I Miss my Dog Every Day

It's early evening and I am enjoying my nightly sharpener.

It’s been 2 months now and I still feel so sad. I still cry every day. I will just burst into tears quite suddenly and just as suddenly the tears will subside. This morning I was chatting to Jerry the electrician who is a friend of Boyfriend-on-a-Short-Fuse about books and this and that. He is very nice, and has had his fair share of troubles. Then he says, and `how are you doing since you lost…’ and because I’d been thinking about something else it swung me back into my loss and I just burst into tears. I think he was rather taken aback. But since I lost my Nutty I am emotionally incontinent and my dams are not in place, Whoosh… and there is a great emotional surge.

I know I have always been quite melancholic but it’s never been quite like this.

I’ve been reading Natasha McElhone’s excellent memoir After You, which she wrote after her beloved husband died quite suddenly in his early 40’s while she was pregnant with their third son. It is simply heart-rending and a true representation of raw grief.

I cannot put my grief into context with hers but it resonated, just the same.

I was reading reviews of her book on Amazon. One of them as beautifully written as the book itself.

I lost my husband in February of this year. Like Natasha, it came out of the blue - my husband was young, fit and apparently healthy. I've read several books that deal with grief as a project, but none come close to explaining the panic, the maelstrom of bewilderment, abandonment and chaos that has whipped around my head ever since; and none have thus far made me think - yes, that's what I'm feeling, that's what it's like.

Ms McElhone's book was featured in a Sunday paper last week, and after reading excerpts, I immediately ordered it. When it arrived, I read it in one greedy go. It's a short book, made up of diary entries and letters she wrote to her husband, who died while she was away filming, and while pregnant with their third son.

The first thing that struck me was the style of writing. Ms McElhone's prose is beautiful at times, but it's shot through with anger, panic and frustration. It's jerky in style, seemingly bouncing from one thing to another. At times it numbly describes the practicalities of death - choosing a coffin, where and how to do the funeral - at others, the words howl at you, and you can almost taste her loneliness, her forlornness and her horror when the realisation of her situation hits her with juggernaut force, again and again. I found myself nodding along at times - she describes in one entry trying to get a phone company to switch the account from her husband's name to hers, and you can feel the heaviness in her heart when she tells them, no, he can't come to the phone as he has died, and the grim acceptance of their half-hearted condolences. I have made those calls, heard those words and my heart broke for her.

Another thing that the book highlights perfectly is the juxtaposition between a widow's grief, which is a private, intimate emotion, and the very public way in which one must present it. Ms. McElhone describes having to 'fit in' private grieving time between work and child-rearing, taking a half hour here and there to cry or to remember her husband. I almost shouted when I read this; my own grieving M.O. taking the form of only allowing myself to properly cry when I'm driving alone, so that I don't have to be seen, and I don't have to explain it to anyone or excuse or justify it in any way. A little thing perhaps, but something that distresses me. I was pleased that someone else understood it too.

Natasha describes in stark detail the reality of being widowed. She doesn't sugar-coat it, she doesn't dress it up with clichés, and she doesn't fall into the easy path of mawkish, sentimental memorial. I think that perhaps a person who has never been bereaved might find the book a bit full on - she really lets the reader into her marriage and her grief - but anyone who has lost someone will recognise every tear-stained word. It's a wonderful book, and a very lovely tribute to her husband. Natasha, if you're reading - thank you for putting into words what I never could.

Truly, you inhabit a completely different world from other people once you have been bereaved. I had no idea unti I went through my own earthquake.

But I am getting through the day, working through my endless `to do’ list and getting somewhere. I am pitching articles, no response as yet, but experience has taught me that it’s a numbers game and not to take rejection too personally.

My big plan now is to go to Greece (Boyfriend-on-a-Short-Fuse not keen but can be persuaded) and help out at the Halkida dog rescue, an hour from Athens. The animal situation in Greece is almost beyond hope, I had no idea it was so bad, the people there just seem to be so cruel. This place is, so I’m told, like the Wild West. Run by a few strange women who don’t have a clue about dog welfare. The British lady who used to go there regularly can’t face it anymore and said I should just go and do whatever I can. She says bringing dogs back to the UK is much easier than it used to be so I'd like to be involved in that.

I’ve been looking at houses in Shere in Surrey. Near where I grew up and near a few friends so a good place to be. I’ve seen a largish house with a bit of land and plan to foster the dogs there. Presently many Greek rescue charities can’t find homes for their dogs and have to keep them in expensive kennels. once they are in the UK. 

Well, I feel quite miserable here at the moment so I may as well be miserable in Athens and doing some good.

Julia.stephenson@live.co.uk
 

Life Goes On, Sort Of....

And so it is nearly 3 weeks since we lost our beloved Nutty and I am still crying every day. He has left such a big hole in my life that I often feel despair that nothing will ever fill it.

As the days go by, there are short moments when I am not aware of my grief, when I'm running to the post office or jumping on a bus, but my sadness is always with me, like a big black blanket, draped over my chest. While I do enjoy being by myself, it's when I'm alone that I feel saddest. And yet there is nothing anyone can say or do that makes anything better. It's like all the colour has drained from my life and it's hard to feel very happy about anything.

I cried in bed last night, just thinking about the lovely boy. Oh how we miss him. I cried because I miss him so much and I cried because crying is a connection with his memory. And I cried some more because when I am no longer crying about him I think a connection with him will be lost. Mad I know, I know that I am connected to him whether I am happy or sad.

S is very sad too but he deals with it better. He is more practical and matter of fact. Logically I know that none of us can live forever, it's just that I feel I could have coped better with losing anyone else but Nutty. It is quite simply the worst thing that has ever happened to me. I can't believe I have got to 50 before I was truly bereaved. If anyone else in my family had died it would have upset me less.

I have a lot of people I like a lot, but very few people I love. Maybe just S, perhaps Teflon-dad and eco-brother. If I had children I would experience that unconditional love, but now Nutty is gone, I don't unconditionally love anyone.

I read constantly about grief and am fascinated about how people deal with it. Really there is a great well of despair out there and the world can be divided into those that have lost and those who have not. sometimes people will say, `oh my grandparents have died so I have been bereaved', but most of the time, there are exceptions I know, losing an elderly relative is sad, but usually comes with a degree of acceptance.

Reading back the entry I wrote just after Nutty died, I can't believe that I wrote I felt a degree of relief that he was out of pain. That was very selfless of me, but to be honest, I don't feel remotely relieved. Of course he couldn't have gone on the way he was, but his decline had been so sudden, I just wish we hadn't taken him with us to Yorkshire (the car journey weakened him). But I must accept it was his time. The vet said that he would have died some time as the cancer had weakened him so.

