A gentle breeze moves through the tall grass, causing their tips to sway in a slow, graceful rhythm. My precious dogs lift their heads, nostrils flaring as they catch the scents drifting on the wind. It is quiet. It is peaceful. It is new.
A few months ago I sold my home in suburbia and bought a renovated Queenslander that sits on 5 acres. And since moving here, my darling Mum has been ever-present in my thoughts. It feels as though I can hear her voice, expressing her love for this new space. I know she would have loved it here. She would have basked in the changing light, embraced the stillness, and smiled at the peaceful symphony of neighbouring cows lowing and watching magpies vying for the fattest worm on the dew-kissed lawn at dawn.
She, like me, would have spent hours simply watching, listening—allowing the quiet beauty of nature to unfold, moment by moment. On most mornings, I sit on the front, wooden steps, sipping freshly brewed coffee, the cup cradled in both hands, watching as the sun climbs slowly, brushing everything in gold. The warmth settles on the front verandah, where Stanley and Freida lay resting, content in their new space. Sometimes I speak aloud, imagining Mum beside me, her laughter or gentle hums of agreement answering back. Mum used to say that peace isn’t found in silence—it’s found in learning how to sit within it.
She would’ve embraced my new, daily rituals: tending to newly planted trees, watering the vegetable garden and creating paths with the ride-on mower so I can walk the property line with Stanley and Freida in the late afternoon. When we do so, Freida always darts ahead, bounding through the grass and pausing to investigate hidden scents. Stanley mooches just beside me as we follow her slowly, one foot and paw in front of the other. In some ways, it is reminiscent of my Camino walk in Spain, just taking one step at a time. As I walk, I watch the neighbouring cows graze gently on the grass, only to look up with an air of indifference when Freida loudly voices her disapproval at their presence. Unfazed, they simply return to their meal.
As we walk, I look toward the distant Conondale Range. Its low lying mountains cradle the setting sun and as its sets lower, the sky becomes awash with deep indigo and fiery orange hues. Some evenings, I’ve noticed lingering clouds catch that final, colourful light, and are brushed with colors so vivid they seem painted by hand. Again, Mum would’ve loved it. She would’ve wanted to fetch her watercolours and paint the wondrous landscape.
Then, as twilight deepens, and with no city lights to dim their glow, the stars begin to shimmer across the velvet-black sky, timeless and vast. I often wonder about that vastness and what lies within.
Back indoors, my new home is filled with memories of a life well lived. In the lounge room, a large table is adorned with family photos. One shows Max and Mum in Annecy, France – their laughter and joy captured in that photo always makes me smile. She loved that trip to Europe with me, Max, and Rob. She often reflected on it, speaking about how grateful and happy she was to have traveled with us to one of her favorite places.
I don’t know what I expected when I came here. This home is different, and as the days slip slowly by, I am adapting. Adapting to the absence of Max and Kassie pottering downstairs, adapting to Rob no longer dropping by just to chat about life. I am adjusting to the difference and embracing the change. And that is okay.
I am learning to enjoy simply sitting with the quiet, resting in contentment, and allowing life to glide over me—taking in all the simplicity and quiet beauty of this place I now call home.
It’s often been said that crossing the Nullarbor in Australia can be tedious and boring. On knowing I was soon to travel the long, open expanse of Australia’s famed outback, I was a little apprehensive.
I traversed the internet looking for advise, ideas and opinions of others who had gone before me, only to discover a barrage of information, some of which, after doing the first crossing, was a tad exaggerated. ‘You need to have cash, POS won’t always work – fill up at every fuel stop as some places run out of fuel…’ Yet, this wasn’t the case. Crossing the Nullarbor was actually easy. Free camps were plentiful as was the fuel, and not once did we have to use cash.
And when I found myself doing the return journey 3 weeks later, I had exactly the same experience. And this time, on my own with my two precious dogs by my side. the journey was just as gratifying and enjoyable as the first crossing.
And why did I choose to do a repeat performance? Simply because I decided the job I had planned to commence in Perth was not what I wanted to do in life. After driving across the country the first time following the sale of my house, I found myself loving the freedom travelling by road afforded me. After only 24 hours in Perth I knew in my heart that I did not want to fly again, rather, I wanted to live a simple life on the road with my dogs, whilst looking for my forever home.
