5 Ways a Border Collie will Change Your Life

I love our Border Collie doggy, Kim.  She's full of love and is not shy about sharing it.

She's a rescue, so she's got a couple of hang ups, but nothing too bad at all.  She's a dream dog really. We are so lucky to have her.

Like most doggy owners, I was aware of breed quirks.  I owned a Jack Russell - most people are very quick to state their breed quirks ('snappy, yelpy, temperamental' - which mine wasn't AT ALL by the way, just so you know. He had a man-bark, never snapped, like, ever, and the only temper he seemed to have was goofy/playful).

Here's a few things I've learned about Border Collies in our first year.

1. You'll never be alone.  Ever.

You'll always have a furry friend right by your side.  Collies are nosy about EVERYTHING. They love to be in on the action and I reckon they are so good at coming back purely because they are so scared of missing out on anything.  They are good at observing from a distance and sitting down, but always near you, always watching to see where you are going next. See 'the collie stare'.

Oh hey, I'm just coming to see how you're doing...

2. Obsession is more than a word - it is life.

Kim's particular obsession is the ball and the two other collies who live next door.  Combine the two and she is a very happy doggy.

I might have a ball in my hand...

Your collie has an obsession.  This is their 'thing'. You will find it one day - maybe by accident or even on purpose.

It might be chasing cars (goodness forbid), chasing a ball or chasing a laser pen.  It might be herding small things or hoarding socks.

Border collies have an innate urge to 'do' and it can sometimes be ruinous.  Their obsession will quickly become yours.

Channel it in the right way, however, and you can work it to your benefit.

Which leads me to...

3. These dogs have smarts...but not street smarts.  They will challenge you!

Don't get me wrong, these dogs are clever beasties. It's the main reason why they need at least a 45 minute walk every day, off-lead, sniffing and playing.  You know, so they can cover about 50 extra miles while you are doing 6. They are so active.  They instinctively know where you are on a walk, so they can take themselves away through fields and far and away and get back to you the instant (or so) after you call them (because they might be missing something important).

But, my dog will sit behind a door until it opens for her - even if it's open enough for her to look through.  She thinks it's an impenetrable force.  Even if I'm shouting her name and telling her she can do this.

She'll sit with her tongue out, looking at me quizically when I give her a treat.

If she doesn't use her brain  or essentially energy, she is a force to be reckoned with, but ask her to push a door open with her feet: nah!

4.  You'll never be hugged in the same way by another animal ever.

This might just be a Kim thing, but I have never seen another dog do the 'full body cuddle'.

Collies are very feetsy dogs; they like to use their front feet almost like hands.  The result is a lot of lovely hugs and touchy-feely happiness on both you and their part.

Or a paw in the face...

5. You'll never ever again do so much walking as when you are the owner of a Border Collie

I thought a Jack Russell could go on and on...but a Collie can go on and on and on and on!

These dogs are bred to herd.  And herding is an all day task.  Kim herself was bred (and worked) as a herding dog, so is used to miles and miles and miles and miles per day!

She's off!

Which is no easy feat!  Tiring her out can be tricky.  I have also become accustomed to walking whenever I can.  Suddenly the school run becomes just another ample opportunity for walking.  The farm paths surrounding my house are just different brilliant dog walking routes amalgamated together. Every day is a new challenge to walk and to play and to find the best place to let the collie roam free.

It's great being a Border Collie pal!

Home At Last

I'm at this weird crossroads at my life at the moment and I feel solely responsible for a lot of heavy things.

Firstly, I'm due to go back to work in the next month or so and I am responsible for finding and engaging childcare for all three children - no easy feat in these parts.   Something I didn't really see clearly a year ago when we were considering  moving to a rural area, was just how it would affect our day to day living and that things such as childcare would be a lot more difficult to come by.

Me, trying to magic childcare out of my ass.

The after school club which was there when I googled last year is no longer running due to low turnout and any available childminders are either full to capacity or only have space for one child.  I kind of knew to expect these challenges and I'm working it out, but heck, it's hard.

Some things of course have completely taken me by surprise.

I never factored in how much different it was going to be living out here, and oddly, how much in love with it I was going to fall.  How spending so much time here, even though for the majority of it I am alone (and more alone than I have ever been) is kind of really good for me and how the weird little things like watching hawks out of the back window or walking in the woods with the dog just outside my front door can just, well, balance things out.

We've had a hell of a year health-wise, work-wise and, well, life-wise, and I think we have boiled everything right down to one thing.

Once we have had all of our arguments, flung out all the rubbish, heaved through the murk and the gloom, come out on the other side and spent some time walking in the light, it seems the answer is fairly obvious: nothing is as important as each other.

No career, no amount of money, no amount of things, no amount of eating out or new clothes or gadgets etc is half as important as our family's health, our family's love, our family's life and happiness together.

We all deserve to be happy.  We all deserve peace.

We all deserve to feel appreciated and loved and respected.

We all appreciate space and time and space.

We all deserve enough sleep, healthy food and warm stuff.

When we moved here, it was a huge risk.  One, because we were moving to a completely new area, changing the kids schools and having to change the entire way we live; no more jumping on the bus to wherever we needed to be, no more quickly popping out to the shops, no more having friends and family being able to easily swing by and visit us.

Everything now must be planned, measured and organised completely, and admittedly, it's taken, and is still taking, a bit of time to adjust to that.  We are so very used to having everything to hand.

