Back up and running

Back where he belongs

Four weeks ago my little whippet fractured his skull in a head-on full-speed collision that left me feeling sick with despair.  Fearful that my companion of these last three years was about to leave me, I did little more than hold him close and worry every waking hour.  If he could make it through the night (and then next...) he'd be okay I reasoned.

But what did I know?  The poor mite was in agony, confused and barely able to raise his head.  For days the swelling blooded his eyes and he'd whimper if I left the room.  What must have been going through his mind? 

I often wonder how dogs see the world. 

Pretty simply, I expect. We posit them greater intelligence than they have, anthropomorphise their behaviours and interpret their responses from our human perspective.  I laugh at owners having one-way conversations with their dogs... don't bark Winston, where're your manners ... only to do the same myself.  

Actually, I don't quite.  But if it's just me and Oscar in the house I conduct a running commentary on what I'm doing and thinking — or even writing.  He sits there impassive as I read each sentence and its intonations aloud — the only whippet to know the pause of a semi-colon!

Not that he'd understand its meaning.

But of course, what dogs do comprehend —and repay in abundance —is our companionship, our care and our trust. Perhaps it's this that bonds us so tightly. For words between us can never be more than superficial — at best, a few nouns and commands that set boundaries or shape routines. 

Trust, on the other hand, is mutual and profound.

So too the joy of co-presence; of shared experience, despite our different perceptions. To me the beach is as much sky and memory as it is sand and sea; to him, its smell and sound unfiltered — a place to romp and socialise ... or at least, that's what I sense.

Which is perhaps enough...

Yesterday, we went back to the place of his accident.  And he ran and ran... in circle after circle... chasing and returning... fully in his element... checking me in mine. In many ways, it was our most delightful walk this year.  Certainly, it drew my broadest smile — for you know what...

He's still the fastest dog on the beach. 

Fractured

The thing about whippets is that almost everything is quick. Or slow depending on the clock. Oscar spends an hour at full pelt, followed by twenty-three on the sofa... watching me from the corner of his eye, hoping for food, fearing I might leave. .. 

Even for a moment.

Which is all it takes to fracture your skull when you're running at 30 kilometres an hour, towards a ball that a greyhound has spied from the opposite direction. The chase instinct in sighthounds is irrepressible, their focus fixed, and in Oscar's case, his running line so straight that nothing distracts.  It's a joy to watch.

Until bang... 

They collide at a combined speed of 50 kilometres and there's a tumble and Oscar's going head over heels, his legs buckled beneath him... 

And he's not moving anymore.  

As I run towards him he staggers to the owners of the greyhound, and my panic eases - no broken bones... Good boy, I call...  good boy, Oscar... it's alright.

Except it's not.  His head is split and there's blood —lots of it. The greyhound's owners are apologetic. I don't stop, say 'it's just dogs' and dash away, carrying him the length of the beach to the car; to the vets, to the vets...

He whimpers as I tear through the backroads, swearing at a tractor and again at an elderly driver slowing at the speed bumps.  Easy Mark, I say,  Better five minutes late in this world...

Ten more and I carry him into the arms of the nurse, who takes him away and suddenly I'm lost — as confused in my way as the poor mite being examined for what I'd hoped was merely a puncture wound.

That diagnosis was correct - only it goes all the way through his outer skull, stopping (we hope, but can't be sure) millimetres from his brain. There follows an explanation as to why X-rays aren't much use; talk of transferring him to Bristol and whether he'd manage the eight-hour trip. 

I feel sick; can't think.

Jane arrives and holds back tears. After more talking and waiting and calls and debate, they staple his wound and we take him home, hoping for the best. 

There's nothing more to be done, they say.  Just love and rest.

And all weekend it's been like a reversal.  

We sit on the sofa and watch him for any movement; willing him to eat; fearful he'll leave us. But he's a tough little thing, looking at me now with one eye open as I type.  We're seeing the vet at 11.00; praying it's just swelling. 