Over 2 weeks and with the help of my ex-husband and son, we transformed my van, who Rob named Kevin Anderson the 2nd, and on Christmas day, I set off. Bound for eastern shores, I knew the Nullarbor was unavoidable. So rather than finding it a chore, I chose to embrace the 1700 + kilometres that lay before me. And unlike the first crossing when we had a deadline to meet, I took my time. The kilometres were dissolved as I listened to hilarious audiobooks, stopped every couple of hours for wee walks and drinks and I simply adopted a positive outlook of where I was, what I was doing and most importantly, who I was doing it with.
Life really isn’t complicated, we can live simply, happily and with minimal possessions.
Now, just prior to writing this post, I have spent the last hour chatting to fellow travellers in a free campground on the outskirts of Port Pirie, South Australia. I feel an immense sense of freedom, knowing I am in control of every minute of my life. I am free to choose my next destination, free to move without restraint and Im doing it all in the comfort of a small van with my two best friends.
So on crossing the Nullarbor again – I would do it again, and maybe again, again….
Freida’s unexpected arrival into our world has healed so many deep-seeded wounds.
We were not expecting her. Nor did I expect the magnitude of love I would feel for her. Her presence has evoked conflicting emotions: sadness, yet immense joy. I say this because her resemblance to Oscar is eerily uncanny. She has very similar colouring and her mannerisms, sometimes they stop me in my tracks. I feel she is meant to be here and maybe that’s why I had a very unusual visit from a very inquisitive magpie, which has me believing that maybe there was some kind of divine intervention.
So what does a magpie have to do with Freida’s arrival?
About a week prior to me hearing Freida was available for adoption, a magpie appeared on the balustrade on the deck of my home. He looked right at me, and when I approached, he remained. I stood right beside him, looked into his eyes, and he stared back with such intensity. I felt a warm, comforting tingling sensation run through my body. Not one of fear, more one of knowing. I felt he was trying to tell me something. I called him Malcolm and he visited for 3 consecutive days: he would arrive, watch me from the balustrade for up to 4 hours, then disappear. Sometimes he would jump down onto the deck, walk inside and stand just inside the door and watch. Stanley didn’t react, he simply watched with interest.
On the 4th day, he didn’t arrive and I’ve not seen him again.
A few days later I Googled ‘magpie visits’ and I was astounded at what I discovered. Apparently a visiting magpie is deemed to be intensely spiritual. Here’s a excerpt; When a bird acts in an unusual way (for example is particularly friendly or appears to be looking for attention), or it appears repeatedly (at least 3 times in a short-period of time), it is trying to convey a message from the spirit world to you.
Whilst I’m a spiritual person, I’m not religious, yet also a believer in the unusual and unexplained. So this visit from Malcolm was puzzling.
A few days following ‘Malcolm’s departure, I had the call about Freida. Did I want to meet her? Of course we did and she came into my life and has brought so much light to a very dark place. She is perfect in every way.
Is that what Malcolm was trying to tell me? If so, he was so very right.
Recently I read a book called Denali: a man, a dog and the friendship of a lifetime.
The story of a young man’s unique friendship with his beloved dog, Denali. Following Denali’s death at 14, Moon struggles as his grief is ‘so sustained and intense’. On sharing his grief with a friend he is told: “that’s because your bond was so strong. When you lose your canine soul mate, you not only lose the dog that has been your companion and friend, but you also have to let go of that chapter of your life. It forces you to grow into what you’ll become: it’s the last parting act of friendship.”
I thought of my own grief from losing Oscar, and as I continued to read, I felt comfort in the author’s words. I too have to let go of a chapter, and I know Oscar would want that. Yet moving on to the next chapter does not mean I’m moving on from him. It simply means that I cannot continue to live in his chapter, for he is no longer there. He has completed his journey and now I need to complete mine. And as hard as it is do so without Oscar, it is something I have to do to ensure my happiness.
Bear Dog would want me to run, be free and be happy, just as he was. He would want me to grow and I truly believe it was Bear’s last parting act of his love and friendship. It was the completion of his journey.
So as I now step into this new chapter, I now know I can reread, I can embrace photos, and I can allow my heart to be filled with only love as I relive the beautiful memories of our chapter together. But I cannot go back.