President Ikeda writes;

The impermanence of life is inescapable. In Buddhism, this is a fundamental premise about the nature of existence. Why should death come as a shock? From the standpoint of life's eternity, it could be said that birth and death are occurrences of minuscule significance. That is all well and good in theory, but the human heart cannot fully come to terms with such events through theory alone.

 

It's so true. I understand the theory with my mind but not with my heart. Yet, I mustn't be maudlin. The pain will fade and happiness will come. I will make something good come from this sadness.

Farewell...

Well, our dearest most darling dog has died. We had to help him on his way as despite his body pretty much shutting down his little heart was still pumping away. Richard, the homeopathic vet, had given us a remedy, Arsen Alb, which speeds up the dying process, it works 50% of the time but not for Nutty. But it did slow things down for him, I think. He was lying beside my bed all night and he woke me up about 3 times with other-worldly groans. He didn’t seem to be in pain but the sound was the sound of dying, a groaning whimpering, like he was neither dead nor really alive, but moving to a new place.

 In a way perhaps it is better he had the injection. If he had died naturally I would not have believed he was really dead and probably had to go to the vet to confirm.

Now he has gone, I feel utterly numb. My chest is full of tears, my solar plexus feels like there is a stone lodged in it and I am deeply sad. But also quite philosophical and relieved that the worst is over. Nutty is released from his old, sick body and can be reborn into a young and healthy dog, or more likely in his case, as he was such an extraordinary spiritual and compassionate creature, another human being.

The late Bill Weston, a very wise Buddhist friend, used to say that animals that had become so close to their human companions would be reborn as humans. Knowing the sort of dog Nutty was, and how evolved he was, that is easy to believe. I never saw him show a negative emotion. Even when the Tinies moved in he was relaxed and happy to have them around. He was never upset when they stole his food (he was a very considered, slow eater), never jealous that he now had to share us with them. He was just pure love, love, love.

He was the centre of my life for the last 4 years and I miss him, miss him, miss him.

I have been googling up Buddhist guidance about losing pets and there is a lot of helpful stuff. Buddhists believe that all people have been our parents at some time and many Buddhist schools go on to say that all living beings have been our parents. While I have no problem believing that all other humans may have been my parent at some stage, it is a leap of faith to believe all animals have been our parents. You might say, but more and more people are being born than in any other time in the world’s history, how can we all have a connection? The answer to that is that they come from other planets, other solar systems. Not so far-fetched when you consider even scientists are now recognising the existence of other planets apart from our own small one.

After talking to Magdosha the homeopath yesterday, she reassured me that he will be reborn and that I can determine to meet him again. This may seem wishful thinking, but I’ve never had any trouble believing in reincarnation for humans, so if you believe in reincarnation for us, it is a very small leap to believe in reincarnation for other species.

So I don’t necessarily believe that, say some poor battery chicken has been my mother, but I do believe that chicken will die and be reborn into the world again, in some shape or form. And as for a dog like Nutty, with such close connection and influence on his humans, well I do find it easy to believe that he will be reborn in favourable circumstances.

That dog taught me so much about compassion. I know understand why parents of severely disabled children mourn their early death so desperately, for I love a dumb animal who cannot talk or communicate in a `human’ way and yet the love and soul communication is perhaps deeper than with those I can speak to in my own human language. But there is a language of the heart and some animals can speak that fluently.  

Unsurprisingly the day didn’t start off very well. I’d had a bad night, what with the Tinies on the bed, Nutty’s throes of death and my dear pal wandering around upstairs at 5am.

So at 8.30am, when I finally dragged myself out of bed, I felt Nutty and his beating heart… incredible….. how awful that the one thing I have been dreading for 4 years (that he stop breathing) was the thing I now hoped for. I had no choice. I am strong willed, but even I cannot fight the cycle of death, however much I might desperately want to.

I came in to see him and to our amazement, he was sitting up, licking his skinny, blood-stained paws. But he didn’t appear to recognise me, although yesterday I did elicit, oh joy! a small tail wag when I stroked him.

Before his decline (which has only been this last week), he was always so happy to see me in the morning. That was `our’ time when he would wake up and make his way to my bed and wander round looking for loves and strokes. He was never a cuddly dog. He didn’t enjoy being on the sofa, rug or a bed, although he would often enjoy a big scratch of the bedcovers if we lifted him up for a bit.

He was always happiest on the wooden floor. I could see that many times he would almost endure my cuddles through gritted teeth, like a son being cuddled by his attentive mother and longing for it to end! But I always loved stroking my boy’s beautiful tawny fur and kissing his little snout, even though he would often close his eyes in distaste, `oh please hurry up Mummy!’.

And yet, wherever I was in the flat, he would always wander around until he found me. He would climb upstairs, downstairs, clip clop, clip clop, `oh where is my mummy?’  

Steve always accepted ruefully that I was the most loved, that given the choice, Nutty would always follow me. I had a little game where I would walk round and round the sofa and Nutty would just keep following me in circles. Steve would reach out and stroke him, but Nutty would ignore him, so focused was he on following me.

So I rang the vet in Elizabeth Street and she only had an 11am slot  and didn’t have time to make a home visit, which we would so much have preferred. I was aware, making the appointment with the receptionist that this was the very last time I would refer to Nutty in the present tense...I kept quite calm, I didn't cry. After 6 months of crying on tap, now the very worst thing is happening I went into auto-pilot. I've realised that when the very worst things are happening to us, something in the human phyche kicks in to get us through. It's only later that the numbness fades and is replaced by raw, excruciating pain.

So, come the time, Steve took Nutty downstairs and we carried him to the car. I sat in the back on the floor so I could kiss and stroke him and tell him how much I loved him.

But he hates the car so we were sad to put him through it for his final day, and unfortunately the traffic was heavy, which just made it all harder.

I had to carry him into the vet because Steve needed to park up. I thought I would carry him, just to have the final cuddle and contact. But that wasn’t so good because in my distress I couldn’t remember which part of Elizabeth street the horrible vets' was.

With hysteria welling up in my chest I had to place Nutty gently onto the raised step outside a house while I called the vet in a panic. They gave me directions, it was only a few houses down, and I picked Nutty up carefully and carried him gently inside.

The unpleasant receptionist (God we hate this place), said `oh the vet is still doing paper work, you can’t go straight in’, even though when I called I had said, `is the vet free because I will wait outside until she is', (I didn’t want the invasion of privacy you get in these places with everyone staring at you), and she said yes she was free. But although she tried to make me stop and dump Nutty on the floor or whatever, I insisted that I put Nutty down on his final resting place, rather than be carried from pillar to post.

