On 26 August 2021 I wrote
Evidently it’s #InternationalDogDay. So here’s our favourite wee ragamuffin, Puck.
Puck came to us in 2020 during that first year of lockdown. Although he was most definitely a lockdown puppy, he wasn’t your classic lockdown puppy, bought just because we were at home all day. He was the replacement for dear wee MobyDog, the Jack Russell who had lived her best life in Mauldslie. We’d always talked of succession planning for when Moby left us, but we hadn’t foreseen it would happen during a global pandemic (of course).
As we went into lockdown Moby seemed a bit out of sorts, not quite as lively as she’d been and having trouble when she was trying to poo (too much information? sorry). Anyway, we called the vet and, it being lockdown, were told to come to the clinic and call them from the car park. A nurse came out and talked to us outside in the sunshine and then Moby followed her quite happily into the building, so the vet could see what they thought was wrong. Moby seemed so happy and carefree. As were we.
The nurse returned shortly afterwards – Moby had a tumour. There were options, and without giving it very much thought we chose to operate (the most expensive option) which would give Moby the best chance of getting a bit more life back again.
Moby died on the operating table – when they opened her up they realised there was no way they could remove everything and enable her to live. She was euthanased.
I had taken Moby for a walk down the woods that morning before we had called the vet. And she was her happy little self, trotting along, sniffing at everything that was the same height as her nose. And within hours she was gone. I was glad that our last sight of her was happily walking away with the nurse in that bright sunshine.
We had always known that we’d get another dog, and hoped to get a rescue dog. But after several months we realised that there may never be a rescue dog which would be suitable for a home with another dog. And a cat. And many hens. So we put it out into the universe that we were looking for a dog.
And within days our neighbour up the road told us that Wullie’s Patterdale Terrier had just had pups, and we could go along and see them. We chose the biggest naughtiest pup. They had called him Tyson, but as he was born on Midsummer’s Night we renamed him Puck. And he has lived up to his name.
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Mostly on this blog I write about trying to care for Mum as she developed dementia, which nearly broke me on a number of occasions. Gentle meditative stitching the Fisherman’s Smock probably saved me, giving me a focus and forcing me to carve out time when I could let everything go and just concentrate on those tiny stitches. I would really appreciate it if you could make a donation towards Alzheimer Scotland. They’re doing stuff that makes living with this more bearable for so many people. Thank you, thank you, a thousand thank yous.
And if you want to read more about my relationship with Mum and her dementia, then you could start here at Taking smock of the Situation. Or just dip in. After all, if I’ve learned anything this last few years it’s that chronology and time are less important than we might believe.
Shewolfinthevalley 