Funny how much you love these bundles of fur.  

We too will be fractured till he heals.

Whippet Wednesday

No words required

Dark clouds over Ramsey

An all too rare walk on the beach

It's often said that moving house is one of life's most stressful events—along with divorce, death of a close relative; a change of job or school... Combine two or more of these and the strain can fracture even the tightest of bonds. In our case they remain tight and intact, but there's no denying these last few months have taken a toll.  

For to live where we do exacts a price that few appreciate and most romanticise. 

The reality of rural life is somewhat different to the magazine dream—and especially so, when you add 'remote' to the mix. Chores and choices that were once incidental require careful scheduling: popping to the shops is an hour's round trip; the nearest airport, three hour's drive... Much of our life—and that of our dog's—revolves around the tides. 

But there are compensations too.

This morning we walked the silver-washed sands at Newgale, dark clouds gathering as Oscar chased his ball, oblivious. There were dead seals on the shore; pups washed up overnight... two miles in and I was regretting my decision to forego a coat. A great deal here depends on the wind.

And yet, today—like with so many of our darker thoughts— the billows passed and brighter skies prevailed. 

At the head of the beach, I caught Jane looking out to sea and remembered when we first came here, how we'd walked and walked... and made decisions that are with us still.  That they are is as much fate as it was foresight, for if these few months have taught us anything, it is that nothing is truly in our control, and that to think otherwise is hubris.

As we turned to face our home I reflected that change and stress—like birth and death—are part of life; it's how we respond which shows and makes us who we are. And if at times that's tough or taxing, it doesn't mean it's not worth the effort. 

Ripples on the sand

The beach this evening was all silhouettes; the tide ebbing as a westering sun cast shadows on the pools and rippled sand. A young couple walked hand in hand, paddling barefoot in the shallows. Oscar was having none of that, running instead over the silver streams that mirage the two-mile stretch to Rickets Head.

I've walked this way a hundred times. When our older boys were small, we'd come here day after day, them never tiring of the want to splash and dig. Back then it sometimes felt too open, too windswept—and too much a place where movement was needed, rather than the standing around and building of castles and dams that comes with little ones in wellies.

It's different now. Oscar wants nothing other than his ball: throw and return; throw and return... such ease in the way he runs, so swift he outpaces his quarry.  Whippets, I read the other day,  are the fastest accelerating dogs. I can believe it, as he sets off for the umpteenth time, his chase instinct stronger than any distracting scent or passing pooch. 

My youngest son—who's now in his teens—was obsessed with mechanical contraptions as a child. Try as I might, he took no interest in landscape or nature. Even camping, which he liked, was all about process not place; no sooner had we pitched the tent than he'd snuggle down and watch videos on the Ipad—preferably of trains. The cottage beach, as he's always called it, was—and still is—one of his few exceptions to the rule.

Which is pleasing, as we're relocating here full time, and walks like this will be part of the daily ebb and flow. To live within minutes of such a fabulous spot is a joy and privilege—for it to also be your favourite, must double the pleasure. Or in my case, triple it, for this stretch of sand and pebbles is redolent of memories I treasure; of times that will never come again. 

Or at least, not quite.

This evening as I walked back to the car there was a family near the breakwater which borders the road. Two toddlers in oversize anoraks and blue welly boots stomped in the puddles—they built piles of pebbles and ran in circles together as their mum and dad (mid-thirties I'd guess) watched with collars turned up. 

'I must have a hundred photos of mine doing the same,' I said. 'In this very spot too'.

'So it's not just us', they replied smiling.

We got to talking about parenting boys that are close in age, the companionship they have, the hardship they bring—and the joys too... I spoke of the times we'd spent on this beach, the pattern of our days determined by the sea...  

'We never planned to have two so close,' she said. 

'Neither did we,' I replied. 'Our first was conceived with IVF, the second a complete surprise... '  And from the look on her face I knew what she'd say next. 

'We were the same!' 

