemo Sabe has been feeding dogs, only the great and original Newman Noggs ever suffered from a skin complaint, and that only temporarily as a young pup and it was easily treated. The Dickens Dogs have eaten widely and well. Every day we are given a variety of food; a mix of dry and wet; cooked and raw meat; complemented by raw and cooked vegetables – it’s quite a palaver! Now we are getting supplements as well: fish oils and sardines, things to keep our joints as well as our coats happy, too.
Nico is off the medication now and we all are curious to see what might flare up and when. For three years he has been perfectly well, without so much as a hint of allergy, but he this week had a skin test which will tell us much more about any allergens he has taken a dislike to. For what it’s worth, we all tend to think this is something to do with the summer flowering plants on the heath behind the castle. We await results: if infection isn’t involved, there has to be another way forward. In the meantime, it is almost lunch preparation time and I can barely control my anticipation. As she writes, I gaze up at the one I love most in all the world knowing she really does everything she can to keep us all on an even, healthy keel. Now, where’s my dinner?
mr pip ponders 