Creative writing submission from the Rest Less community – submit your entry here.
This morning I needed to pop to the post office when walking the doglets. Unfortunately, when I got there, I saw a group of children playing football. Not wanting them to get Willowed, I decided not to get out of the car. I would go up to ‘The Great Field’ instead, where I could still do a lot of traffic queueing and find both a post office and a walking opportunity.
Now, at this point, I need to clarify what being Willowed means. Until I rescued Willow and Bear, I don’t think they had ever been walked or socialised. They were terrified of going outside the front door. Cars, people, bikes, everything was scary, and so I did a lot of road training in those first weeks.
Arthur
Now, they are largely free of those fears. They love their walks, being off the lead and meeting with doggie friends like Hattie, Holly, Scrappy, Martha and Rosie. The issue is that part of Willow’s newfound happiness is displayed by charging at anything that moves and shouting at the top of her lungs, ears flying.
She does it to dogs, dog walkers, joggers, anyone, including children. And there’s the rub! I must make sure Willow does not chase joggers or children in case her behaviours are misunderstood. She loves children and is very gentle with them. She doesn’t bite or nip, but I totally get that, small as she is, she can still appear really scary!
When I drove up to The Great Field, I discovered an organised run, literally hundreds of Willow targets! Foiled again, that option was also a non-starter. Thinking about it, I decided to drive to the open area at the back of Poundbury, alongside the Rugby club that goes down to Maiden Castle Road.
I moved here in 2010 with my Leonberger, Orla, and my adolescent Shiba Inu, Arthur. I knew nobody in the area but found I could walk from my home up Queens Avenue, across Thomas Hardye Fields, through to Poundbury Park and back down Maiden Castle Road.
We did that walk every day for three years, and it inspired my first book, Arthur’s Adventures. They were initially a way to keep in touch by email with the friends I’d left in London. It made me feel less isolated, as I’d come home to write about funny stories up and down those hills.
I did that walk until Orla died, and Ila came into my life in 2013. As a show and kennel dog, sadly, Ila couldn’t cope with open spaces, so I had to change my routine completely. This ended last year with old age and the need for a new hip and knee (probably worn away by all that walking!)
I tell you this because where I took Willow and Bear this morning was a space I used to know so well but hadn’t visited for over ten years.
I was shocked, amazed and delighted at how the area had changed and matured in those intervening years. The beautiful, undulating spaces were magical in the sunshine.
Together, Willow, Bear and I wandered through an avenue of trees up to the top of the hill where we stood in the sunshine, looking down at the rich patchwork of Dorchester’s countryside before turning and finding myself a bench, where I could sit quietly and contemplate.
Before I knew it, I was crying: huge, silent, salty tears rolling down my cheeks to pool off my chin. I was overwhelmed by beauty, nostalgia, loss and emotion; overcome by joy and sadness, of finding something wonderful while recognising the loss I still feel so acutely.
I know it’s okay to cry, to release those negative emotions intertwined with precious memories. I also know in my heart of hearts that Arthur will never leave me. In that moment, just as I feel Willow on the bench beside me and watch Little Bear pootling happily around us, I feel Arthur’s distinctive coat, the heat of his body pushed tight against me as he leans into my legs.
This is where we found ourselves, came to heal together, me and a small adolescent Shiba Inu, after several tough and desperately unhappy years. Then as now, part of that ‘finding’ of ourselves was the beauty, the wonderful sights and smells of this open area.
Time stops for no man, and tissues wrestled out of pockets, Bear came up to prop his little front legs on my knee, his beady eyes enquiring. Willow climbed into my lap, keen to lick my face and wipe away my tears.
Normality restored, I lightly suggested that we move on, a spring in our step as we turned together, our backs to the view, to make our way to the car.
Another chapter, just like the others, though somewhat more rickety and decrepit (benches are now a necessity). Looking at my little sausages in the lush, green open spaces of my adopted home, it will be another chapter filled with joy and laughter, love and positivity. I’m lucky…and I know it!
(Arthur 2009-2024)
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