There's the sun, the moon, and Harry

Harry (Dalcross Bandleader) 25/8/99 - 26/11/09

Once there was a little fat sausage


who became a beautiful puppy


who grew up to be a stunningly handsome dog


with a sunny, happy, clownish personality


who loved to run


and jump


and bounce


and then run some more.



Which is why I couldn't condemn him to a crippled half-life of indignity and frustration, although I would have loved to keep him with me forever.

Sleep well, my Baby Boy, my dog in a million. I love you. May your star ever shine brightly.

Cry me a river

Here we are, two weeks on. Two weeks. (Two whole weeks. How the hell has that happened?) And there's really no change. My Harry still can't move his hind legs. He can't wag, even though on Monday we thought we saw the faintest ghost of a hint of a wag, but it didn't happen again, even when the Boy called in, which usually fills the dogs with joy. Until yesterday, when being stood up to be pottied and his bedding changed, if his legs were put in the right position he could support himself for a couple of seconds. Today he hasn't been able to - I hope tomorrow will be better. We can't go on like this for much longer, neither he nor us. My heart breaks every time I help him move, and he's such a valiant, patient, accepting little soul that he'll do anything I ask of him. Yes I know he's 'only a dog'. But he's my dog, and he's my special dog, and I don't care if it's silly to be so attached - I just am. Although I love all my dogs, out of all of them he's the second who's been so very special - the first was his great-great-great-grandmother who I lost suddenly in 1980. Now him. And I feel guilty for resenting the fact that it's not one of the others; we've been braced to lose Beattie, who we were told would be lucky to make double figures and is now heading for 15, or Piglet, who, if we're honest, is only here because nobody else wanted him when he was a puppy, so he stayed. Poor Piggy, always the bridesmaid - the eternally unwanted. It's not his fault. I can't let this nightmare, this living hell, go on for much longer; it's just not fair. Harry hates wetting himself and soiling his bed. It's hard work keeping him clean and dry to avoid urine scald, and turned to avoid bedsores. He's heavy, even though his hindquarters are so wasted through lack of exercise, despite the physiotherapy, that they're almost skeletal. Thank God he's not in physical pain.

Sorry for the incoherent, self-indulgent ramble. Grief and exhaustion do strange things to a person's mental state.

How fragile we are

For many months now we've been psyching ourselves for Beattie's passing, so recent events have totally caught us on the blind side. Tuesday was a normal day; the only difference to any other day was that Harry squealed when playing his usual game with Ned - the game that they play most evenings. After the squeal he was waggy and perfectly normal; the evening followed its usual course and then we went to bed.

Harry was a bit subdued on Wednesday; still waggy and happy, but decided not to run when we were out on our walks, but trotted everywhere instead. Other than that there seemed to be nothig wrong. On Thursday morning he was a bit wobbly on his back legs, and he accidentally knuckled over on his right hind paw and was very slow to correct it, so to be on the safe side I took him for a check over. His spine was carefully felt, and his hips, and his stifles, and his shoulders - everywhere. He was still wagging and giving his trademark flippy-flappy kisses; we assumed he must have pulled a muscle or something, so he was given a steroid injection to reduce any inflammation and lead-exercise only for a few days was prescribed. Friday dawned, and his back legs were still drunk, and when he walked I noticed he'd started scuffing his hind toe-nails on the pavement; this is a sure sign of nerve damage, which was worrying. But he was still cheerful and settled down after their lunchtime walk (peeing was a bit of a problem because when he tried to cock his leg he toppled over so had to straddle like a girl) to sleep till we got back from work.

That's when the day turned black. When we got home he couldn't take any weight on his hind legs at all, and was dragging himself along the floor. As the evening wore on he was getting more and more distressed at not being able to move properly, and wasn't able to pee at all, even when supported. So at about 9 o'clock (apologising profusely for calling out of hours) I phoned the vet and arranged to meet at the surgery. There he was sedated and x-rayed; it seems he's prolapsed a disc (L2/3), with a very guarded prognosis for recovery.