After the chaos of 2015, with it's huge massive highs and it's break-neck lows, we are still kind of scrambling through things, albeit with less stressful desperation.  There's definitely a nicer pace to things and a glimmer of what is to come on the horizon, and I have to say, it looks really sweet.

It starts as you take the back road up towards our house.  We've been here for three seasons now and watched the surroundings change with each of them.  It's something really special.

Just now it's winter, and the trees are thin and bare.  The fields are cut and everything is open for you to see.

Birds of prey sit on fence posts and telegraph poles, right out in the open, their huge silhouettes strong against the shadows of the dim morning light - it really is a magnificent sight. They hunt in the field behind our house, a family of them hovering and swooping, like we have our own nature show in our kitchen window.

Horsey!

 Just yesterday while driving along I saw something stirring on the grass verge.  I rolled down the window and there in front of me, just a few feet away was a young hawk toying with it's prey. This bird was huge - a yellow beak, massive wings and huge claws. Stunning.

Take a walk through the fields and you happen upon hares which startle and zip right past you. 

The flash of a deer's white tail as it darts off through the woods is something I've come across more than once while walking the dog on a quiet afternoon.

And there's nothing at all like being present as huge flocks of Canadian Geese happen to start landing in the harvested corn fields right beside you.  All you can do is stand and watch as flock after flock locate each other and all land in a great chorus, suddenly falling completely silent as they complete their number.

It's magic, pure and simple.

I've always been a nature lover, someone who feels more at home in a natural space.

I've moved around a lot.  Been in so many different areas, so many different places; towns, city centres, suburbs, multi-storeys, flat-shares, houses.

But nothing will beat taking the road to our house.

First you hit fields.  Loads of fields. Like the opening credits to your favourite television show, they set the tone and the pace for what is to come.

The fields roll in.  Some horses.  Some sheep sometimes.  Depending on which road you take, there's highland cattle too.

You hit the first village and it's pure idyll - old drystane dykes and pillared walls,  There's history to it.  A really old phone box.  Some hand-painted signs advertising logs and hay bales for sale; and even better, you are interested in this because you know you could use these.  Or know someone who could.

Then an old bridge, more horses. A river.  A long, winding road and then, our village.  Community noticeboards with up to date information about social events, parties, services.  A village hall.  A restaurant.  The wee school.

Out of the village and up the road, past the woods, and suddenly: our house.

Our home.

Home.

Sweet, sweet heck, I'm home at last.

There's so much to do here, so much work to be done.  There are whole rooms waiting to be purged and completely rebuilt from the bottom up; this is no mere decorating job!

We will have to work very hard at this.

But,oh my goodness, I am home.

Since we started living here, I can feel my new life creeping in around me, filling up the gaps in whatever was missing.

As I begin to settle and put down roots (and I honestly never ever thought I would ever get to - what a treat) I begin to see the way things are going to be, and it's weird; it's strange to feel so comfortable and suddenly so relaxed.

No wondering where we might be next year, no feelings of unease.  For the first time in such a very long time I can think further ahead than the next year.  Everything we own has been in hibernation, waiting for the day it can come out and be - we've almost forgotten how to use these things.  It takes time to get comfortable with pictures and where things should go; people take years to work out the best way to do things.  We've had to work it out temporarily in other people's homes for so long now, we've forgotten that we are allowed to use our  own stuff.  Everything has been very much make-do, that we've fallen into that mode even now.

It's so nice to remember suddenly that we don't have to make do.  We can use our stuff and make homes for them. We can throw away the stuff we don't need, the stuff we've been holding on to just in case we get a house with or without something and use what we have and what we want.  We can start to make grooves in our lives.

The most travelled Xmas tree in the whole world! Pretty sure it should hold a record! It's going to be really surprised when it keeps coming out in the same house!

As maternity leave ends and I have to try and work out where I want to be - work or home - the pull towards home is so strong.  I've waited so long for this.

My passion for work has always been strong; I love to work.  I love to feel useful.

But I am so aware now of how much work fills up family time.  And now I have more family for my time.

So, here I go.  Building my new life.  Working it out, cutting my teeth. Shaping now and the future, and my childrens' future. Making decisions.  Weighing the balance.

I'm nervous.  I'm not historically good at making decisions.  I have a tendency to think that things are a great idea and then realise with a huge whack that it really, really wasn't.  I live and I learn (thankfully). I grow.  Don't we all?

It feels like I should have a lot at stake, but it also feels like I don't.  After all, I'm now where I always wanted to be. Have my priorities changed? I'm so unsure.

I don't have a magic crystal ball.  I have no idea where I'm going to be work-wise this time next year.

But, oh my days, I am going to be here.  In my home, whatever happens.

You have no idea what difference that makes to my mindset. 17 house moves in and I'm home.

Here goes.

Change

I've talked a little bit about how things have changed so much for us all in the past year, but I've never gone into any detail.  One, because I'm genuinely so tired and time-poor that I just can't fathom how to, and two, because, well, nobody really cares that much, do they?

This time last year, we had no idea that this one even existed!

Life is life is life, and everybody always has their own thing going on which is more important to them, and that's cool by me.

How did this guy get big enough for school?

How in the heck did we end up here?  It's amazing!

I'm  huge believer in change and the ability it has to surprise you out of nowhere.  And I can definitely stand testimony to the fact that things can change incomprehensibly: what might seem crazy one year, can be your reality the next.

I can't imagine not knowing this little guy!

It is important to keep an open mind and embrace change.

My life, our lives, are so completely different to the way that they were this time last year and I guess it's still blowing my mind a little bit.

