Creative writing submission from the Rest Less community – submit your entry here.
From the moment I brought Arthur home as a little pup of seven weeks, it was clear that he was a happy, self-contained chap. Whether he was playing with his giant sister Orla (my autistic Leonberger) or amusing himself, he was always cheerful.
He was a great one for toys and would play for hours with them on his own. He’d toss them up in the air before hunting them down and jumping on them, only to toss them up in the air again. Unfortunately, his favourite toys, like lots of doglets, were squeaky ones which he’d chomp on, squeaking loudly for hours. He was never a destructive dog and didn’t rip them to pieces, but would chew on them. This meant that he’d eventually kill the squeak and the toy would have to be discarded in favour of another.
One Christmas, a dear friend of mine bought both him and my other dog, Ila, a squeaky brussels sprout toy. Sadly, Ila never enjoyed toys. As an ex-Crufts champion and part of a 16 dog stable, her childhood was somewhat different to most house dogs, and she had a host of other dogs to play with rather than anything else.
I remember when she first came to me, whilst she showed a vague interest in chasing a ball for the first yard or so, she wouldn’t dream of picking it up, let alone returning it. In contrast, her brother would spend a happy half hour in the park fetching, dropping, and waiting for me to throw it again.
Oh, and I never taught him to ‘drop’ or ‘leave’ – I didn’t have to. Arthur was, from day one, like living with a furry, baby Einstein. Frighteningly intelligent (and just as calculating), he innately understood that in order to continue the game, he’d have to give me the ball back. So, from day one (at eight weeks old), he just dropped it at my feet. Once Ila joined us she’d show a vague interest for a total of about three minutes, before going off to pootle about on her own, slightly bemused by our antics.
Back to the brussels sprout. This wretched toy became one of Arthur’s absolute favourites. And what was his favourite time to play with it? Under my bed at lights out or, quite often, in the middle of the night! Thankfully, though it woke me every time, I was never cross about it as it made me laugh.
When it got too much I’d simply say, “Arthur, enough, it’s bedtime!” He’d jump up next to me, sprout in mouth, and settle down at the end of the bed; in a few minutes, he’d let me remove it so that we could both go back to sleep. On more than one occasion I recorded his nighttime antics to send to the sprout purchaser so that she understood my pain and what she was responsible for – but she just laughed too!
Sadly, now in his 16th year and with dementia, Arthur doesn’t play with his squeaky toys anymore, or any toys for that matter. Though, he did, right up until his vestibular attack in 2022. That said, I haven’t the heart to remove any of them and every time I hoover under the bed upstairs, out rolls the sprout. Once finished, I carefully put it back where it was sitting, waiting to be played with again.
It’s not just the sprout though. In the sitting room there’s a pork pie resting patiently under the chair, a snowman who threatens to melt in his crate in the kitchen, and in the garden lives…a squeaky egg! And it’s the squeaky egg that’s the focus of this piece, the preamble merely an explanation as to why I might have a squeaky egg in my garden.
For months now, the squeaky egg has been living outside under the table, at the back by the wall, neglected and somewhat sadly discarded and discoloured. Now, I noticed last week that the squeaky egg had been displaced and, since then, every morning when I open the backdoor and step outside, the squeaky egg has been somewhere else! Friday it was next to the back door, Saturday it was nestled outside the shed, Sunday it was by the laundry area, and this morning, it was in the middle of the garden.
Now, obviously my squeaky egg can’t move itself. I accept that being quite light, it could perhaps be blown down the garden in strong winds but, although I’m no scientist, I’d vouch for the fact that it can’t travel in the opposite direction to the wind!
This leaves me with the evident conclusion that, in light of the Euros (though I have very little interest in football myself), my garden is hosting a nightly hedgehog five-a-side, or maybe even 22 spiky Raheem Sterlings racing around my garden under the cover of darkness. I’m optimistic and so would like to consider the possibility of two full–size teams playing (though, five-a-side, I accept, is perfectly respectable).
I’ve always had hedgehogs in this garden so, of course, they’re the most likely suspects. In truth, I can’t see rats or cats having any interest in football, let alone the Euros. So I think I can say with some certainty that it’s the hedgehogs, especially as their food is leaving the feeding station at a rate of knots, probably keeping energy levels up at half-time.
As I said, I generally have very little interest in football, but I find the anticipation as to where the squeaky egg will be each morning almost unbearable. And as I help Arthur downstairs for breakfast each day, I give him a running commentary on where I think it will be.
Yesterday, when I told my neighbour about my hedgehog theory, she asked quizzically, “Squeaky egg?” My response was obvious: “Yeah…doesn’t every house have a squeaky egg in their garden?”
Are you feeling creative? We are proud to have a hugely talented community on Rest Less, which is why we’re so excited to open up a section of the site dedicated to showcasing the wonderful and diverse writing of our members. If you have a piece of creative writing that you’d like to share with the Rest Less community – you can do so here.