Her husband chipped in, ' We were told we'd not have children without treatment—or at least it was very unlikely. Then before we knew it we had two...'  

'Buy one, get one free,' I quipped, explaining that in our day there was no NHS funded fertility service.

Oscar began scratching at my pockets for his ball. 'It was nice to meet you,' they said, as I put him on the lead. 

'You've taken me back,' I replied, shaking my head in disbelief... 

By now, the sun was almost to the sea, the air chilling in the way that spring evenings do.  I climbed the bank of stones and wondered how imperceptibly slower my movements will become each year. At the top I paused; there were new silhouettes on the sand—night fishermen, casting lines from the shore.  

The tide here is a long time turning.

Whippet life #1

Oscar

How often do we make choices which for one reason or another turn out to be especially delightful? By definition, it can't be very often—and in my experience, there's precious little relationship to price, importance, or even the level of prior thought.  If you're anything like me, you'll have made as many well-planned and expensive mistakes, as you have snap decisions that turn out to change your life.

The best purchase I ever made was a tumbledown cottage, for which I paid what would now be the price of a hatchback car. It's not for any profit that I'm pleased (I doubt there's any after all the renovation cost), but for the family nexus it's become, the joy we've had, the memories and friendships it holds... And not least, for the chance encounter that led to my most recent and most constant of companions. 

I'd long wanted a whippet. For years I used to draw cartoons of them in my diaries, hiding a caricature version into humorous sketches of the places we'd visited. Finding the dog in the picture became a bit of a trademark, for all that our one at the time was a Jack Russell terrier.  

She left us more than ten years ago.  A farm-bred ratter she'd been fine with the older boys but when Dylan arrived her instincts reverted to type. After the third biting incident we moved her on to a family with teenagers, and to be honest, I was pleased to see her go.  The prospect of another dog had seldom been discussed.

Until last year—when we passed a couple on the coast path with the most beautiful brindled whippet. I couldn't but stop and admire him, and when we learned he'd just sired a litter, Jane quickly asked for their number... for the future, she claimed... we'll have a think, I said...  and be in touch, she added.

Sooner rather than later.

That evening, Jane nagged me to phone, the next day we viewed the pups, and less than 24 hours after that chance encounter, we'd reserved the smallest dog in the litter.  Oscar, born on St David's day, would be with us in five weeks time. Jane was made up; I had reservations. Later that evening, the UK announced its first nationwide lockdown ...

And for five weeks all we did was walk lanes, read books and research whippet facts to help us count the days.

As I look back now I wonder what on earth we thought we were doing?  It can't be sensible to buy a dog that quickly; even knowing the commitment I should surely have insisted we reflected for longer. The money's not the issue; it's the cost to your lifestyle, the responsibility, the getting up every morning... Stories of lockdown puppies are all over the internet—portents for all to read.

But logic isn't always our best pilot. And if you knew how hard I find it to declare that, you'd have some idea of the delight I've found in my little dog. You might have noticed the change from 'our' to 'my' in that last sentence. For almost a year he's barely left my side, growing up and growing closer—and quicker too. Which was why I'd wanted a whippet in the first place; the fastest dogs on the beach, I used to say.  

And now mine is.

Yesterday we were up at dawn with the sand to ourselves.  We walked three miles without much of a sound but for waves and the occasional whistle. Owners often talk of their dog's love and loyalty, as if they had human emotions; they chat to them too, though they can't understand. I do the same.  But really, the bond is one of 'co-presence': an unspoken companionship that's beyond any words—or for that matter, reason.

Oscar doesn't do logic either and in a way that's why we care for our dogs so much.

What he does do is run like the wind, return when I call and wag when I rise every morning.  Three miles on the beach, hundreds more every month; how many steps will we take together? Jane and Dylan love him too; he's the best family dog we've had by far. They both say they knew it would work; that they sussed it (and me) in seconds; that their hearts, not their heads were what told them. 

They're right of course, in that sometimes—just occasionally, mind you—it's fine to take a flier.