Anyway, the vet was professionally sympathetic, not like Richard of course, but she was the best we could do at short notice, and I really didn’t want to keep the beloved going any longer as he was really shutting down and could have started to suffer. He hadn’t eaten for 5 days or peed for a day and I could smell urine on his breath, like it had been going round and round his body with nowhere to get out. Richard had explained that toxins would be building up in his body and it would be unfair to keep him alive another day.

Unbelievably, this vet then explained we needed to sign a consent form, fair enough, but astonishingly, given that I had phoned up that morning explaining the situation and that our dog needed to be put down, she then disappeared for 5 MINUTES to get `the paperwork’, (this vet seems obsessed by paperwork), why hadn’t she pulled out her wretched form, which only consisted of a few lines anyway.

The vet nurse stood impassively by, saying nothing, and the vet then shaved Nutty’s leg, quite gently, thank goodness, and quickly put the needle in. Nutty didn’t flinch, by now he was so far gone he was not very aware of very much. S and I were steady and emotionalness. We had been preparing for this moment for months and had cried and railed, but we were strangely calm. Later S said he had been chanting to himself, I had just been numbly focused on the moment, blank really.

Then, literally, within seconds he was dead. The vet gave us a pep talk, in special compassionate tones about what we wanted to do with the body etc. We took Nutty’s floppy little soft body in our arms, I paid the bill to the hatchet-faced receptionist who did not even offer a crumb of comfort, so cold-blooded was she, `thank you for your kindness’ I said sarcastically, but she was so inhuman she didn’t blink.

I went to the car, S had put Nutty in the boot, but I took him out of the boot and put him in the back with me. We drove to Guildford in silence mostly, talking a bit about Nutty and the good times, my hand on his tawny back for the last time.

My great regret was that the ending might not have been as tranquil for him as he deserved. Thanks to the beastly car, traffic, S’s bad temper, and then my grief and getting lost (only for a short time), it’s not what I wanted. And yet WE DID OUR BEST, in our horrible imperfect human way.

But things got much better. S calmed down a bit as we drove. The sun had gone in and the Surrey countryside was shrouded in gloomy grey cloud. We pulled into Longdown road, for the first time in a year, since we sold the house where I grew up. We slipped into our field opposite, that my Mother left us, which was overgrown, wild and rather beautiful.

We put Nutty in his pram for the last time and wheeled him down the gravelly drive and into the field. It was hard to push his pram though the thigh-high grasses, poppy and wild flowers and we struggled to the corner of the field.

The ground here was too hard to dig, so S found a spot nearer one of the fruit trees we planted in memory of mum in 2009, where the soil was a bit easier to dig. But it was hard going but thanks to S we dug a reasonable grave for the Beloved, wrapped him in his towel and placed him in the ground. We put the soil back over him and I placed a rough posy of wild flowers on top.

We did memorial gongyo and chanted a bit for him. I wrote a temporary note explaining to the nice gardening people who are tending the field that we had buried our beloved dog. I will organise a beautiful headstone, or wooden plaque like we had for mum’s grave in due course. And now we have a spot where we can pay our respects and remember and cherish him.

As we were leaving I asked S to go back and find out the name of the tree under which Nutty was buried (it seems unbelievable, Nutty! Buried!) Our vital boy is no more.

There was a gasp as S shouted, `It’s a Celestial Dogwood!’.

Talk about a wonderful and mystic coincidence.

For Nutty was truly, our Celestial Dog.

I looked up celestial and it means heavenly, holy, spiritual, godly, otherworldly, saintly…. All these words describe our beautiful boy to a t.

We drove back to London feeling a bit more philosophical. Ceremonies are comforting. We opened our front door to paroxisms of delight from the delighted Tinies who were so happy to see us. 

And so life must go on. They are life and Nutty is gone.

I pray that Nutty and I will meet again and that I will again have the privilege of loving another creature with all my heart, unconditionally. I hope other dogs will come into my life that I can help and who I can share this bond with. I need hope as the emptiness I feel now I have finally lost the creature I loved more than any other in the world is just too gut-wrenching to contemplate.

Yet in a way I feel relief that it is over. Living with a dying person is so exhausting, you long to help them, and yet there is only so much you can do. I nursed him to the best of my ability, until there was nothing else I could do.

I came home and threw away his little syringes. The blood stained rug that smells so strongly of him… S said oh wash it, it stinks, but I love the smell of it. Yes it smells of cancer, but I never minded his smell, because it was him.

And so we go to bed, calm, sad, broken-hearted, with some relief that Nutty is now free.

Goodnight my darling, I will miss you more than words can say.

Nutty is Barely Alive

Nutty is still hanging on. Unbelievably, his little heart is still pumping away while everything else in his dear little body is closing down.

I am heartbroken. I wonder if I will ever feel whole and happy again without my darling dearest friend, supporter and greatest fan to cheer me on.

Even as he is dying he is no trouble, hardly bleeding, not heaving or having fits. Just quietly lying down, his head at a strange angle to his body underneath my bed.

I went out to see the homeopath earlier and when I came in Nutty wasn’t in the sitting room where I left him. Boyfriend on a Short Fuse came down and ran around asking `where is Nutty!’

Like Lazarus he had risen from his deathbed and staggered into my bedroom where he collapsed and is still lying down.

So we are all in limbo. We went to see Richard the homeopathic vet, fully expecting him to do the deed. Only for him to say that he doesn’t do the injections (the injections! I call it, so light and easy sounding for something so enormous), but that he would give us some homeopathic remedy to hasten his passing. Which we have duly been giving him on the hour, but the little man’s heart remains as strong as ever.

Richard said it is better for dogs to die in their sleep as the injection is not as easy as it sounds, problems finding veins, etc. But, he added, if he was still alive in the morning it would be the kindest thing to take him to the vet. And so we are blessed with one more night with the beloved.

I don’t know if it is worse for it all to be dragging out. He is really lost to us now anyway, as Boyfriend on a Short Fuse said, a vegetable, although I know he knows me. He even wagged his tail once for me when I stroked him this morning (was it this morning or this afternoon, I can’t remember). He doesn’t seem to be in discomfort but obviously transition is difficult for man and beast.

Our homeopath is very enlightened and so perceptive. She is physic as I suspected, hence her very penetrating comments and questions. She is terrific and just gets to the crux of everything. I explained about BOASF and she asked why I stayed with him. Well, habit, love, because he is helpful, indispendsable in many ways. `Why don’t you just hire a handyman?’ she asked reasonably when I had said how wonderful it was that he had sent off for a very long hose on Amazon which will water the whole roof garden in minutes.