We've changed cars, lost a family member and gained two, moved house, struggled with ill health, changed schools, and poor Dave has changed jobs 4 times, all in the space of a year.  Yet, if you'd at me down last year and said that any of this was going to happen, let alone all of it, I'd have laughed in your face.

Where will we be this time next year?

I'm almost too scared to ask!

If you'd have told me that I'd have a view like this on my doorstep, I'd never have believed you!

Throwing a ball...and getting it back again...

Tonight I had one of the most pleasant experiences I've had for a while.

Tonight I took Kim into the field behind our house and I threw the ball for her.

This is a momentous occasion for two reasons.

1. It has been nearly two years now since I threw a ball for a dog.  Sparky was pretty blind in his last year and used to crash into things, thus we rarely played.  My throwing arm is way out of practice - man it feels so good to finally throw a ball extra hard.  I forgot how far I could make it go.  After being pregnant, having a c-section and going through recovery it feels so good for my body too to be so physical again.

2. It has taken me the best part of six weeks to teach Kim how to play like this.  And to see her wag and stand up tall (and boy, is she tall!) and hang her tongue out of the side of her mouth as she smiles -just, wow! Seeing her happy like that, seeing her run and chase and bring back joyfully, then lolling on the ground, exhausted is nothing short of awesome.

Teaching a previously abused dog how to play has been interesting.

If you don't know Kim's story, read it HERE.

I suppose if I had to pass on any tips, it would be, let them build their own confidence.  Don't push.  Let them find their own ground.  They'll show you when they are ready.

At first, I didn't know what to do with her - she is such a different doggy to all of my other doggy experiences.

All the dogs I have ever come across have been motivated by something; be it treats or toys or whistles or clicks.  They've all been responsive and eager to gain their rewards, whatever that may be.

Kim is different.

Kim's just happy that you are being nice to her.

She isn't at all interested in treats or food - I get the feeling that she was a very submissive bottom of the pack, and judging by how thin she was when we got her, rarely ate her fill.

She views the gift of food with almost-suspicion like someone might tell her off or smack her away.

It almost feels like she is scared of getting food, so I'm always very careful in how I offer it to her.  I want her to be certain that it is for her and that she is entitled to it.  She never seems to believe me though.

Toys were equally suspicious.

To Kim, toys were a huge source of fear.  Initially I thought she might have some kind of hunting instinct - after all we were pretty much told that she was used to catching her own food. You know, because they didn't feed her.

'Something that squeaks', I thought.

Nope.  She was terrified.  She hid from the one squeaky toy we bought her.

We spent a few nights in the garden trying to get her interested in a football.  Instead of chasing the ball, she cowered from it.  Our kicking terrified her and she cowered down like we might kick her.

Wary, we tried throwing a small ball to each other, but throwing is basically the lifting of hands, and so, Kim was again scared.  She ducked down, crawling on her belly, pretty much begging us not to hit her.  It wasn't going well.

Of course the weeks went on, Kim never got hit by any of us and she was getting used to what to her appeared to be some kind of dream life.

She gradually accepted treats.

She carefully discovered that she could be petted without having to earn it.

She discovered the joys of meeting other humans and dogs and was taken on long, happy walks in all weathers, off lead and on.

She got to know that when we lifted our hands that it was to peg washing, to dance and to wave - and that it wouldn't end horribly for her.

And that it was nice to interact with us closely, because we would carefully stroke her ears, we would hug her on the couch and we would always reassure her when she was unsure.

Gradually we gained her trust.

Then our next door neighbours got a puppy.

A 13 week old collie pup, who, when she got to come and play over the fence, showed Kim how to play.

She showed Kim how to chase a ball.

She showed Kim that dog toys were in fact for her and that it was fun to run, and throw and chase each other with them.

And Kim payed attention.  She wonderingly learned how to play and stand her own ground and how to have fun.

It was so nice to see.

Every time she played, she got a little taller.  Her tail got a little bit more waggy.

Soon, she was dashing out into the garden to find her ball.

HER ball.

She knew it was hers.

Now she finds her toy and runs to greet it.

She throws it up in the air and rolls in the grass with it.

And she looks so happy.

And she lets us join in too.  She brings it to us to play.

It is then that we realise that we haven't just been teaching a dog how to be a dog again, in the nicest possible way, but we have taught her how to trust.

And that we have earned her trust.

And that is the greatest reward of all.

Every day is a dog day! #NationalDogDay

Today is National Dog Day, and if you know anything about me at all, you will know that I don't need any excuse at all to celebrate doggy life.

Having been an avid dog lover all of my days, I have been and still am absolutely enamoured with pretty much every dog that crosses my path.

Losing my old doggy, Sparky, after nearly 19 years together was and still remains one of the most heartbreaking things that has ever happened to me.

There'll never be another boy like my boy.

We did however end up recently rescuing a collie dog, called Kim.

She's a beauty.

She's also one of the most loving dogs I have ever had the fortune to meet and I really still cannot believe that we got so lucky as to have not only met such an even-tempered or well-behaved dog, but that she gets to to live with us and we with her.

I guess when the time came for us to get a new dog, I felt a bit like a kid in a sweetshop. 

There was a world of possibilities out there - the chance to have a puppy, make a life-long buddy and to mold a life.

I never imagined that we would end up with a dog in the way that we did.

I'll be the first person to tell you the ins and outs of getting a dog, ESPECIALLY if you have children.