So I shall go forward.
Sometimes I feel the reason we cannot move forward is because we do not want to let go. In moving forward, it is as if that previous chapter did not exist and there is an element of guilt associated with that. We feel we are betraying their being, their memory. I personally feel in moving on, Oscar is left behind. But rationality reminds me that this thought process is completely irrational. Oscar has not been left behind, he is firmly imbedded into my being. He will always be here.
He loved me, I was his person. If he could speak to me now he would be saying, in his gruff little voice, these words:
Remember how special our relationship was. remember the warmth of our closeness. Yes, I have now crossed the rainbow bridge, so please be happy that I am ok. Please laugh again, smile again and do yoga again. That was our thing, remember? I loved it when you would lie on the floor, particularly when you did downward dog, I loved that one the most as it was my cue to chin chew. Without my help you would not have been able to do those complicated poses.
You would also not have been able to go in the right direction without me sitting upright in the car. And the funny way I would walk when I was in a hurry. Particuarly when we were on the way home from a walk. It was as if my back legs had to move faster in order to propel my whole body up the hill. I had a very important walk. But of course there were moments when I had to suddenly stop to sniff. That happened frequently. You would sometimes get mad, well not really, but then we would continue on.
When I was navigating in the front seat, I’d get mad when we stopped. I didn’t always understand that you stopped because you had to: i.e. traffic lights. But I would whine in my own unique way and I would tilt my head to the side, tongue hanging out whilst I looked at you, willing you to keep moving. And as soon as we stopped anywhere other than traffic. Id really let you know I needed to get out and explore the surroundings.
And my Stanley is here, by my side. His loyalty is heartfelt. His calmness his aloofness, his professorship ways as Mum says. He does not bounce like Oscar, he is unassuming, quiet and totally devoted.
Together we now have this new chapter, we don’t know what is written, we just need to be present, with each other and enjoy what may come.
In the background, gentle music fills the chilly winter air. On the floor, my two precious pups lay curled together in front of the heater. Frieda’s dark, shiny head is tucked beneath Stanley’s chest. Their rhythmic breathing, restful and calm. How I cherish them.
Their presence enriches my life and allows me to find contentment in just being, there is no longer any rush to get to somewhere else. I enjoy the Now. Something I had always struggled with. I was constantly searching for somewhere else to be, someone else to be.
Yet now, I feel such freedom. Freedom from that feeling that had enveloped my mind and being for so many years. Maybe it came down to feelings of not fitting in during my younger years. In having those feelings, the need to flee and be somewhere other than where I was dominated my being, thoughts, and feelings.
A couple of weeks ago, we had an intense argument that led to an intense conversation about true feelings, needs and expectations. Afterward, I felt as though I’d been washed clean with honest words and feelings. Years of anguish, doubt and hurt collided with fear and expectations that morning. In the aftermath, recognition and understanding and the need to always communicate with honesty and clarity prevailed.
I feel we moved forward in so many ways. We are family and we love each other deeply, I know that, and I feel so grateful and proud of them.
So where to now? For the moment I will take the Now, second by second, minute by minute, day by day. I do know that sometime in the next year, I will find my forever after place. A place where rolling green hills shape the landscape. A place where birdsong is ever present and a place where I can sit and listen to life. Life in all it’s gentle splendour. A place where I will take those long, slow walks in the company of my precious dogs and nature.
A place where I can sit on a sunlit verandah watching the clouds, listening to the nothing.
A place that will allow me to breathe in my twighlight years with peace, tranquility, and love.
No longer needing, wanting, or yearning.
For I have found all I need in who I am, and in the few beautiful, precious souls who complete me.
IF only there were a guidebook that prepared you for the emotional trauma the IVDD journey invokes. Yes, there’s an abundance of information and support out there, however when IVDD invades your reality, confusion, despair and grief wash over you in ways you’d never imagined.
As a dachshund owner for nearly 20 years, I believed I knew enough about IVDD to ensure I’d taken precautions to reduce the probability of this insidious disease entering our home.