Today he crossed the line again. I forgot the leads and he rounded on me, heaping abuse, called me a beep, beep, beep (email me for details of unmentionable word) 3 times. Later he said he didn’t call me a beep, but said that I behaved like a beep. Well I don’t really see the difference. Yes he is impossible, and we don’t have respect for each other and desperately need a break. But I can’t go through this time alone and so I am grateful for that.

I is staying tonight. She is good company and a new friend. Very kind and intuitive. It is lovely to have the support of a fellow dog lover who has lost beloved companions. BOASF had gone back to his place. So quite a nice day if it wasn’t for all this.

The homeopath explained that grief comes in waves… it’s true, I am shocked that on the way back from not killing our dog at the vet, with Nutty in my arms I can be thinking about reading the electricity meter and what to cook for dinner. As if anything else matters a jot. And yet life goes on. At least Nutty is going before me. He would have hated it if I had left him. And so he is leaving me, utterly heartbroken. I hope and long to love again. I will miss the love.

Nutty Soldiers On

Despite his increasing weakness, Nutty is still alive, just.

Even though he can barely walk or stand his little heart beats as fervently as ever. It's a kind of miracle that despite his feebleness his life force is still ticking away. Just.

As usual I am unable to contain my emotion and tears spurt out randomly. I am walking down the street, congratulating myself on buying food and keeping the cupboards stocked and suddenly find myself capsized into grief.

Stumbling down the Kings Road my eyes are so full of tears I can't see the faces of the passers by. I get on the bus and I am isolated in my grief. I wonder if I am the only person on the bus whose heart is as heavy as lead, just about to lose the person they love more than anyone in the world and dreading the next day when they will never see that beloved face ever again.

Very soon, possibly tomorrow, I will never see his face or hold his little furry body again. It seems impossible.

The rest of the world whirrs away in it's busy happy bubble but those of us disabled by loss stagger through the day, putting one foot in front of the other and wondering if they will ever be happy again.

And yet there are glimmers of hope. I am going to organise a Grief Workshop, for want of a better title, a sort of get together of random friends and friends of friends who are bereaved, or who have been bereaved and lived to fight another day. We will discuss the worst times, how long it took before we started to feel better and strategies for getting through the worst times. Of course most of us will be Buddhists but hopefully there will be all sorts of people there.

I know there is a way out of the tunnel of darkness because I have witnessed friends endure the worst, worst of times and come through smiling.

Yesterday when Boyfriend on a Short Fuse was being particularly foul, I day-dreamed about taking the train up to Yorkshire with a handful of Ambien and Valium and making my way to the beautiful river I so enjoyed swimming in last weekend (the last weekend when Nutty was well). I would take the handful of pills and then wade out to the middle of the river, where it is very deep and the current fast and free-flowing, (so powerful that it was hard work for me, a strong swimmer to swim in). I'd never be able to fight it if I was drugged, and if I lay, face down and let it carry me off, that would probably be the end of it. That would be the cleanest end I think.

But that was yesterday. Today I feel much stronger. The girls came round this morning and we put together the booklet for our weekend course. Boyfriend on a Short Fuse was much kinder, oddly enough after I told him I was going to spend the summer in St Ives without him. He spend all afternoon unblocking the u bend in the bathroom. I was so grateful. Think he was a bit put out by that. I've had quite a bit of support which is buoying me up. I simply have to keep going so I can help others who are going through the same thing.

Tonight we trundled Nutty to the park in his pram and lay him down on the grass. He tottered about for a bit, but didn't manage to pee so I worry that his kidneys have given up. Boyfriend on a Short Fuse was crying, tears streaming down his face. I was so moved. I have never seen him cry. He remembered the happy times he had with Nutty at Longdown, the wonderful long walks they went on alone together, and how they discovered Guildford together.

Nutty has touched a very special place in both our hearts and we will never forget him.

The Final Days

Nutty, our beloved Sheltie is slowing down, his life-force draining out of him hour by hour.

The Tinies (aka, the tiny tots, our Bichon Frises) woke me up at 7am rather annoyingly, as I didn't go back to sleep and I didn't have to be compos mentis till 9.30am when Dina was coming up to chant with me.

Nutty slept all night under my bed. He likes the darkness and being in a small area where he can be undisturbed. His breathing is very shallow now. Part of me hopes he will just stop breathing and pass away peacefully and the other part dreads the final moment and the abyss of despair that lies beyond it. I can't bear the thought of taking him to the vet for his final injection and yet I know this may be the most humane option.

He has not eaten for 3 days now. I siphon broth and water into his mouth but he won't take anything solid. He sleeps spread out like a jelly on the floor as if his bones have disappeared. When he does get up he is shaky and uncoordinated, unable to get a grip on the wooden floors and his little blood-stained paws slip about as he tries to get a grip.

The grief is at times so intense I don't know how I will stand it. And then, just when the pain is at it's most intense, it subsides a little, giving me a bit of a breathing space.

When Dina came up I couldn't contain myself. The sympathy of other people just turns on the taps and all my misery gushes out. We chanted for quite a while and every so often I'd start thinking about Nutty, and how much I will miss him, and my chest would fill up with tears and I'd start heaving again. She was very sympathetic and really, the sympathy of friends is the only thing that helps. Of course they cannot really say anything new but just having a warm supportive body nearby makes such a difference.

Then she left and I felt so exhausted I wanted to go back to bed. But it was past 11am and I had to take the dogs out to the park. As Nutty is so comatose I forget that he still needs to pee and might enjoy the feel of grass under his paws and the sunshine on his tawny (albeit scrawny) back.

And so I clipped the leads on the Tinies and put Nutty in his blood-stained pram and off we trundled to the park. There we sat on the grass in the muggy sunshine, the Tinies chasing other dogs and Nutty collapsed, like a jelly, next to me.

I called Boyfriend on a Short Fuse, not sure why really as he is no good in a crisis and hates it when I am emotional. I suppose out of habit and wanting the comfort and familiarity. He was fine though, and came along to meet me in the park. He was grumbling on the way home about one of his recalcitrant offspring who had got some poor girl up the duff. We were chatting away quite pleasantly until we arrived at my flat. I lifted Nutty out of his pram and disassembled it before rather clumsily levering it into the flat and shoving it behind the front door, all the time keeping my eye on the Tinies and Nutty who was staggering around drunkenly on the pavement outside.