The treatment is steroids to reduce the inflammation and hopefully allow the nerve function to start to recover, and cage rest for at least 6 weeks. The poor boy is so frustrated at being confined, and not being able to move (his back end is now totally paralysed, even his tail), and being shut away to be 'kept quiet'; he's been crying in distress and struggling to get out, which can't be doing him any good.

Those of you who've met Harry know that he's my dog-in-a-million; to see him suffering like this is almost too much to bear. If only we could explain to him what's going on, and that if he lies still he's more likely to recover. Of course, if the damage is permanent we'll break our hearts and release him from the suffering. It's so sad - when he's lying down he looks completely normal; but when he tries to move ...

Genie Towers is not a happy place at the moment.

I wish I could fly way up to the sky but I can’t

Stu's latest Tuesday Challenge, should we choose to accept it, is "to come up with the most fantastic idea. What would you shoot if time, money and skills were no issue? Then work within your limitations to realise your dream. See what unique surprises occur."

At last, a reasonably straightforward one. If I had the time, money, equipment and skills I'd go off to Borneo and/or Sumatra and photograph orang-utans in the wild. I think they're marvellous creatures who are teetering on the brink of extinction solely due to Mankind's greed. Hundreds of square miles of their limited habitat is being destroyed to make way for palm oil plantations, a product that it seems impossible to boycott in protest because it's in everything. And to add insult to injury, it's being promoted as a source of bio-fuel to 'save the planet'. What a ridiculous concept - its very production is directly destroying far more than it will ever save.

So if I had pots and pots of money that's where I'd go; taking supplies to the orangutan orphanages where they try to raise the babies whose mothers have been killed by the rainforest clearance companies and sold as pets, and if possible to buy land to donate to them as habitat to release them when they're old enough. Whilst there I'd take photos of them - lots and lots of photos. But I haven't yet won the lottery, so my limitations are many, making this photo the closest to my dream that I'm likely to get. I'm not sure about 'unique surprises', though.

La donna è mobile*

I'm not a gadget person. I have a very basic Pay-and-go mobile phone, which costs me about £10 to top up every 6 months or so. I'm told it has games on it, but I CBA to find out. I've had the phone for years - it was sent to me for free because service for my last one was discontinued. I still have the instruction booklet in my handbag in case I need to actually do something with the thing - that's how much I care about gadgets.

I used it twice today.

The first time was when we were on the M69 going northwards, to tell Stu that we were going to be a teeny bit late. We'd set off on a 40-minute drive at 10.30, to get us there in plenty of time for noon. Unfortunately we'd forgotten about the roadworks at the Longbridge roundabout (they've only been there for a year) which meant that it took us almost an hour to travel half a mile. But we got there safely in the end, and judging by the amount of giggling, our celebratory photoshoot seemed to go very well; I can't wait to see the results! (That's got several Christmas presents sorted.)

Then on the return journey (with a diversion planned to avoid the roadworks), during a torrential cloudburst we saw a car stopped neatly by the central crash-barrier on the M69 southbound, facing north. Thinking that the driver probably didn't want to be there I phoned 999 (for the first time!) hoping that nobody ploughed into him in the meantime.

Two phonecalls in one day. Extraordinary.

* I've always associated a mobile with the name Donna.

Still crazy after all these years

25 years ago we posed for this photo.



Now, I don't bother with birthdays (once you've reached 21 there's not much significance about them. Everyone has them,simply through failing to die in the 12 months since the previous one. Unless you have a serious medical condition or are past your alloted threescore-and-ten that's not really much of an achievement!) but I think successfully weathering the storms of a shared life and dealing with the challenges that inevitably arise, is something to be celebrated.

It sounds awfully soppy, but I've never once regretted marrying Ned, my soulmate, and look forward to many more years together.

Time it was and what a time it was it was

You couldn't get a book between them.