I now know that despite my knowledge and preventative measures, IVDD was destined to crash into our lives and the emotional trauma left in its wake had me feeling bereft and at times, inconsolable. I’ve blamed myself, rehashed scenarios of the should’ve, could’ve, but the reality is this, there was simply nothing more I could’ve done to change both mine and Oscar’s life path.
What follows is our IVDD journey and the emotional trauma it forced upon us both.
Oscar came into our lives as an 8-week old, bundle of standard wire-haired fluff. At the time my Dad was an All-Breeds judge, and his contacts in the dog world were varied and vast. As such, Oscar’s breeder was well researched, well known and above all, well respected. Over the years her dogs had very few litters and IVDD was totally absent in her bloodlines. From a background perspective, the chances of Oscar succumbing to IVDD were remote. Of my four dachshunds, Oscar was the one I was least worried about.
On the night of September 15, 2020, Oscar went to bed without showing any sign of pain or discomfort. At 5am the following morning, I woke to see Oscar struggling to get off his bed. I shot out of bed as I thought he was ‘stuck’ on something. A stupid thought I know, but at that moment IVDD did not enter my head, particularly as he did not appear to be in any pain, moreover, he seemed to have his normal, happy disposition. I looked around him and could see no reason for his inability to move – it was only on lifting his back end and have him collapse back onto the ground that panic set in.
I was terrified. I scooped him into my arms and raced down the stairs and frantically started knocking on my 24-year old son’s door. As the door opened, so did my emotions. I began to sob uncontrollably, and I could barely get the words out. Max was confused, yet somehow managed to understand my garbled mutterings about Oscar being paralysed. I placed him in the car, and with sobs racking my body, I somehow managed to get him to the emergency vet, 10 minutes later.
After what seemed an interminable wait, it was explained Oscar was Deep Pain Negative and they suspected Stage 5 IVDD. She explained he would be transferred to North Coast Veterinary Service (NCVS) at 0800 and would undergo a CT and MRI to confirm their suspected diagnosis. They brought him out for a hug before asking me to await the surgeon’s call later that morning.
At that point shock had numbed my reality. I was floating in a fog of confusion and concern and all I wanted to do was be with Oscar. I wanted to hold him and comfort him, despite my all-consuming fear. I wanted to take him in my arms and run as far away as possible. Shield us both somehow with the ‘if you can’t see us, then we can’t see you and all of this is just a horrible dream’ approach. Denial was hijacking my thoughts, in all its ugly glory.
As I waited at home for the surgeon to call, I begged my memory to recall the previous nights events. To play a movie in my mind so I could see if it was my fault, if I missed something. I vividly remember him doing his nightly ritual of heading outside to wee, then plodding past the bathroom as I showered. My memory clouds when I attempt to visualise him in his bed, and keeping to my nightly ritual of kissing my boys goodnight before climbing into my own bed. I’m sure I bade them all goodnight, in my usual manner, however not being able to have an absolute recall of that moment, I fear I could’ve missed something. Did he look comfortable, or did his disc explode as he settled on his bed? Was he in pain then? Surely I would’ve known that right? Yet the thought he may have been in pain and suffered through the night was terrifying. I’ve read countless stories about other IVDD cases and majority state there were notable signs, yet Oscar did not display any signs, of that I’m sure.
Later that day, as I met with Dr Nima, a surgeon at North Coast Veterinary Service (NCVS), I felt terrified and lost – just as Oscar would’ve been. And whilst I listened to her heartfelt words confirming Stage 5 IVDD and all the possible complications, tears fell silently, and the helplessness intensified.
She began to speak of progressive myelomalacia (PMM), words I’d not heard before. And as she explained that it presented in only 5% of cases, I felt nausea rise in my throat. My heart raced, yet I did not want to appear weak and vulnerable, so I nodded quietly whilst digging my nails into the palms of my hands in an effort to distract myself from the wave of fear her words triggered. My nails dug harder as she relayed her concerns for Oscar, for in light of his diagnosis, the chances of myelomalacia presenting rose to approximately 30%.
Conservative treatment was not a favourable option, so Oscar was scheduled for surgery later that afternoon; a hemilaminectomy and durotomy for a severe disc extrusion at T13, L1. It was then that Dr Nima revealed the ugliest of truths – IVDD could in fact, be fatal. She reassured me that the possibility of this was slight, yet I needed to be prepared as Oscar’s condition was considered severe. Despite my despair, I appreciated her honesty. She was kind, empathetic and clearly cared about Oscar’s well-being. I will be forever grateful for her kindness and I cannot fault her care.
