It’s Puppy Stan here and I’m all upset. See, I took Jean for a walk last night, late, very late. It was lovely out and the moon was even asleep on its side.
We were nearly home and I gave a yank to go up on a load of wet grass and she tried to pull me back and next think she gave a yelp. I heard her ankle crackling and she kinda hobbled home and put me to bed.
This morning, I woke to talk about hospital and X-rays, whatever they are and my Dada gave me my brekkie and I watched him helping Jean out the front gate. She looked AWFUL and didn’t wave back to me like she usually does.
I waited and waited for ages and thought they might never come back but they did. She still looked awful but she waved in and I started to cry i was so glad to see her and to know that she was glad to see me.
It’s all about RICE now. I don’t understand but she says it could be a lot worse. Thing is she’s in bed which is strange cos we are usually out and about in the day.
I raced up the stairs and jumped onto her bed to say ‘sorry.’ She played with my ears but didn’t want me near the crackly ankle. It looks different to usual with a big bruise on it. At least she still has an ankle. I just didn’t know exactly what’s going on but I heard her say something about lig something. I just hope that’s a good thing. Dada said earlier that soccer players have this kinda problem all the time. He’s just phoned so I wonder if she’ll get him his tea – and mine.
I will never, ever yank on the lead again or try to run on wet grass. I’ll do anything to get things back to normal, anything.
I’m sorry for going on but I just can’t bear the muddle and the guilt. My tail isn’t working right either.
I’m in a bit of a muddle, which isn’t that unusual, but I can’t understand why I keep seeing little white dogs walking around on fancy leads. They’re all groomed to the nines and look as if they never saw a bit of muck and dirt in their lives. I never seem to see a little black dog like that, you know, wearing a coat thing, as if they were going to a fancy dress party or something.
I got my paws on ‘Doogle’ and put in ‘black dog.’ Do you know what came back at me. DEPRESSION. Now, it seems some very old man called Horace and another one called Samuel Johnson used the words Black Dog to describe depression and then this fella called Winston Churchill made it all famous. I’d like to meet this crew and tell them a thing or two. I’m jet black and proud of it. Jean says I have the loveliest coat, most melty eyes, sparkling white teeth and a heart of gold so what’s all that got to do with depression. I’m awful sorry for anyone who has depression and I have known a few cos people tell me things in top secret but I refuse to be seen as being some kind of black dog that walks into a person’s life and makes them all miserable. That’s not what me and my black dog friends are about and I think I need to tell everyone that so that they don’t feel they have to go off and get a snow white puppy that’ll never be able to have a proper doggy life cos they’ll look all raggedy and dirty. I mean, could you think of anything worse than living in a house of white carpets and having to walk on air to avoid putting paw marks all over the place.
People need to get a life and give dogs a life too. I saw a thing on telly saying Black Lives Matter. Well, they do and no one should ever be judged because of their colour.
Best thing we can all do is shine our golden hearts and wear them so they gleam like my sparkly teeth.
My advice if you’re feeling depressed is find a black dog and have a chat with it and let it love you. Or even find a white dog and ask it to be your friend. I have my eye on a scruffy white girl dog that walks around here and always wants to stop and play. She doesn’t have a silly coat and I get a bit upset when Jean says she’s like a sheep. I’m wondering now if she thinks that being like a sheep is a good thing cos she calls me ‘Pet Lamb’ when she’s really happy with me. See, I am a bit muddled up but I’m certainly not depressed and I hope you aren’t either.
Puppy Stan here while I can get my paws on the mouse. Last night was a nightmare. There were big bangs every few minutes and I thought I was finished. Just before they started Jean was watching Waterford playing a big hurling game against Cork on the telly. She was hiding behind a cushion and screaming and sighing. She said it was bad for her heart and that had me all worried. Next thing, I heard a big loud whistle and she went racing around the room like a maniac. Waterford won, Waterford won, Waterford won. She’s a bit mad, I think but I guess we all are.
Before I could say ‘Where’s my supper?’, she dashed out of the house on a what she called her walk against the elements. It was windy and half rainy but she wasn’t properly gone when the big bangs started. I was witless and kept pacing around the place looking for somewhere to hide. I ended up in my Dada’s arms. He held me really tight and I could feel his heart beating about a million times slower than mine. I can’t understand why he wasn’t in a tizz-wizz.
Jean flew in the door eventually all red in the face and breathless. Every time there was a big bang she looked at me with that look that tell’s me she is scared but is pretending not to be.
You should see her when we go passed gardens with boney things lying in them. She gets all worked up and starts talking to me about how she hates skeletons, whatever they are. She says they should be kept in wardrobes. Did you ever hear such rubbish?
It’s all quiet this morning and it’s bright.
Now she’s told me she’s going to pull an all nighter on Tuesday and will be up with me watching telly. Something about America. I hope she’s not spending a last night with me before she goes over there cos it looks an awful long way away. She points out to the end of the sea when we’re on our walks and says ‘That’s America over there.’
I just have to calm down. I don’t think she’d ever be mad enough to try and swim that far. But, then, she did go out in the fireworks, as she calls them. I’d call them All Nighter Puppy Torturers.