`DON'T DO IT LIKE THAT!' shouts Boyfriend on a Short Fuse, grabbing the pram from my hands. `GOD YOU ARE SO BLOODY USELESS. IT GOES IN WITH THE SMALL WHEELS FIRST, HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU!'

He flings the pram into his preferred position, with the wheels facing the correct way, before throwing Nutty inside the door (the Tinies have already crept in, they are terrified when he starts shouting), and storming off, smoke blowing out of his ears at the terrible irritations he must endure.

He never used to be this bad. Until a few years ago he was so much fun, a real cheeky chappy, he could charm the birds from the trees. These days, perhaps it is some midlife crisis, he is always moaning and criticising and has developed an unhealthy obsession with health and safety and following obscure rules to the letter.

After some thought I've realised this is what happens to most men past 50. They become sticklers for correctness, following obscure rules to the letter, eating particular food in a certain way, and woe betide the woman who has provided the middle-aged Fuhrer with a plate with a speck of dust on it or a glass with a whisper of dust. They like the TV blaring all night but become incensed if the radio is on quietly in another room. They will not countenance any kind of music being played anywhere. The sound of anyone using their laptop or cleaning their teeth inspires paroxisms of fury.

I thought it was just Boyfriend on a Short Fuse who was moody, irrational, interfering and permanently furious but there are tons of men like him out there.

I was in the park yesterday about to attend to one of the Tinies who had just dumped a tiny poo on the grass. I had a tissue in my hand and was just about to remove it and put it in the bin. A middle-aged man comes rushing up to me with enough plastic to turn the entire Pacific ocean into a plastic soup (whoops forgot, due to people like him the Pacific ocean is already a plastic soup). `YOU MUST USE A PLASTIC BAG, HERE I HAVE ONE!' he says bossily, pretending he is being helpful but I know he is just being controlling and bossy.

`It's OK', I reply politely, `I have a large tissue'. (I don't go into the whole thing about plastic being far more polluting than poo because he will never understand).

`OH NO, I MUST INSIST YOU USE A BAG', he bosses, primly handing me a slew of plastic, beaming like he is doing me a wonderful favour. How kind!

Of course I take the bloody bag because he is a middle-aged man who will expire with frustration if I refuse it.

The funny thing is that I used to be a big fan of men, I adored my father, grandfather and brother, but to be honest, I'd rather do without the interfering and being controlled. It's definitely an age thing, they are fine up to a certain point.

Calm and harmony was restored this afternoon when Joyce popped in for a coffee and stayed 4 hours for a good old natter. I burst into tears as soon as I saw her, (I am aware my emotional incontinence is irritating, especially to middle-aged you-know-whos), but once I'd got that out of the way felt so much better. Really if I was never involved with a man again but had the luxury of endless girlfriends on tap, within reasonable distance, I would be quite happy.

My pal, B just rang to offer her sympathy. He beloved dog was put down last year, so she understands completely. I explained that I loved Nutty more than anyone, certainly more than you-know-who, which was why it is all so heart-breaking. `I quite understand what you mean', she says, `I loved my dog far more than X (her bossy middle-aged husband). When he came back from work the evening after I'd put my dog down he said, `I don't know why you're so stressed, it's hardly like you had a stressful day'.
They had a furious row with her saying, `I loved that dog far more than I loved you!' And she's barely spoken to him since.

Nutty's Life is Slipping Away

It's with a heavy heart that I report that Nutty, our beloved Sheltie, has still not perked up.

He is sleeping most of the time, occasionally heaving himself up on his shaky old blood-stained paws to follow me about. Sometimes if I've left him downstairs sleeping, he will wake up and drag himself up the narrow wooden stairs to find me.

He has barely eaten anything in the last few days although I've tempted him with freshly cooked chicken and Lily's organic chicken and turkey sachets (which he normally loves). I've resorted to syphoning Daylesford's excellent Scotch Broth into his mouth which he seems to like well enough. At least that will give him some nourishment. His mouth tumour, (squamous cell carcinoma, to give it it's horrible title) is about the same. It's distressing how people turn in the street and stare with horror as he perambulates past in his pram, it does look very gory, it's true.

When we take him to the park he finds it hard to walk, he is so fragile, the smallest gust of wind will blow him over. Boyfriend on a Short Fuse is quietly devastated, he bottles it all up whereas I sob at the slightest opportunity. Friends say I am being `very brave' but I'm not, I have always been emotionally incontinent, although in recent years have embraced my family's stiff upper lip, but now I have returned to my old weepy form. Better out than in I suppose.

I felt calmer after chanting with some friends this afternoon. Dear Julie came by with 2 beautiful bunches of scented stocks. She is so thoughtful and it gave me such a lift.

Friends are very understanding. They know that grief is grief, whether it is for a dog or person. Losing Nutty is far, far worse than losing my mother or my grandparents, something I find quite surprising. But many people say they felt the same. Because love for your pet is unconditional and how many people do you love unconditionally? None in my case. I loved my father unconditionally up to the age of about 30 when he toppled off his pedestal, no great reason for that, just growing up I suppose.

So tonight my heart is heavy and my legs feel that they are full of lead. I am reassured that Nutty has had the most wonderful doggie life, most of them spent with his beloved sibling in the bucolic Surrey Hills, with acres of land to run free in and the last 4 years with us in London. Not so much land to run around in, but we made up for that by lavishing him with all the love in the world and the best food money could buy. Nothing is too good for my beloved Nutty but I must be brave and think about saying goodbye because he is worn out and tired and ready to go fairly soon.

Nutty is Fading and my Heart is Breaking

We spent the weekend in a woodland eco-lodge in the Yorkshire Dales with a new friend who runs a wonderful organic fruit and veg delivery company called Farmaround. I took my pal C along as she is so good with Boyfriend on a Short Fuse and manages his moods very well.

Nutty was in good spirits. I dreaded the long 5 hour car journey as he hates being in the car but it was worth it as he was full of beans on arrival, sniffing around the grass and lying in the sun on the deck.

But he has gone down hill since we returned to London. His tail is down and he seems low-spirited and down-hearted. He is eating well enough which is something, but he is fed-up. His tumour remains bulbous and bleeds heavily at intervals....we follow him around with a cloth or tissues mopping up red droplets, thank goodness for wooden floors.

Today I took him to the homeopathic vet to see if he thought Nutty was in pain. Perhaps pain medication might help? Richard was fairly certain that he wasn't suffering, maybe there was some discomfort for which he prescribed Hypericum, a homeopathic remedy for nerve pain plus some royal jelly, then he gave Nutty a shot of vitamin B12 to give him a boost (wish he'd given me a shot, I'm knackered).