Yet as I continued to listen, I felt the nausea rise again. This could not be happening; I’d done all the right things and why my Oscar? My soulmate, my heartdog, my everything. Once again I felt the need to find Oscar and run. Run far, far away.
When I returned home, I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, and I paced the house not knowing what to do with myself. I couldn’t help him, I couldn’t protect him and now, I couldn’t hold his paw, stroke his silky head and tell him I loved him. He would be scared; he would be confused, and I couldn’t be there to support him. Not being able to be in the surgery with him, or be there when he woke was for me, the epitome of helplessness. My best friend was hurting and there was nothing I could do to ease his fear or alleviate his pain.
When Dr Nima called me later that night telling me Oscar had done really well in surgery, my heart soared. And when I saw him the next morning, I felt so relieved. They said he was doing well and even managed to walk, albeit aided with a specially designed sling to support his back legs and spine. Whilst I felt so happy to see him, he looked despondent and confused. Nurse Tegan reassured me and said he was on heavy painkillers and a little confused with what had occurred.
The following two days showed promise. There were no neurological deficits presenting, he seemed alert, responsive to physio, yet still no response to deep pain stimulus. Dr Nima was hopeful and on Friday, September 18, said he could be expected to go home the following Monday. Nurse Tegan sent me regular texts when I couldn’t be with him. I will always be grateful and thankful for the love and care they showed Oscar. Knowing he was in such caring hands made this traumatic time a touch more bearable.
The following day (Saturday, 72 hours post op), I had a mid-morning call explaining Oscar had deteriorated overnight and was beginning to show signs of ascending myelomalacia.
I cannot begin to articulate the level of despair I felt at hearing those words. I had spent the last 2 days heavily researching and I knew what this diagnosis signalled.
I hung up and fell to my knees and sobbed inconsolably. I was alone, I had no one to share this pain with and I felt so, so lost. I had experienced loss of incredible magnitude several years earlier when my little girl died from heart disease; at that moment, as I lay weeping, the grief I felt was measurable to losing Meg. That may be hard for many to understand, but Oscar was my everything and the thought of losing him was beyond comprehension.
Over the weekend he continued to deteriorate, as did I from an emotional perspective. I spent hours at the hospital in his crate, lying by his side comforting him in every way. I held him, played music and fed him pieces of chicken and finely diced frankfurts. I felt so helpless and whilst I didn’t realise at the time, the nurses must’ve known he was now palliative as they were so kind. On the Sunday I spent most of the day lying in his crate with him. The nurses would come by and offer water and biscuits and generally just ask if I was ok. At one point, one of them gave me a huge hug, which simply allowed the tears to flow more quickly.
By Monday, Oscar had lost the use of his front limbs and was unable to lift his head. Dr Nima said he was not in pain and she assured me he was comfortable. I clearly remember her saying that even if there was only a 5% chance of him surviving, she would do everything in her power. Yet, deep down, we all knew the reality. Myelomalacia was fatal. And I’d done enough research to know that after paralysis of the thoracic limbs, which Oscar now had, paralysis of the respiratory muscles would present. I did not want that for him, so I knew I would soon have to say goodbye to my precious Bear.
Overnight, Oscar deteriorated rapidly and on Tuesday morning, the 22nd of September 2020, I was told our only kind option would be to send him across the rainbow bridge. As per his clinical notes: Oscar has deteriorated overnight with progressive myelomalacia after severe disc extrusion at T13/L1 with flaccid paralysis of both fore and hindlimbs. Panniculus reflex is absent.He is mentally depressed and less responsive than yesterday. I have had a long discussion with his owner and unfortunately advised euthanasia and the owners have accepted this recommendation.
I knew this was coming, yet when those words were spoken, I broke. I was about to lose my precious boy and that was unfathomable. I asked how long we had before myelomalacia would begin to affect his respiratory muscles. I was told maximum 24 hours.
I decided to take him home as we wanted his last hours to be surrounded by those who adored him and in a place he felt safe and loved. I bundled him in my arms and held him close as we drove home. I opened the window and as his head rested against my shoulder, I felt his breath quicken as he tried to sniff the passing air.