Please tell her to stay here with me and that I’ll even put all the skeletons into wardrobes for her.
Sky’s blue so hope there’s a Puppy Stan walk on the horizon.
So, the clocks fell back in Ireland last night but the three dogs that populate our house are still tuned in to Summertime.
They sleep in different rooms because they have very different personalities and preferences but once one hears me opening even one eye, the morning chorus begins.
Mornings are a magical time for me as I am the person who gets to experience the three of them greeting the day.
Puppy Stan does a special dizzying twirl when he sees me coming and sometimes I wonder if he will take up hammer throwing for the inaugural doggy Olympics. He races around the garden as if doing training laps and then whizzes into the kitchen in search of his breakfast.
Meanwhile, the flying saucer upstairs has leapt from his bed and tears down the stairs like a man on a mission. He’s the fluffy mixum-gatherum one who is totally besotted with son.
Last,but very much not least, is the gentle hound, who always catches my eye with a look of gratitude before he dashes towards the garden and a reunion with the fluffy one. They have their garden haunts to check out and then when they see me arriving with breakfast, the gentle hound looks up at me and eyes a ‘thank you’ before he even glances at his dish.
When I let that pair in again, the fluffy one plays games trying to ensure that he his reunited with son ASAP.
The gentle hound always manages to find a bit of my bare flesh and kisses me with his wet nose. I so love him for his sweet gestures.
They are all quiet now but their contentment is nothing to mine after this life-enhancing show of love, appreciation and sheer exuberance through such different doggy personalities.
We have a scruffy rough and tumble little dog living with us for many years now since son, H, found him abandoned on the beach.
We tried everything but couldn’t find his owner. He is utterly devoted to H as if he is eternally grateful for having been taken in and given the love he craves.
H was away for a few days and nothing, just nothing, I did could calm the poor dog or reassure him that he hadn’t been abandoned yet again.
Two days and nights of soulful pining nearly broke my heart and the little black and white petal.
On H’s return, he finally capitulated and broke down in fits of coughing that were like gut-wrenching sobs.
A trip to the vet this morning showed that his poor throat is all inflamed from the stress of it all. But, relaxtion is finally returning now that he can see that his beloved owner is back and cares about him even more than ever.
People talk about ‘a dog with two tails,’ and today I kinda feel like I’m a ‘puppy with three tails’ cos it’s three years today that I left my Mama and Dada and all my brothers and sisters on the farm in Co. Wexford and came to live in Tramore.
The time has flown by ~ just like those birds that I’m always racing after on the beach. You never catch up with time or birds from what I can see.
Would you believe that Jean put up a thingy on Twitter about me today and it’s gone zooming around the world. Here’s what she said:
Sometimes love comes with black spaniel ears, soft brown eyes and a heart of gold.
and there was this photo of meesy:
Well I got Harry to help me to get a photo of Jean to give her a surprise today and this is the one he chose out of the collection I showed him cos he agreed that she ‘s kinda multi-layered and always keeping her eyes on us.
This is the photo that Harry chose of me and didn’t know what Jean was thinking of with the Twittery one ~ even looking at that word has me thinking about those birds that tease me all the time:
Now, I just have to wish the Stan I was called after bestest luck in the Australian Open last 16 tomorrow. Here’s hoping he can win the whole tournament just like he did three years ago.
I’ve ‘doogled’ Stan W and I think Jean will be a bit surprised to hear that he’s a Samuel Beckett guy too cos he has this tattoo on his arm:
It’s three years today since Jean’s beloved King Charles, Sophie, died and I suddenly realised that I have an awful lot to thank her for. She was with Jean for nearly fourteen years and was her constant companion and bestest doggy friend. See, if Sophie hadn’t found her way into Jean’s heart she would never have wanted to get another dog ~and that dog happened to be me!
I’ve heard from Harry’s dog how Sophie and Jean were a strong female team in a house full of males and they understood each other inside out. Even I can see the special bond that they had from this photograph:
I’m a three year old puppy now and it all hit me today that Sophie would want me to be as kind as I possibly could be to Jean. I wonder am I growing up or what?
Anyway, I’ve tried my puppy-best to be as loving as I possibly can be today. (I suppose I should try and be like that everyday but that’s another matter.)
We went to the beach this morning and I tried to show her every ounce of beauty, even in blackness.
Talking of colours, you won’t believe this but the other day when I thought Jean was going off without me she suddenly said: Do you want to come with me. I’m going in search of a rainbow.’ I hadn’t a clue what a rainbow was but I decided to take my chances and go with her. Here’s what we saw and it’s one of those moments that I think may have brought us even more together than ever. I hope she doesn’t mind me showing it to you but really and truly it was something to behold:
There’s pots of gold at the end of rainbows in Ireland, in case you didn’t know. (I didn’t know ’til Jean told me). I think we’re probably talking pots of gold at both ends and I know now, for sure, that the pot of gold at the end we saw was Sophie smiling at us and passing on some of her wisdom to me.
Just want to let you know Sophie that I’m trying as hard as I can to be how you’d want me to be. And thanks for keeping that little doggy door open for me in Jean’s heart.