Here are my no-mess rules to getting a dog:

1. VET any potential breeder/seller of pups.  Do not buy a pup where you cannot see the parent - there are far too many people breeding dogs for profit and shipping them in from horrible puppy farms where they do not care about the welfare of the breeding bitches, nor the pups. DON'T do it.  Be aware and use your savvy.

2. ALLOW YOURSELF TO BE EXAMINED THOROUGHLY, because any breeder worth anything at all will want to know where those puppies are going to end up and also, that you are going to bring them back to them (i.e, the safest place) if things don't work out.  They want to make sure you have time, you have space and you have the energy in order to give a dog a good life.

3. ASSESS yourself.  Do you work a lot? Do you have young children? Can you commit to at least 3 walks a day PLUS playtimes? Are you prepared to accept some mess? The possibility of your things getting chewed? The expense? Have you thought about where it will sleep?  What they eat? Getting them spayed? Have you thought about what you will do with them if you want to go away for the weekend or a big day out? Are you okay with yellow stains on your grass from dog pee? Picking up endless poop? Can you take a dog with you through the next possibly 15-20 years? Will you be able to deal with an ageing animal? Will you be able to provide all-of-life care, no matter what?

4.KNOW your breed.  Research, research, research. Know that even an individual dog will challenge it's own breed stereotype.  Know that you must see your dog as an individual.  Know that dogs use body language and learn what it all means; it's all your dog has to communicate with you.  Know how to enact positive reinforcement in training and that you never really train your dog, but rather, your dog trains you on how to interact with him/her. Know what kind of food is best - this is a basic thing which will affect a dog's health and behaviour in the same way it affects you or I. Know what makes your particular dog tick and know that if you know this stuff, your dog will be your best bud.

Did I follow my own rules? Kind of.

Kind of not.

I was stupid.

I had never owned and had never had any experience of a border collie before.

My baby was 4 weeks old, I was recovering from a C-section and I had two kids who, lets face it, are unpredictable (they run and scream and cry and shout and are basically noisy, crazy children)

While I am on maternity leave now and my husband is on a long time off work, this will not last.

We were however pushed into something which kind of ended up happening beyond our control...and no, you should never actually go and see a dog unless you are prepared to go home with a dog, because basically if there is a modicum of love in your heart, said dog will be going home with you.

Kim is a failed sheepdog.

There is something you should know about working dogs: they are not kept in the same way as pet dogs.  A lot of them are literally just a way for a farmer to earn money and if that dog is not earning his or her keep, he or she becomes just something that should be disposed of.

Kim is the most loving dog I have ever met.  She is loyal.  She is so gentle. 

She approaches everyone with hesitation and loves nothing better than just to be cuddled and petted.

When we got this poor loving dog, she was a shell of herself.  She cowered when you went to pet her - she was very hand-shy.

She approached everyone crawling along on her belly because she was so scared of being hit.

When we fed her, she wouldn't eat until we left the room, and if we came back in she would duck away.

She had muscle wasteage in her back legs, she was underweight, covered in fleas and had a kink in her tail from being kept in a cage.

She refused to sleep anywhere but on the floor, and when she slept, after flinching every time came in the room, she slept curled up as tight as possible, as if she was still in the box we saw her crated in when we went to see her.

When we went to that farm to view a dog that day, it was a road trip.  We had no intention of coming home with another family member.

But there was no way we could have morally left her where she was.

We couldn't have left her to goodness knows what.

It was with a huge raft of concern and worries and warnings to my other half about what to do and what to expect that we took this dog with us.

She was never to be left alone with any of the children.

The children were not to eat beside her.

The children had to be watched at all times, the baby was NEVER to be left at her level.

She must be kept downstairs and not in the kids rooms.

She can't be out in the garden on her own.

She must be watched in case she nips - border collies have a herding instinct, she might try to herd the kids.

If under any circumstances she nips, shows aggression, has any badness towards anyone, we seek help, we get her another home with someone who understands.

As it was, we definitely needn't have worried.

We have a dog who took 6 weeks to discover we had stairs in our house. First she wobbled up them, terrified.  Now she gallops up two at a time, accompanying me when I go up to get the baby or express milk.

It took her 4 weeks to accept that we were not going to do her any harm. Now she rises up o meet a hand instead of cowering down.

Two weeks ago she discovered the comfort of the carpet in our bedroom and now she watches vigil while we sleep, getting up occasionally to wag her tail sleepily while I feed the baby in the night.  She now stretches out, and she has legs so long, sometimes we trip on them.  When we do, she never ever grumbles. She didn't flinch when we took her for her vaccinations at the vets either; she didn't care bout the pain.

She graciously accepts treats, carefully mouthing them before nibbling them delicately, grateful for every single crumb, disbelievingly enjoying them.  She stays well away from the children's food, waiting until we point out the crumbs that she doesn't even begin to think she can have.

She just learned how to play, first learning that when we throw toys it is not to hit her, but to have fun with her.  Now she is slowly discovering the joys of 'fetch'. Find out how we taught her how to play HERE. She still balks at 'tug of war', but will gently play it with the puppy next door with a daffodil leaf through the fence or the guide rope on the gazebo when she thinks no-one is looking.

It took her two weeks to be brave enough to bark.  At first we didn't know she could - until one night we heard her bark because she was scared of something in the middle of the night.  When we went down to get her, she was glad to see us, relieved that we were still there.  A hug and then back to bed was all she needed.

Now she comes for a sneaky hug in the mornings, after the baby is fed, she waits patiently until it's her turn.  She has free reign in the garden, lying in the grass or watching us do some weeding.
She's had a couple of leaps over the fence, but all we have to do is say the word, and she stays by our sides.