Being in the car was one of his greatest loves and he would sit upright, with ears flapping, nose sniffing and a look of joy on his beautiful face. As we drove home, I made sure he was doing just that and I sensed he knew I was helping him, and I knew in my heart he felt safe.
As I walked inside, Stanley and Eddie walked slowly toward me. I knelt down so they could see their brother and they gently sniffed him before Stanley gave him a slow lick on his face. I sat on the couch and cradled Oscar and noticed his breathing slow as I believed he knew he was home and he finally felt at peace. My heart was breaking, yet I felt comfort in knowing he was home and that in his final hours, he was bathed in love. As the afternoon drew to a close, his breathing became more difficult and we knew it was his time to leave. We had hoped to say goodbye at home, but sadly and despite our best efforts we had to return to NCVS.
Oscar crossed the rainbow bridge at 4.51pm on Tuesday, September 22, 2020. As he crossed, I held him close and through the uncontrollable sobs, I whispered that I would love him forever.
The emotional trauma IVDD invokes is both individual and undeniably painful.
There is no BandAid for the wound it opens, no aspirin for the pain it places in your heart. It simply breaks us in ways we could never imagine.
Many years ago, after the loss of my daughter, I read the words: ‘when tragedy strikes your life you can be one of two things – bitter or better – I choose better…’
Losing Oscar broke me, and I have had moments when I felt I would never recover. On writing his story, in detail, something changed. I realised I had been so lucky to have known him and in knowing my precious Oscar aka Bear, I had become a better person. Yes, his loss is indeed a tragedy, and in moving forward, he would want me to continue to be better, and he would want me to embrace life just as he did: with love, laughter and light.
I will love you forever my precious Bear…
What I discovered in writing about my own emotional trauma was this: it opened the door to healing, and for the first time in the 6 months since Oscar died, I began to feel the wretchedness of his loss easing. There is no doubt the pain is still raw and tears flow randomly, but I also began to fully identify with a passage I read in Ben Moon’s book. He says: “When you lose your canine soul mate, you not only lose the dog that has been your companion and friend through so much, you also have to let go of that chapter of your life, and who you were then. It forces you to grow into what you’ll become, the last parting act of friendship.” Denali: A Man, a Dog, and the Friendship of a Lifetime
In life, there is loss. It is painful and it is at times, grossly unfair as some experience great loss while others experience very little. It’s just the way it is.
And if I’m to be honest, thoughts of unfairness hijack my thoughts as of late, there has been many losses, in many forms.
But please understand I’m not writing this from a ‘poor me’ or self-absorbed perspective, quite the contrary. I’m writing this because I find writing to be therapeutic and consoling. I guess in some ways it’s my own personal therapy session. Tapping words onto a screen seems to somehow ease my grief as I discovered the hard way that internalising pain is not conducive to the healing process.
Many years ago I experienced immense loss and rather than express my grief, I internalised it. I wept in private, I didn’t speak of my grief, rather, I spoke of Meg’s death in clinical phrases. I could explain in detail the intricacies of her heart defects and the consequential operations. If you asked, I would tell you. Yet if you asked how I felt, the wall would immediately build. Feelings were off limits.
After keeping my true grief private for 16 years, a small issue sent me spiralling into a breakdown, which thankfully forced formal counselling. From that, I now know internalising grief or pain is detrimental and if you can find a way to unburden if you will, only good things can result.
So I write. And now, I write about the despair and all consuming grief at having lost again, and this time he was one of my best friends and my soulmate.
There are many who may baulk at that last sentence, for my best friend and soulmate was a dog. But to me Oscar aka Bear Dog was my best friend and my soulmate, and his loss is immeasurable for me. And this grief I feel is real, it is intense and at times, it hurts so much, and is comparable to the loss of Meg. That may be hard for some to understand, but that’s okay. Views differ and always will.
But Oscar’s loss has truly broken me.
The following words were written a few days after Oscar’s spinal surgery. I believe a part of me knew I was losing my friend. I tried to fight the negative feelings. I tried to tell myself that he would not be in that 5% who would succumb to myelomalacia, following Grade 5 IVDD, but like Meg, I somehow knew. I knew goodbye was looming on the horizon. I didn’t want to say goodbye, but in my heart, I knew goodbye was coming. And it did.