Nutty and I took a cab home and stopped off in Hyde Park for a bit. Being in nature with grass under his little old paws always rejuvenates him, and he did seem to enjoy staggering about in the milky sunshine.

But it's evening now and he is still slow and his tail is low. What I would give to see him scratch on the rug, follow me round and round the sitting room and watch me in the kitchen as I'm pottering about.

Boyfriend on a Short Fuse took him out for his late evening walk and Nutty is now lying in the downstairs loo. He doesn't want to come up. I've just been down to see him and have a chat, told him how much I love him and how much happiness he has brought to us all.

What else can I do?

It will be a lonely old world without my greatest pal.

Nutty's tumour grows bigger

I haven't written for quite a while as my beloved Sheltie Nutty's mouth tumour (it's full horrible title is squamous cell carcinoma) shrank considerably and I was lulled into a sense of security about his long-term prognosis.

But I am sad to report that over the last few weeks the tumour started to grow again, though fortunately outside his mouth instead of inside, as it had previously done. At least he can still drink and he's enjoying his food and his walks. But the tumour is swollen and bulbous and he drips blood everywhere. I carry tissue around, stuffed in my bra, all the time to mop up after him. Yet the vets and my psychic insist he is not in pain. He doesn't seem to be suffering, so I will take their word for it as there is no point pumping him with pain killers unless he needs them.

Talking of medications, Boyfriend-on-a-Short-Fuse has been quite up and down of late. This morning he was in a terrible mood. Was it very dreadful of me to slip half a Valium into his porridge? It seemed to work a treat and today he has been calm and happy. But I wonder if it is illegal to foster drugs on people without their knowledge? The last time I was involved in this sort of terrible activity was 30 years ago in Verbier when some bad men in our skiing party slipped dope into a very dull girl's soup. It cheered her up no end. Do not try this at home, etc etc.

But back to my beloved Nutty. I'll never give up and I'm keeping up with all his treatments. C recommended he see her healer, who has really helped her, so I'm making an appointment as soon as he can tear himself away from his stall at the Mind Body and Spirit Exhibition. Why someone of his calibre wants to exhibit at that pulsating hell-hole of spiritual shoppers and desperadoes, I have no idea. I speak as a reformed spiritual shopper you understand.

We had a terrible moment in the park with Nutty today. I am trying to exercise a bit as the less exercise I do, the more weight I lose, I'm getting far too skinny. So I was doing a hand stand against a tree and as I kicked up I knocked Nutty's jaw. He was right behind me but I had not seen him. He cried out, a terrible whimpering, all the more terrible as he is so stoic and that is the first time I have ever heard him cry. I came down straightaway and to my horror, he was shying away, his mouth a mass of blood. His tumour had split open and a piece of it was hanging from his mouth....

Can anything be more terrible than hurting an innocent creature? Why didn't I look behind me? If only I could have gone back in time and checked. We all walked home feeling dreadful but Nutty, tough little soldier that he is, seemed to buck up. When we got home he polished off a plate of fresh chicken and seemed no worse for his ordeal.

10 hours later the wound now looks as it did before, a black and bloody mess, but it is not bleeding and he seems in good spirits. Click clacking around the flat on his little white fluffy paws as he follows me around.

And so we all soldier on. Please pray for my lovely old boy who has never had a bad thought in his life and is so kind to all dogs and people. Even when the Bichons gobble his food he is easy-going and equable. `C'est la vie', he seems to say as he staggers away and leaves them to it.

A Long Lost Aunt Invites Me to the Savoy For a Drink

It was quite a surprise to get a call from Teflon Dad yesterday, to tell me that he is staying at the Savoy with my stepmother and his sister Pam, who is on a flying visit from Vancouver. Would I, together with Eco Brother like to join them for a drink at the American Bar at 5pm sharp?

Well of course!

I know very little about aunt Pam, or New Aunt, as I shall call her from now on, as my father, being historically Teflon coated has never been very keen on his sisters (he has loads and they are all quite mad). Over the years I have pieced together various bits of information to get a vague picture of them all. He has always been slightly keener on New Aunt than any of the others and as my stepmother has forged a close friendship with her, they have become quite close.

Eco Brother and I both convene in the lobby, agreeing that we usually prefer to avoid the West End on a Saturday evening. I would have added, `it's a bit too tunnel and bridges for me', but Eco Brother is an anarchist and might find that a bit too snobbish. But somewhere in his water I know he agrees with me.

It is certainly very hectic in the American bar, it's packed with all sorts, mainly tourists I imagine. Who else could face paying 30 quid for a glass of fizz? There is a choice of 27 champagnes served by the glass but mindful of Teflon Dad's horrendous bill I went for the house fizz, Louis Roederer.

New Aunt was a delight. She was celebrating her 70th birthday and like Teflon Dad looks very good for her age and is blessed with good, unlined skin. She was very easy to chat to and I could see was excited to meet her new niece and nephew for the first time. It's always so lovely to discover an amenable new rello, especially as you get older.

I was eagerly looking for familial similarities and she and Teflon Dad did look quite similar. They both had large square heads, steely blue eyes and strong jaws. Teflon Dad is as strong as an ox and New Aunt had the same robust quality. But they are essentially good eggs, decent and kind people.

My family are quite puritanical (they are Roundheads not Cavaliers) so I was disappointed they did not choose something from the famous cocktail list, which looked incredibly tempting. Eco Brother (definitely a Digger, to continue with the Civil War analogies) said he had a glass of wine the night before so didn't think he should have anothe one quite so soon afterwards so instead opted for a cup of tea, as did New Aunt. Teflon Dad had several G and T's (with Bombay Gin) and Stepmother had several glasses of white wine.

We all had a very jolly time indeed, despite fierce rows about Lady Thatcher (Eco Brother typically anti, Teflon Dad and me pro and New Aunt and Stepmother pretty keen too). What did poor Eco Brother do to be born into such a family of right wing capitalists?

As we were leaving the bar, Eco Brother gets into conversation with the waiter about the olives on the table. `Will you be able to give them to another customer or will they be thrown away?' The waiter predictably says they will be thrown away, at which Eco Brother and I shudder with the horror of Food Waste. I hastily pack up the biscuits that came with the tea and he pulls out an old plastic bag from his grubby rucksack and politely but firmly suggests that the waiter to tip the olives into it. The waiter looks quite aghast, but there is nothing he can really do. Eco Brother, for all his anarchist ways, is it must be remembered, son of Teflon Dad and a long line of Alpha people who are used to getting their way.

