Monthly Archives: May 2016

The Naughty Lady of Shady Lane

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Daisy sniffed the morning air. It smelled good – but she was scared. Her owner Tom Wilson had occasionally observed that Daisy Belle was afraid of nothing. But what did he know? She was SCARED right now, for sure. She had been out all night for the third time and she wanted to find her way back to Wilson.

Daisy looked around. She was in some sort of building, with stone walls on three sides, one incorporating a heavy door; the fourth side, by which she had entered, was open. Through it, she could see the rain falling outside, splashing on some strange grey stones – some upright, others leaning. There was a flagstone floor and a slightly musty smell, but it was dry. She thought it might be just part of a much larger building. DB was scared, but also exhausted; she stopped thinking, and fell asleep again.

Meanwhile, Wilson was still looking for her. She’d only been with the family a fortnight and he’d lost her already. They lived in Shady Lane, Moscombe, and they’d been walking at Glebe Farm when she’d run off. She had come via the rescue society, as her first owner had needed to move into sheltered housing and couldn’t take Daisy there. Daisy had loved her old home and her first owner, and so far she thought she loved the Wilsons too, until this crisis had come along. He’d let her run loose, off the lead, and she’d chased a rabbit and quickly disappeared. He wanted her back, so he could call her his Naughty Lady again. He’d received plenty of earache from Mrs Wilson and he knew he had to find Daisy – the alternative was unthinkable.

She wished he’d been there to cuddle up to when that badger had rushed at her with flailing claws and sharp teeth. It was only her natural ability to leap up quickly from a prone position that had enabled her to escape. Had she known, Wilson had been no more than fifty yards away and had seen the badger amble off in search of easier prey, along the line of poplars standing upright like soldiers. But Tom didn’t know DB was there and likewise, she was unaware of him.

On the second night she had encountered a fox, but it hadn’t tried to catch her like the badger had. Perhaps she was just a bit too big, but the incident had frightened her just the same. And then there were those two little plump deer, she had seen them before at Moscombe, what was it Wilson called them – chipmunks….? No, muntjacs, that was it. Anyway, it didn’t matter what they were called, and to be fair they hadn’t done more than sniff inquisitively in her direction. If she had been secure on the end of her flexi-lead, with Tom holding the other end, she’d have run them off – badger, fox, deer and all-comers, with some loud barking. But she hadn’t got him now, so she kept quiet.

She had wondered, the first night, if letting her run free and get lost was some kind of punishment for those times when she’d stolen things around the house to take away and chew. But she didn’t think so; and she knew that Jack, the family’s other dog, would have said not. Jack had had to find a new home too, for the second time in his life, and he knew a lot of things. He said the Wilsons were pretty easy-going. Jack had once had an owner who took four-week holidays in France and left Jack in boarding kennels. He’d told Daisy, in no uncertain terms, that kennels were a no-no; and that the best thing about the Wilsons was that they took their dogs on holiday with them.

Tom was looking for her in the wrong place. He’d stayed out each night since she’d gone, and apart from a brief return home to grab a snack, had spent each day wandering around the fields of Glebe Farm. His reasoning, that she could still be in the immediate area, was understandable but flawed. Daisy had actually put a few miles between them, running along the river meadows and skirting the cricket field, then crossing and re-crossing it in a scissors movement before going over the hill into the nearby village of Ashton. There, she had caught a geriatric field mouse in the churchyard and eaten it, but it didn’t taste as good as the dog food that she got every night at home – or the cold chicken which they often added to her dinner. She was hungry, but at least she could get a drink from the morning dew on the long grass. She had spent the third night in Ashton, and had been glad to snatch a few hours’ sleep in the church porch. Lying against the grey stone wall the little white dog, her curly coat now very dirty, was almost invisible.

So much so that Mrs Wilson’s friend Sally, who lived in the village and had gone to the church to do the week’s flowers, almost missed her. But just then a pheasant crowed and Daisy reacted automatically with a little bark, which alerted Sally. She carefully approached the dog, very slowly so as not to spook her. Daisy was certainly scared, and she didn’t know this lady, but she liked humans and this was the first one she’d seen for three days. She allowed Sally to hold her and check her collar tag, and Sally, disbelieving at first, read a phone number that she knew well. Struggling to get her mobile out of her bag without letting go of the dog, she made a call. Daisy, with the acute hearing that all young dogs possess, heard a familiar voice on Sally’s phone; at first anxious, then relieved, and finally delighted.