For Bear Dog
Your morning ritual of waking, shuffling over to the carpet, having a big shake which made your collar jingle, then you’d roll for ages and make your bear sounds: ah kar kar, before leaping onto the bed, and onto me and showering me with your unique ‘chin chews’.
At breakfast you’d always come into the kitchen and make more Bear noises, voicing your impatience at the time it took for me to make your breakfast. They were unique and so you. Arhharhhh
After eating you’d walk around and check the other bowls, then often you’d go onto the verandah and look at what was happening on the street.
You’d shuffle over to the bean bag and make a leap, it would take a few shuffles before you got your spot. Then you’d sit like a human and look sideways at me with those beautiful, brown eyes.
The moment I sat down on the couch with my coffee, you’d rush over and ask for help to get on the couch. You would sometimes do little half jumps and your front paws would tap, tap tap on the floor. Once up, you’d often snort at me if I’m in your way, or if I am in the ‘best’ spot.Yet you always, always would sit directly beside me. I could always feel your gentle breath against my leg.
You would come into the bathroom, peer around the door, see me in the bath/shower and give a short, loud snort before leaving. As if you’re saying pffff, guess I’ll go out here.
You would sit like a human in the front seat of the car, and the joy you’d get from having the window down was pure bliss. If I put it up, you’d shuffle and the turn your head to look at me and give me the white eye, downward look.
The soccer fields was one of your favourite places, besides the car. All I’d have to say is run and run and run and run… and you’d run, then you’d find the best place to roll. The cricket pitch with its fake grass was a favourite. But if you’d find bird or kangaroo poo, that was the best place for a roll.
You’d always want me to share my breakfast, that was a given. None of the others do, just you.
Down in the backyard you’d always help Stanley search for lizards, then if you got bored with that, you’d find a good digging spot for eating dirt. If I pulled out the piece of shade cloth, you’d run over, step on it and try to bite it as I pulled you along. When I stopped pulling, you’d roll and roll; the look of joy on your beautiful face was priceless. It was one of your favourite games.
If I mentioned the car, your ears would prick up and you’d start your Bear noises, and if I put my runners on, well that that was pure bliss and signalled more intensive Bear noises.
You are the one who loved cuddles the most, and I loved running my fingers through your shoulder hair, it was so full and fluffy. And you loved your head being scratched and if you wanted more, you’d raise your front paw, look at me with those eyes and head cast downward and demand more pats.
You had a funny way of eating. You would curl your neck, so your ears flopped forward, then you’d sniff, walk around the other side, sniff again, then begin eating. Your way of drinking was unique, I always knew it was you drinking even if I couldn’t see. There was a rhythm, lop lop, – lop lop lop, – lop lop.
You were and still are one of my greatest loves Bear Dog. You are my bubba, my Bear, my best friend.
Oh Bear, I’m broken, truly broken.
My Bear Bear, I love you so much and I will miss you forever…
FOR those of you who love your four-legged friends, particularly of the long dog, sausage variety, I hope you get a giggle from this little anecdote.
It’s dedicated to my very first wire-haired dachshund, Kiri aka Sausage. She was a precious soul who came into our lives when we rescued her from a puppy farm at age three.
She was a joy and made us laugh every day with her funny, quirky and wondrous ways, particularly when it came to ‘walkies’.
For most dogs the rattling of a lead, or the mention of the word walk sends them into a wild frenzy. Some do circles, some bark excitedly, while others run for the front door before you get a chance to change your mind.
Not Sausage.
The mere mention of that filthy word was enough to send her high tailing it back to her cave bed, slip through the opening, bury herself and not be seen. We’re sure she believed that if she couldn’t see you, then it was very obvious you couldn’t see her.
I tried in vain to get her excited about a walk, even tempting her with a piece of cheese, one of her great loves. This small act of bribery was mildly successful as whilst she munched excitedly, I slipped her lead on and got us both out the door.
It was highly possible that remnants of cheese lingered in her mouth and as such, put her into a cheese induced dream, which in turn, allowed us to walk for approximately 50 metres or so. But once the spell broke, the brakes went on, and no amount of pulling, dragging and kind loving words would budge her.