We have been incredibly lucky.

Everyone who meets her tells us this too - she is a real people dog.  And a doggy dog - she has yet to have a run in with any other dog.  She is ridiculously submissive and even-tempered.

What a lady.

She is completely an individual within her breed - she still very much carries the characteristics in a lot of ways, but she is not a stereotype.

I highly recommend rescuing a dog.

Maybe not the way we did it - as I said we were incredibly lucky - but yes, if you are considering getting a dog, please consider a rescue.

Imagine saving a life.  Making it happy. Giving it a chance.

Go on. Give a dog a home.

Goodbye Sparky

Last week we said goodbye to one of our family members. Our gorgeous dog-boy, Sparky, was 18 years and 10 months old.

I've had this awesome guy since I was about 12 years old.

Dave and I had been on a fun trip to a craft shop in Letham.  It was the first time we had had time together in ages - and even then I was due to be at work in the afternoon. We'd taken the new car for a spin, stretching her legs on the country roads.  It was a really sunny day - the first properly sunny one we've had for ages and our moods were light.

We got what we needed and then headed back for lunch, me eager to sort my hair and so on before having to face the general public.

We pulled into the cul-de-sac and parked the car, Dave going in first while I pulled in one of the wheelie bins from outside.

As I put it in its place, I noted the rubbish that had gotten out of the bag, and went to go inside to moan to Dave about making sure he tied the bags properly, to be met at the top of the stairs with a very panicked husband, with a  very worried look on his face.

'He's hurt himself. It's his legs! Oh no...oh no!'

I ran up the stairs and into the kitchen, to see my boy wobbling about on very wobble pins.  He flopped over, panting as he landed in a patch of sunlight, which on any normal day would be great - he loved nothing more than sitting in the sun.

I lay down on the floor beside him and just gave him the hugest hug - I knew what this meant and it wasn't good.

I don't know if any of you have ever had a dog live as long as 19 years old, but lets just say from about the age of 12 onwards, you are trying to prepare yourself for the worst.

I'd been through it so many times before in my head; I'd left on many a holiday holding him extra close in case he wasn't there when I came back.  I'd poked him so many times when he was sleeping extra-peacefully, convinced that this time this was 'it'.  I'd completely prepared for the fact that my old doggy couldn't last forever - I'd been preparing for years.

I just wasn't prepared for it to happen so suddenly.

The truth is, I'd been regretfully researching things like when is the right time to call an end to an older dog's life.  Although Sparky had been very physically fit and well, his mental state wasn't as good as it had been, and even though he still had mainly decent days, I was so aware of his recent decline mentally.  It was going to be a very tough call to make. And I was preparing to make it.  Just not yet.

As I cradled my boy on the floor, he just lay down.  He cuddled in, while I wept on his soft, white fur and ran my fingers across his big silky ears for which we both knew would be one of the last times.

I urged Dave to phone the vet, and we arranged to go down there and then.  We couldn't wait - we didn't know how much, if any, pain he was in and we couldn't bear making him wait longer than he had to.  Bundling him up, we took him into the car and drove to the surgery, where a kind lady led us to the table.

We placed him down, where he wobbled about, slumping to the side and wobbling back up again.  We put him on the floor and he fell over, wobbled up and tottered a bit before falling over again.

'We can do treatment, or we can do surgery if you like...'

But how could we?  How could we put our lovely elderly and confused dog through arduous treatment for old age?  He was so old. Worst of all - there was no real way of comforting him through any treatment.  We could just in no way put him through that.

That's when we made the decision properly.  The vet shaved his paw (Sparky hated vets and would NEVER in a million years have even sat on the table, let alone let her do that to him!  That's how I knew it was the right thing to do) and gave him a sedative.  She left the room so as not to stress him out and Dave and I sat with him, cuddling him in until he fell asleep.  That's the last he knew before the vet came back to administer the final injection.

It's the oddest sensation, being in control of whether a person stops something's life or not.  Knowing I could have shouted 'stop' at any time and my boy would still have been here.   Knowing that the pink fluid in the syringe was the difference between heart beating and heart stopping.  And that in less than a minute, my boy was gone.  Just like that.

God, I miss him.

I miss him, I hurt for him, I ache in my heart for him.

'Stay as long as you like,' she said.

We stayed about 5 minutes.

There's nothing more to be done with a body whose soul has departed.

I touched his ears one more time, so aware that I would never feel anything like that again.  The ridge of his skull.  I inhaled his fur, touched his smells-like-popcorn feet and ruffled the scruff of his neck.

There was nothing more I could do.  I wished I could feel, smell and touch all of this forever, but I couldn't. And we walked out of the room, collar in hand, paying by card, shocked looks on our faces.

We got outside and held each other in the afternoon sunlight, getting into the car and driving back home, back to our empty house with it's dog bowls and lead and white hair all over the sofa.

Dogless.

I passed the bins outside.  They can wait.

I didn't look in the mirror - no need.

We just got in and started to tidy away the things.  Preparing to tell the kids that the dog who stole their pancakes that morning died today.

Pancakes - when he was a pup we used to go to a coffee shop where the owner, a friend, made him his own special pancake.

The bowl which we'd filled for the longest of times now sits in the dish rack waiting to go, well, away.  I don't know where away is, but I'm going to have to find it.