Afterwards, Eco Brother zoomed back to Notting Hill on his bike with his olives, and I went upstairs to check out the family's luxurious suite. Oh what heaven. I stayed at the Savoy years ago when it was rather moth-eaten, but the rooms are so much more comfortable now. Huge beds, elegant parquet flooring and a stunning view over the misty grey river and the London Eye. Truly I was a pig in clover.

We stayed up, chatting away till about 9pm before I called it a day. The emphasis is more on alcohol than food in my family so I was pretty starved. Poor stepmother has no appetite because of this wretched cancer. The morphine keeps her going and relieves the pain but she is so weak and hugging her goodbye was like hugging a bag of bones. Her mind is razor sharp and if you didn't know, you might well think there was nothing wrong at all.

But poor Teflon Dad is quietly devastated. But what can you do? What can you say? We talked about how she was feeling, how good the Macmillan nurses are... I'm glad we can discuss her cancer quite openly. It would be worse to push it under the table.

Life is so fleeting and so much time is spent worrying about stuff that in the long run is of no importance. She has loved my father for 35 years but they have only been married 3 years, when he finally realised how much he cared for her. Until then he had been busy at work and taking her for granted and playing the field.

It's ironic that it is only when he finally realises how much he loves her that he must face up to losing her.

A Mini-Break In Deepest Darkest Norfolk

We are currently in deepest north Norfolk, renting a lovely cottage in Cley on Sea. I usually go for ultra modern houses, (in my dreams I would inhabit a bright white cube with nothing in it but  a bed and a table for my laptop, my only other essential, a kettle, would be hidden in a secret cupboard).

So this 17th century cottage is a departure from the norm as it has quite small rooms and low ceilings, but it has been sympathetically modernised, as they say, and is painted in a daring Farrow and Ball palette.

I once painted my flat red on the advice of my feng shui consultant and occasional boyfriend, in an attempt to boost my career and everything else. It may have worked, I certainly had more commissions and was busier, but I am not a red person at all. I like misty blues and white and that's about it. This cottage has dark grey floorboards and daring mauve and dark brown walls, which sounds absolutely dreadful but is actually rather chic. It also has an updated 50's kitchen with marmoleum lino flooring which is an exact replica of kitchen flooring from the Festival of Britain.

Why do these sort of details lodge themselves in my holey brain when so much else of real value is forgotten?

Of course the dogs absolutely love being in the country (this is real country unlike Guildford, which as a surburban gel is my usual idea of country). As soon as they leapt out of the car they were rolling around the garden. I feel bad for keeping them cooped up in London. Yes they are walked by long-suffering Boyfriend on a Short Fuse 3 times a day, but it's not the same as being able to go outside through an open door from the kitchen at any time.

It is so peaceful. No traffic noise, no planes, no shouty people (apart from Boyfriend on a Short Fuse of course). Our little garden is quite secluded and overlooks a church. It is so serene.

Nutty goes from strength to strength. His tumour continues to shrink and he is able to eat and drink by himself. Truly it is a miracle.

Boyfriend on a Short Fuse absolutely loves it here too. He is researching PrimeLocation, as I write for cottages in the area. But I don't know.... though I love it here he is not at his best away from home as the change of scene can stress him out. He veers between being calm and relaxed to being irrascible and shouty.
He has enough Valium for a few more days, but what will he do when it runs out? His doctor refuses to give him anymore so I shall just have to resort to Dodgy Davey from EasyMedz on the Internet.

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This is an excerpt from my new book, Letting Go of the Glitz, one woman's struggle to live the simple life in Chelsea, just out in paperback and available from Amazon and about 3 bookshops.

Cancer Is Not a Death Sentence

Just back from Kilburn and 2 hours with the excellent Dr Han, the inscrutable Chinese accupuncturist. Her speciality is to spear your head with small needles which are wired together and attached to an electrical machine to give you tiny electric shocks. It's meant to help with `nerves' and I will let you know if it works tomorrow. I am not feeling very nervy as such but very wired, like my brain could run a marathon. Not a good thing late at night when you are trying to get to sleep.

Nutty is still progressing well. I bought a good chicken for him in Kilburn from a local butcher. I made sure it was British, went to a good school and was not the dreaded halal, these days you just never know. Though who knows if the butcher was telling me what I wanted to hear.... if I had been wearing a headscarf would his reply have been different?)

I was very interested to listen to the latest update from Dr Dressler, the dog cancer expert. He was discussing grief and how when we first have a cancer diagnosis for our dog we immediately think `that's it' and prepare for imminent death. He says;

`You know, it’s interesting when you look at the grieving process: there’s a different form of grief. And there’s interesting form of grief that happens before the event even is experienced. That means that we are anticipating something bad coming up and we start to become sad about it. And this form of grief can be completely overwhelming and incapacitating and many, many times when a guardian receives a dog cancer diagnosis from a Veterinarian, they will start to experience anticipatory grief before anything bad has really happened or anything that’s really significant in terms of the well-being of the dog. So it’s important to realize that in many, many cases we are experiencing grief for something that hasn’t even happened yet. We have abundant time and many cases were we can do so much good, where we can take proactive steps, where we can improve our life quality, where we can get increases in life span, and increases in life quality of our special family member and we don’t yet have to be experiencing the grief that accompanies with the departure of a pet.'

This was exactly my experience. I went into complete meltdown for weeks after Nutty's diagnosis and was a hysterical mess. I cried so much I have no tears left. Raw grief is an emotion I'd never felt before but in a way I'm grateful I've experienced it. It has made me more understanding of what most of us will go through but I hope I never have to go to that dark place again.

Nutty's Tumour Is Getting Smaller!

I hardly dare think, say or write this, but Boyfriend on a Short Fuse and I have both noticed that Nutty's tumour has shrunk by half.

Am I hallucinating?

But it really is smaller! It isn't bleeding any more and the horrible pus/mucus surrounding it has disappeared. He has a great appetite, eats as much poached chicken as I can feed him and has just polished off some lightly-cooked Alaskan salmon.

I am a great believer in miracles, in `making the impossible possible' (as our latest Buddhist campaign puts it), and now, it seems, I have proof of this.

After all, the word miracle wouldn't exist if humanity hadn't witnessed a few of them.

But I am determined not to get too effusive and Pollyanna-like about it all. As always, I take it day by day.

When Nutty was looking bad last week I was so desperate I prayed to Archangel Ariel (the archangel who heals and protects animals). The next day I noticed an improvement.

So the whole household now has a spring in it's step.

It's been a good day on all fronts. I finished editing an article for the Sunday Telegraph magazine, Stella, which should be out in a few weeks.
Then I bought a perfect dress that I'd been slathering over when it was in a shop window round the corner. Most unusually, I put it on and it fitted like a glove. It is a knee length, mid/navy blue woolen dress with a fitted top and a flared skirt. I am thinking it will be a perfect ensemble for funerals as well as drinks parties (I go to more of the former these days).

