Tuesday, 16 December 2014


Maude was a 13 yr 7 month old whippet-collie-x lurcher. Myself and my other two dogs were totally devastated when we lost her to a stroke. A friend suggested that I wrote something down. Concentrating on something did help. This is what I wrote on that awful day when we lost a loyal friend. If you have dogs, you will understand...

There’s a hole.

I've tried to fill it with 2 slices of toast and a bowl of stew but they fell right through and there’s still a hole.

Alice tumbled down a hole and nearly drowned in a saltwater pool.
Just call me Alice.
Drink Me said the label on the whisky bottle.
No Thanks, I said, and had a steaming mug of tea.
I hugged it for a while and then threw it down the hole.



Going, then GONE.

There’s more room on the sofa.
Through the long, dark, sunny afternoon we curled up together.
The one who cried for her sister, on my feet.
The one who feels my insides drop, close enough to stop another pool forming.

The doors seem tiny. They surround us and we can’t get out.
We’ll find the key and they will grow so we can walk through.
But not today.

Today the hole is with us and we feel its depths.

We will fall down the hole; in the park, on the beach, in the woods. At mealtimes and bedtimes.
Each time we fall the hole will get shorter and one day we will just step in it and walk out, not drown.

I hate the bearded bastard, in a leather coat that made her first 14 weeks a living hell. 
The one that shut her in (under the stairs?) and hit her with a rolled up newspaper. The one that tainted her whole life. There were clues. Given by cowering and fear. Any more we don’t know.
Badly neglected and abused, they said. We’re not allowed to tell you more.

I first saw her, led by a series of random events, to her door. 

That’s the one.

They called her, Illis. I called her, Maude.
Come into the garden, Maude...
Yes, it’s yours. All yours.
No cupboards, no newspapers.
Just love.
LOTS of love.

Both ways.
Honoured by the little girl who couldn't trust anyone. Except her new pack.

The pack grew.
One matching rescue. Unwanted and unloved but unharmed.
One with blue eyes. The baby.

Designers like 3s. They balance. Not too much. Not too little. Just right.
That works on a windowsill but not when you only have 2 hands.
That makes it tough.

Today 4 became 3.
Don’t forget to count me.
Life will be easier.
But so much harder. So much, much harder.

Excuse me now.
Alice is calling.
We’re still tumbling.

Bye Maudie,
signed your very, very best friends,
Lucaya, Mabel and Tracey



  1. This was such a touching, loving and truthful bit of prose on how it feels to love a furbaby so much and have them leave you - it is a deep hole right into the soul.

    1. Thank you, Monica. I hope a bit of empathy helped :-)