September Song

This is one of those September days that I always love, the nip in the air is unmistakable now. I could smell it mixed with coffee and my husband's aftershave - Polo, I believe - when I came downstairs this morning. That autumnal combination sent a charge through me, despite the desperate sadness of the past few days.

This is one of my working from home days when I'd normally get a couple of things done, then head across to Chorlton meadows with Benji and soak up the beauty across there with him. A few times in the early days I'd get caught short without a pencil to write down some of the ideas that seemed to flow as we were walking. After a while and a few lost ideas, I hit upon writing draft texts on my phone to tide me over till I reached a notebook. I will get back there sometime, but that walk just feels too painful at the moment.

Too soon and too sad, I know, but I looked at photos at the Manchester Dogs' Home website. It brought to my mind that poem I met a couple of weeks ago - Don Paterson's version of Antonio Machado.

The Eyes

When his beloved died

he decided to grow old

and shut himself inside

the empty house, alone

with his memories of her

and the big sunny mirror

where she'd fixed her hair.

This great block of gold

he hoarded like a miser,

thinking here, at least,

he'd lock away the past,

keep one thing intact.

But around the first anniversary,

he began to wonder, to his horror,

about her eyes: Were they brown or black,

or grey? Green? Christ! I can't say ...

One Spring morning, something gave in him;

shouldering his twin grief like a cross,

he shut the front door, turned into the street

and had walked just ten yards, when, from a dark close,

he caught a flash of eyes. He lowered his hat brim

and walked on ... yes, they were like that; like that ...

Don Paterson

(from The Eyes - A Version of Antonio Machado, Faber and Faber, 1999)

Best Dog in the World

Before today, I've never had to make the decision to put an animal to sleep.
I posted this poem last year but here it is again for Benji, and all those last times that we didn't know were last times - and all the better because of that.



The Last Swim
September, October ... one thing
you don't know at the time is when
you've had your last swim: the weather
may hold, may keep nudging you in.

Only afterwards, sometimes days on,
it dawns on you that you've done:
just the thought of undressing outdoors,
exposing bare skin, makes you wince.

And that's best, to have gone on swimming
easily to the end: your crawl
full of itself, and the future
no further than your folded towel. 
Michael Laskey

From The Tightrope Wedding, 1999

An Old Sea Dog

On a flying visit to Whitley Bay to collect our dog Benji who's been on holiday here while we were away. He will be fourteen in November, although he often behaves like a much younger dog. He's been with us for the past five years since we found him via the internet at an RSPCA dog rescue centre.

Last summer he had a mast cell tumour removed from behind his front left leg and made a great recovery from the surgery. This summer the tumour has come back and is inoperable. Yesterday when we got here, he was pleased to see us but seemed a bit confused, which is not like him. We took him for a walk on the beach and when we lifted him down from the car his legs seemed to crumple under him.

I took this photo of him last December in Tynemouth which is one of our favourite winter spots for walking (dogs not allowed May - September). He barks and whines at the waves, then gets in and has a paddle.

Have you ever seen Dean Spanley? It's an incredible film featuring dogs in a very powerful quirky way, with a great cast and brilliant performance by Peter O'Toole.