There was nothing to be scared of any more. The Naughty Lady was going home.

An overheard remark.

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An overheard remark.
It’s strange how an overheard remark can sometimes set memories in motion that you thought were done and dusted a long time ago.
Such a remark permeated my tired brain during the train journey home from a particularly long day at the office.
I must have been in that semi conscious state between awake and asleep that a warm carriage combined with the gentle hum of the train over the tracks often induces.
In the seats opposite me across the aisle were a couple of well dressed elderly ladies, who had, judging by the names on the bags, been on an expensive money no object shopping spree.
Although I wasn’t intentionally listening it became obvious from the odd snippet I overheard, that they had been involved in some altercation with a shop assistant in one of the large well known high street stores.
“I fully intend to write to the management and tell them how badly we were treated” said one lady in that tone of voice that suggested she was used to being treated with some deference.
“I have no idea what the world is coming to” said her companion, lifting her face skyward in that way that suggested she was somehow offended “they should bring back the good old days”.
That last remark about the so called ‘good old days’ was the one that hit home and started my train of thought.
Although my travelling companions were total strangers to me I had a sudden urge to get up and cross over to where they were sitting and tell them some home truths about what life was like in the so called ‘good old days’.
I wanted to tell them how difficult life had been for me, coming as I did from a large not to well off family.
To tell them how we lived from hand to mouth, week in week out, and our idea of new clothes meant hand me downs that an older sibling had no more use for.
I wanted to tell them about the simple treats we were often promised but never received, as any spare money was handed over the bar at the local pub, or over the counter at the bookies by the so called breadwinner, which more often than not bode non to well for the rest of us if things had gone badly at either venue.
I very much doubted they had ever trudged to school come rain or shine in leaky shoes, and on a good day carry a packed lunch that consisted of a couple of thinly spread jam sandwiches instead of the usual bread and margarine.
By now the two well to do ladies opposite had gone from my mind, as I was now consumed with memories from what I thought was a long forgotten past, and as I watched the countryside roll by my thoughts gradually turned to the life I had made for myself despite my shaky start.
I had a well paid job, a nice house, and a devoted wife and children to go home to ,but somehow the overheard remark had started to take on a new meaning.
Though the so called ’good old days’ for me had meant a rough upbringing, it had also given me the strength to stand on my own two feet and look life in the face, and above all never take anything for granted and give thanks for what you had.
I gave my wife and children an extra long hug when I arrived home that evening.

Letting go

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In  life, there are aspects of that very life that internally we treasure and cherish deeply, there are memories we value and that make us happy and perhaps also sad in the same instant of recall – these are precious moments of reflection that warm and comfort us, give us strength and not least validate our existence when, with pride, we think of and look at family, friends and loved ones.

There are also aspects of  life that we recollect with anger, pain, confusion, fear and even self loathing – these are our demons that,  although we deny and suppress them, still rear up and visit our consciousness from time to time  or for the tragically unfortunate have never left.
When they call they can paralyse, obsess, weaken and threaten to destroy us if we allow it or cannot control it or more often we cannot forgive let alone forget.
I think it’s safe to say that most of us know or know of someone that we may consider embittered, angry at life or angry at the world or more commonly resolutely cynical.
Indeed that someone we know or know of may even be part or whole of our very self.

Any person that has lived a life has very possibly met, directly or indirectly, tragedy, misfortune, prejudice, oppression and violence and as a result has suffered emotional and spiritual damage.
So how is that damage limited, repaired or, at least, mitigated ? – that’s achieved by shedding the burden of railing against fate, by abandoning clinging to the wreckage and swimming on ….by simply letting go of what is weighing and dragging you down.
Yes, it’s easy for me to say, it may sound clinical and without due allowance for human frailty but in the final analysis it’s how we cope.