We threw out his dogfood, well, because Sparky was so old and had seen through so many other dogs whose owners used to give us their old dog food after their dog had passed and it had always felt so wrong feeding him it.  It felt like giving it to someone else was like admitting he'd died, so, in the bin it went.

We told the kids when they got home.  Tom was gutted.  He's fine today, but he's working through it.  Ethan hasn't quite grasped it, or he has and is deflecting really well.  Either way, he'll get through it too.  I'm just so glad they got to know him, even if it was in his docile latter years as opposed to the crazy, fun, manic years, which they would have totally loved. But hey.

I went back to work this morning. Had a wee weep in the car before I got there, processing the scenes from the day before, grateful that I hadn't had any nightmares in the night about it (pregnancy dreams are so vivid). I parked my car in the street where I lived as a student and remembered all the walks we used to take around there, his feud with Dave the cat, the way he used to jump up on the little walls and generally be a pain in the ass on the lead.

Then I got to work and folk kept saying how sorry they were, how they knew how it felt, how great he was, how lucky I'd been to share such a massive part of my life with him.

All true.

19 years is like two lifetimes away for me.

I was a teenager, taking him to the park with my friends for an afternoon of throwing the toy, trying my best to tire him out.  Using the tug rope to twirl him around, trying to exhaust him, which was always impossible.  He'd get fed up and sit on the hill, while you called for him over and over.  He'd sit in the sun, grinning, fluttering his feathery tail at you, cheekily.

He played Toto on the stage in our local amateur theatre company's production of The  Wizard of Oz, making friends with all the kids at rehearsals.

We rode on the bus together - him on my knee, nosily watching out of the window, ears right up, watching absolutely everything.

He'd watch television, barking at dogs and cats he saw on programmes and listened intently to the world outside the windows of our house, jumping up onto the backs of furniture so he could get a glimpse.

I was a young lady, coming home from a late shift, sometimes int he middle of the night after working all day.  He'd greet me, wagging, as I shushed him, slipping on his lead for a midnight donder.  We'd come home and cosy up together in bed, him laying his head in the crook of my knees.

He'd sit beside me in my bedroom, as I sang along to my cds, picking up his toy and nosing it into my lap, so I'd throw it again, and again, and again, abesnt-mindedly, before playfully chucking him on the bed, covering him with the duvet and playing the game where he'd bite through the covers at my hands, furiously wagging his tail.

I was a girlfriend, bringing my boyfriend home for the first time that night overnight.  Sparky initially couldn't get over the fact that Dave slept beside me, but later on would sleep only between his legs at night. Sparky adopted Dave and Dave adopted him.

Sparky dressed up as Superdog for our house halloween party, joining in with balloon popping and pogo-ing antics.

He lived in our student flat, cuddled up with us under our communal living room duvets in the winter, and snuggled up to snooze beside our flatmates.

We moved house together a further once, twice, thrice, four times, five times.

He made friends with local dogs - the small white westie who lived out back, the long-haired retriever at the park, the staffie who marched around the beach.  He made enemies with the other Jack Russell who lived across the hall.  He went to dog training classes 10 years after he had graduated from dog training classes.

He patiently adapted to life with babies - no mean feat for a dog advancing in age, who has been nothing but the centre of everyone's attention. He simply saw it as a way of getting more food at mealtimes! Always the optimist!  Thomas would follow Sparky in his baby walker and Sparky would try it on with Tom, carefully placing his toy on the tray of the walker, hoping Tom would throw it for him.  At night, when I was relaxing in the bath after another long day, he would make sure we never forgot him - jumping up with his two paws on the side of the bath, waiting for me to give him a scratch on his head.  And when I reciprocated (because how could you not with that cheeky wee face?), he'd take it as a sign that it was time to play, and bring his toy to the edge of the bath, rolling it in and dropping it right in the water!

He knew how to make us pay attention.

Every guest had their bag rifled through, as we joked about our 'security dog', as he cheekily pushed his ball into visitors bags in the hope that they would throw it for him.  Sometimes he was just sniffing for snacks.  Once we had to pull him out of a lady's bag in the street, apologising profusely.  He was so damn cute that she opened her bag right up and let him have it.  His award-winning waggy tail won him lots of admirers.

Often people crossed the street just to talk to him.  He had a way of spying someone in the distance, a wee old lady, a child, a tall man, and would actually fold himself in half wagging his tail so hard, trying to get them to speak to him.

He loved the beach.

Man, he loved the beach!

In the summer we'd take him down for whole days, not getting any peace, as when he wasn't running back and forward with his toy, he was furiously digging a hole to bury it, covering everything with sand, including his own huge, pink tongue.

Toys...toys toys toys.

The Kong was a massive favourite - the eternal favourite.  He ruined so many squeaky toys, balls and footballs that the Kong was certainly right up there for holding it's own.  Then his red bone that squeaked at the end (but not for long), his Indestructaball (the only ball he couldn't burst and thus dug at ferociously.  So much so, we had to regulate his time with it!) and any soft toy he was allowed to cosy into and lick to death.

He loved the colour yellow.  He would pick up yellow balls he found at the park, steal yellow socks and make a beeline for yellow footballs at the park, which often led to us having to grab him before he ruined yet another game of football!  He favoured his large yellow rubber ball and once brought home the most disgusting old yellow children's toy which he licked lovingly while constantly guarding it.  The time I tried to throw it out, he went back into the bin to retrieve it.