A good funeral outfit is so important. As a femme du certain age one can't reveal too much flesh or wear anything too bright or tight. However this dress is tight but because it is in demure navy blue it looks modest without being very modest at all.

I Love My Dog and my Dog Loves Me

I have just fed Nutty his dinner of lightly poached organic chicken (from M and S, I pray it is not halal - fifty percent of lamb is now halal in the UK, so under the cosh of Muslims have we become).

Talking of beastly halal, listen to this. At Christmas I met up with an old flatmate who I hadn't seen for over twenty years and we hit it off straight away, it was just like old times. We were chalet girls together in Crans Montana and had a wonderful time. We were both too lazy to ski and spent all day (after finishing our very cursory domestic duties) in the local patisserie, gorging on cakes and endless creamy cappuchinos. Result was we both staggered back to Blighty having put on a stone and bursting out of our cords. She married an old Etonian Welsh sheepfarmer and disappeared to a place called Mould in North Wales and I never saw her again. Neither of us were great at staying in touch, besides she disapproved of my decidely non-Etonian fiance (a good natured but socially insecure Geordie). But it was lovely, none the less, to reconnect with her and her lovely husband.

Now I have nothing against farming, but when her hitherto lovely husband said with a cold shrill laugh that he sold off his old ewes (knackered presumably after enduring endless births and having their lambs stripped away from them, again and again) to the halal abbatoir "they pay us really well", haw haw, " so why bloody not!" I inwardly shuddered.

My pal had insisted Boyfriend on a Short Fuse and I stay with them on the halal farm in Mould but I knew I never would. I mean, where is his loyalty to his stock? I guess I am very bourgeois, but where is the common decency it it? How desperate can they be for money that they sell these old girls off to some wretched abbatoir where they do not even get stunned before having their throats cut?

Poor old Teflon-dad is completely gutted because he has to close one of his factories in Surrey (which his father opened in the 1930's) because it has been losing two million pounds a year. But he has kept the place open for years, solely out of loyalty to his hard-working workforce who have stuck with him through thick and thin. Many other bosses would, and have, relocated to China or wherever the running costs are cheaper, but he refused to do this.

I am so proud to have him as a father, just imagine having my pal's husband as a rello? Thank God for great mercies, is all I can say.

I prayed to Francis of Assisi and Archangel Ariel, the patron saint of animals last week, and I must report that Nutty has been doing very well ever since. Part of me still holds out for a spectacular remission, or just for his mouth tumour to shrink a bit or not get any bigger. As it is, he is in fine fettle, eating like a trouper, taking his medicines and being his usual loving, sweet-natured, stoic self. We are so lucky to have this extra time with him to spoil him and show him our love.

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The Power Of The Dog

I am still really under the weather with a horrible virus that doesn’t seem to be letting up. I went to see my psychic nutritionist today so she could douse on what medicines I should be taking. Nothing I have tried so far is working and she suggested various other things that luckily I have at home, like zinc and some Dr Recweg homeopathic tinctures. I have cupboards full of this kind of stuff, it’s really like the Mind Body and Spirit exhibition in here.

She also reminded me about basic stuff like a good face steam under a towel with eucalyptus. I was going to, but I’m so tired I think I’ll just have a hot bath and read my compulsively readable Rod Steward autobiography. I asked her what the emotional trigger was for getting ill and we both thought it was the horror of dealing with Nutty’s cancer diagnosis…. I was crying solidly for 6 weeks and I know that had everything to do with me getting to a really low physical ebb.

Crying is exhausting. I am all cried out now, except when I am going to sleep and the full horror of what the poor little fellow is going through hits me and I start to worry about the inevitable result of it all. …. But to be fair, he is not suffering so much I don’t think. He is not in pain and is still eating well and wagging his tail quite a bit (except when I am syphoning his flax seed oil mixture that the vet recommended into his mouth. Flax seed oil has strong anti-cancer properties, there is masses of research about it online).

The last few days there has been quite a lot of bright red blood from his mouth, usually when he’s eating. We always have to have lots of tissue paper under his mouth to catch it. We wash out his mouth regularly with a dilution of hydrogen peroxide, which seems to have prevented his tumour from becoming infected.

I see him staggering around the flat, looking a little dishevelled, wobbly, glazed eyes and his bleeding mouth encrusted with blood and think, this is old age. Old age that is usually confined within old people’s homes and hospitals. But this slow decline towards death is what most of us will face. The papers and TV are full of bright, shiny, young, shouty people and we are insulated against the ravages of aging. I am witnessing nature, in my face, in my flat, in its raw and cruel state.

I hate it of course, but it is nature and there is nothing any of us can do about it. It makes me appreciate my health (when I am not bronchial of course), that I can run, nearly do the splits, hit a tennis ball hard. My body gives me no trouble or pain (she says sneezing).

 I read this lovely poem, Nothing Gold Can Stay, by Robert Graves for the first time a few days ago. It made me think of Nutty, in all his radiant, tawny, golden glory, before he got ill.

Nature's first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.   And here is my favourite dog poem, The Power of the Dog, by Rudyard Kipling, after which I named this blog (a tear in the heart is one of its lines). Read it and weep.     The Power of the Dog   There is sorrow enough in the natural way From men and women to fill our day; And when we are certain of sorrow in store, Why do we always arrange for more? Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware Of giving your heart to a dog to tear. Buy a pup and your money will buy Love unflinching that cannot lie-- Perfect passion and worship fed By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head. Nevertheless it is hardly fair To risk your heart for a dog to tear. When the fourteen years which Nature permits Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits, And the vet's unspoken prescription runs To lethal chambers or loaded guns, Then you will find--it's your own affair-- But...you've given your heart for a dog to tear. When the body that lived at your single will, With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!); When the spirit that answered your every mood Is gone--wherever it goes--for good, You will discover how much you care, And will give your heart for the dog to tear. We've sorrow enough in the natural way, When it comes to burying Christian clay. Our loves are not given, but only lent, At compound interest of cent per cent. Though it is not always the case, I believe, That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve: For, when debts are payable, right or wrong, A short-time loan is as bad as a long-- So why in Heaven (before we are there) Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear? ................................ (Nutty has his own page on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/nutty.nutkin ) This is an excerpt from my new book, Letting Go of the Glitz, one woman's struggle to live the simple life in Chelsea, by Julia Stephenson just out in paperback and available from Amazon and about 3 bookshops.