As I was in fear of the neighbours reporting me to the RSPCA for cruelty at seeing me pull, albeit gently, a small, grey, fuzzy and extremely stubborn little dog down the road, I resorted to carrying her.
Once in my arms, the demonic dog who only moments before had obviously been on the end of the lead, was replaced with my loving Sausage. As I’d obviously rescued her from an horrendous and traumatic experience, her immediate action was to thank me amorously by showering me with smelly, gag -inducing, slurps.
And whist the idea of a walk sent chills down her long, wiry spine, she still loved to get out of the house, provided she didn’t have to use her legs.
Remember I mentioned about dogs’ who go into a frenzy at a mere rattle of the lead?
For Sausage, the mere rattle of the car keys saw her go into a frenzy, and trust me when I say her short legs could cover some serious ground, with lightening speed when the mood suited. Before I’d finished putting on shoes she’d be at the door, patiently waiting for me to it so she could race to the car.
Once at the car, there was a perfectly choreographed ritual of getting herself inside. For some reason she’d only get in through the driver’s side door, and as she was short, getting in was a two step process. Firstly, a few moments of rocking back and forth on her haunches, similar to a high jumper working up to the big jump was performed. This was followed by swift forward leap onto the floor and as she’d become quite good at this manoeuvre, she always avoided injury on the pedals by ensuring her landing was precise.
Once there, another few moments of rocking preceded a deft leap onto my seat then one final leap over the centre console saw her finally sitting proudly on the left hand passenger seat, a place she felt was hers, and hers alone.
If my sons’ had friends in the car and happened to sit in her seat, she’d throw herself on the floor and as a mark of disgust, pant her fish-infused breath in their direction. But the madness in all of this was that once we reached our destination, she’d run for cover and hide under the seat. There was no way would she get out and walk anywhere.
Here’s a perfect example.
One sunny afternoon we decided to head to the beach, my sons were teenagers at the time and keen bodyboarders. As mentioned above, the moment the car keys were rattled, Sausage was at the back door before the rest of us had even made it down the stairs. Having settled into her spot, she looked quite smug during the 15-minute drive to the beach.
When we arrived, she eyed me suspiciously and when I reached for her lead, she swiftly launched herself under the seat. This action meant I had to then try and manipulate her firmly wedged little body out from under what she probably considered her safe from walking spot.
I finally won the battle, attached the lead to her collar and we set off to the beach, although not as you may be picturing. Rather than being accompanied by the sound of little paws walking alongside me, she was in my arms, and if dogs could actually smile, I believe hers would have been wider than the Grand Canyon.
After finding a spot under the trees to watch the boys’ surf, I think she quite enjoyed lazing on the towels, watching other dogs walk along the beach.
Day 5 of my yoga practice saw the mind trying to conquer the body. I didn’t let it. Conversely, rather than trying to ignore negative thoughts, I acknowledged them, let them go and rolled out my mat.
Living in the southern hemisphere means summer is on the horizon, and the once cool spring mornings are now warm, making practice outside comfortable.
Whilst I live in a sub-tropical climate, it does get quite cool in the winter months and poolside, deck time is quite limited. Therefore as the weather warms, the option to be outside is greatly celebrated by my beloved sausages.
The appearance of my mat also causes great celebration, as does the child’s pose at the beginning of my session. The boys seem to think this is the signal for them to nuzzle into my face and shower me with wet, furry kisses.
Yet a sense of calm is soon established and they sit quietly listening to the birds herald in the new day, whilst I quietly continue my practice.
I find the challenge is not simply about becoming conversant with the various asanas, the real difficulty lies in having to watch the screen to ensure I’m doing the poses correctly. This impacts breathing and enjoyment.
Yet again, rather than letting the mind tell my body it’s too hard, I simply pause the video and take a few moments to breathe deeply and tell myself how well I’m doing.
Having read Eckhart Tolle’s The Power of Now, I know the importance of allowing yourself to be in the moment. And whilst there is part of me that yearns to practice as seasoned yogi’s do, I also realise the importance of enjoying the journey.
As Dory said in Finding Nemo, ‘just keep swimming…’
stanley & bear 