He had the best sniffer I have ever seen on a dog.  We used to play games where we'd shut him out of the room, and hide his toy somewhere crazy, counting how long it took for him to find it.  And he always did!  He always knew when there were doggy treats in the house too - he could never leave them if he knew they were there.  Often, we'd get up in the middle of the night to find him lying in front of the kitchen cupboard, grumbling and moaning and wagging because he couldn't resist whatever he knew we had for him.

Oh, my boy.  My lovely, lovely boy.

We get his ashes back sometime this week.  We'll be taking them to the beach to scatter - there is no better place that I can think of.

He was always his happiest causing chaos at the beach.

Will there be another dog?  This is a question many people have asked me, albeit a bit too soon.  I suppose I'd be lying if I said I hadn't already considered it.

Of course there will be another dog.  There might even be another couple of dogs.

There will never, ever, ever in my whole life be another Sparky.

How lucky was I?


"If there are no dogs in Heaven when I die, then I want to go where they went"

The Time My Husband Spewed In My Face

This is Dave.  Dave is lovely guy.  We have been together for a long time and are very happy together.

You would think that Dave was a nice, quiet, unassuming bloke, and in the main, I would say, you'd be right.

He's a great dad, a loving husband and a generally all-round amazing guy.  He works hard, supports me in everything I do, is really clever and funny and is a genuine, stand-up dude.

But this one time, while horrifically drunk, Mr. David James Millar spewed in my face.

And (quite rightly, I feel) I will never let him forget it.

You know how in hindsight, things can become funny after they've happened, even if they weren't at the time?

This isn't one of those times.

This is beer.  Beer can either be Dave's best friend or his nemesis, depending on a number of factors.

1. How many beers he has had.  We call him 'two pint Dave'.  He is famous for this.  He crosses the line and things get said when two pint Dave comes out to play.  Two pints or even three on a good stomach-lined evening make him funny, entertaining and enough of below the belt to stay above insulting and just a bit cheeky and rude.  Four pints is pushing it.  Five is danger-zone time.
2. The situation.  Company, to Dave, is like adrenaline - it gives him a rush of energy and life.  He enjoys good company - namely old friends, his brothers and close family members.  If he has known you for a while and your mother has been insulted, you are in Dave's good books.  And his heart.  This sells him as some sort of loveable rogue, which he wears very well.  In a situation where he knows no-one though, the jokes he peddles about having sex with your gran can seem...I don't know...rude?
3. The occasion.  We don't get out much.  Nowadays, any occasion is an occasion.  But back in the day, an occasion was once every six months.  Now it's whenever the hell we enter a bar area without kids (once in a blue moon). He gets a little giddy.  Hence, we have had some very hairy encounters.  Granted, at weddings and such where he has had to pace himself, he has been very good.  We both got equally pissed and happy and stayed very jolly.  But there have been a few times on a casual night out where we have entered danger zone a bit too quickly.
4. This is a very important point: STRENGTH of beer.  He does not drink spirits for this reason.  He cannot handle spirits.  Thus, beer is safe, no?

NO



I WISH I had a picture from the night in question - it was worse than this one.  This is relatively sober.

We used to live in a student flat which we shared with our best friends.  It was a great time, and hence we spent a lot of our free time socialising together.

What a beautiful year.  There were parties, birthdays, many long nights spent huddled together on the sofa under blankets playing Tiger Woods PGA Golf 2005 on the PS2 because we had no heating (in the winter it was warmer outside than it was inside).  These were the days of our lives.

How I dream of re-living them.

I forget the reason why we were out that fateful night.  We were students - any reason is a good reason, really.  Maybe it was cheap Tuesday. Perhaps it was Student Union karaoke.  Either way, we dressed up and headed out for a night on the town.

It all started off quite well - a trip to the Union for some shots on the pool tables and a go on Time Crisis 2 at the video games arcade.  The someone decided that they felt in need of a decent pub quiz, so we headed out to a local bar to get a decent seat before the quiz started.

Now, the important thing to remember here is that it was early.

Very early.

It wasn't a whisker past 9p.m when Dave headed to that bar to begin before we joined him and a buddy after I'd gone to the cash machine.

What I didn't know, is that when he got to the bar, Dave had ordered a new, very strong lager beer, and had had not one, but two, in quick succession before we'd managed to amble along to join him before the quiz started.

What I did know is, that by the time we arrived, the boy could barely speak, let alone play a serious pub quiz.

This wan't your average pub quiz either - oh no - this was a highly intelligent, quite high-brow pub quiz, where the tie-breaker wasn't a shot of vodka, or a show of dancing skills, but a game of Jenga.

I knew we were screwed.

Initially it was funny.  Dave was a bit drunker than we'd seen him, but he was tolerating our slagging of him quite well.  Once we'd worked out the source of his drunken bum-ness, we all laughed about it - he hadn't realised himself that he'd just drunk two 8.5% beers within the space of half an hour.

to him.  The quiz became intolerably embarrassing as he started not only to shout out the answers to the questions in an otherwise silent bar, he started to slag off the compere by slating his dress code. 

As the alcohol began to take a stronger hold however, the beast turned.  Suddenly he was no longer laughing - he grew offended by our laughter and decided we were all being horrible 

After we'd all 'shushed' him and harangued him, he decided enough was enough - he was going to the toilet.

After he left to go down a spiral staircase to the toilets (a moment in which I actually feared for his life - he could barely see), my friends turned to me

'Oh god - I think he needs to go home'

'He's really pissed isn't he?'

'I can't believe what he said about the guy's trousers!'

As I was slowly absorbing the fact that as his girlfriend, I was responsible for getting him home and making sure he didn't cause any more offence, our buddy, who had followed Dave to the toilets in case of accident, reported back.

