Back to Normal

I've emptied my pockets of dog treats, shaken out the crumbs. The chewed twigs and branches deposited all over the lawn have been collected, as have the tasty clods of earth, the big stones, the stalks of dead plants. I found a few stray old poos delicately secreted behind the compost box, and they'll make good manure since they're probably made up of other dog poos anyway. There are few signs left that a little dog ever lived here: some muddy paw prints on the garden room windowsill where she tried to see who was inside, and lots of muddy footprints on the weed screen over the veg bed. "Off!" I used to cry, "this is not a good place for you to be." "Don't be silly" her look would say. "It's perfect for chewing this spiky bit of wood, and so warm underneath me. A bit flimsy, but when I make holes I can move a bit further along." And so she stayed, happy as a sandgirl.

I never had a problem having a dog, just that dog. Poor little Sasha, sweet and eager and full of energy as she was, loveable and cute, she was too much for me.

What did I do with all this unaccustomed freedom? I power hosed the terrace and the concrete under the summerhouse. I dug over and raked the bed by the corrugated fence. I hung out the washing, not one dog towel or dog-dirtied garment of mine amongst it. I had a leisurely lunch in the summerhouse with the crossword. I finished painting the front of the garage. I went shopping for milk and chocolate, for once not stopping at the pet shelves for treats. I ambled and sniffed and ruminated. Then I rang Mary to check if Sasha was OK, and she told me the little creature was quite at home, friends with the other dogs, even the bossy chiahuahua. She slept the last two nights, as she always will, in the big bed with four other dogs (the chiahuahua sleeps on the parents' bed) and there wasn't a peep out of her all night. Her collar is off, and she stuck with the others when they went for walks. She got biffed by the cats a couple of times, but Mary thinks she's learned to be more respectful of them.

How do I feel about all of this? I'm thrilled for her of course, delighted that this is such a suitable home. She will have friends to play with all day, and when she's tired she can crash in the communal bed. Mary says that her being so friendly and happy is a tribute to me, and certainly she wasn't like that when I took her on. I'll take comfort from the crumbs offered. But how I wish it could have turned out differently. My heart lurches when I think about her firm little sandy body, her dear black face, her squiggly frown that quickly becomes smooth and transforms her face, her ecstatic leaping in the air mid-run just for the sheer pleasure of it. I'm jealous of their good fortune in being able to provide what she wants and needs. And I'm cross that my desire to shape a future with a dog for company will now not come about. And so my dog days are over. Like my salad days.