'He's just been sick on the stairs'

Oh god.

Apologising to my friends and promising to see them back at the flat, I huckled Dave out (with not much fight - he was trying to go to sleep on the table by this point) to cries of 'are you sure you are going to manage?' and 'are you gonna be o.k?'

To which I just nodded and walked even faster - the last thing I needed was an audience.

Grabbing a taxi, we jumped in for the short ride home, with me freaking out the whole way that it was going to cost me £50 clean up charge for spew - Dave kept complaining he didn't feel well.

It was 9.30p.m.

On the way I watched out of the window as others were beginning their nights out in short shorts and t-shirts with made-up hair and red lipstick; while I sat in the back of this cab with a drunken boyfriend draped across my knee and a silent and quite angry taxi-driver watching on for a short and potentially messy fare which would be more trouble than it's worth.

Thankfully we made it back, no mess involved.

I took him straight up to bed, undressing him to boxer shorts and carefully placing a glass of water beside him.  Closing the curtains, I realised I was knackered and decided to go to bed too.  The night was over.  I took off my make-up, got into my jammies and decided to call it a night.  The dog gave me a reassuring look of sympathy before he curled up between Dave's legs at the end of the bed.  Dave casually patted him and slurred, 'That's right Sparky, get between my legs...it's the best way...' before quite literally falling into a deep alcohol-induced sleep. 

I mused about how payback would come in the form of an epic hangover and grinned to myself.  What a daftie.

I must have been asleep for a few hours before I was woken to the world's worst noise.

Petrified, I leapt out of bed, instinctively landing beside the lightswitch.

Flicking it on, there was nothing that could have prepared me for what I was about to see.

There he was. Naked.  Covered in his own vomit, sat up, looking at me in surprise.

'What the hell happened?'

'What?'

I could barely comprehend the scene.  The dog was at my feet tail between his legs, frantically trying to barge past me and out of the door.  I opened the door and he ran out and down the stairs.

I looked back at Dave.  He started mumbling and stuttering,

'Sorry...sorry...oops...sorry'

'Okay...so I think you need to go in the shower'

'No!  No!  Sorry!  It's fine, I don't want to bother you, I'll just sleep here' he said, rolling back into a puddle of sick.  The smell was acidy and cloying.

As he lurched backwards to make himself comfortable in his own vomit, I barely concealed my disgust.

By now I could hear that our flatmates were back and had probably heard the whole thing.

Angry and quite annoyed at my mess of a boyfriend, I went through to the bathroom and turned the shower on.  Going back into the bedroom, fire in my belly, I threw back the covers.

'Move!'

'Oh noooo...shhh!'

'Get up!  You are GOING in the shower!'

'Noooo...it's ok....I'm comfy here...mmmfff'

'GET UP!'

Like a petulant teenager, he grumpily threw himself to the floor and stood up.  I started to pull the soaked sheets from the bed.  He made his way to the shower, dropping his boxers on the bathroom floor.  Gathering the sheets, I went to pick up the manky underwear to rinse them in the shower before I took them downstairs to the washing machine.

'Nooo...you can't change the bed!'

'I have  to change the bed.  It's covered in spew you daft bugger!  Also, I'm going to have to wash the wall'

'But you can't tell anyone!  They'll know!'

'What?'

'Please!  Don't tell anyone! I'm so sorry!  I'm so ashamed'

This is where he pulled out the puppy-dog eyes.

So, I agreed.  I agreed, no-one would know.  After all, this had never happened before and it was a bit of a shame - he hadn't meant to get so wasted.

I gathered the sheets, went downstairs and shoved them into the machine to be washed.  As I did so, my flatmates approached me from behind.

'Gen?'

'Mmmhmm?' (me concentrating on what wash cycle would get beer-vom out of white sheets)

'Gen, what's the dog covered in?  Is he okay?  He seems quite scared?'

I turned around.  there, trembling in the corner was my lovely, fluffy, white and now orange, soggy dog - trembling and whining.

'Ew!  Gen, what's that in your hair?'

Turning to face them, a shudder of horror ran through my body and into the pit of my stomach.  There was sick in my hair.  And my eyebrows.  And on my face.  My hands were covered.  And my arms.  In fact, I was caked.  I was so thrown by the whole situation I'd failed to notice the mess I was in.  My flatmates recoiled in disgust and had a few belly-laughs when I regaled the whole tale.

Grabbing the poor dog and trying to comfort him, I marched straight upstairs. I undressed, put the dog in the tub and the two of us joined Dave in the shower, sitting next to him in his morose sick-filled bath.

'They know, don't they?'

Wiping orange mush out of my eyebrows I just nodded.

*Disclaimer:  Dave knew I was writing this.  He thinks it's hilarious.  We got married and had kids and I can still kind of maybe sometimes laugh about it, kind of.  Hmm. I would say that this was a one-off incident as far as his silly drunken sick-filled adventures go, but sadly this is not the case.  We've had a similar incident involving him trying to sleep in the bathroom and end up spewing in a basket of clean washing. And along some walls. And out of a window. Oh and there was the time recently when he went out with his brothers and ended up doing some stuff I can't mention here. This was a poorly thought out plan - he does not need egging on by younger guys who like to drink shots.  He still can't handle liquor.  It's okay - I have now learned that you just don't share a bed with him in such circumstances.  The dog is fine too.  He's 18 years old now, and still sleeps at the end of our bed, so is not traumatised in any way.