A Big Day

Lock up your monkeys! The A-listers and B-listers, all. 

It's a Big Day. Sita the Wonder-dog is on her way. She's the one with the 4 white paws, saying pick me, pick me.  

 

We picked her. She's had a long journey in a Defra- approved 'animal transport' van. It is so hard to think of her on the long, stressful journey, but we hope it'll be a few days of discomfort in exchange for a new home and family that she will love. It's written in the stones.

People ask me, how on earth did you come to rescue a puppy all the way from Romania? (IKR? as the kids type).  I know it sounds crazy. I had looked locally - but everything had stopped during lockdown. As for buying a puppy, they were 1 to 3K on Gumtree, and reserved before you could enquire. 

When we finally saw the photos from Sava's Safe Haven, we adored Sita. The charity regularly rehouse to the UK, so we filled in an application form, without too much expectation. 

A few weeks later, Rachel, the UK volunteer, phoned me and checked our house and garden by video call. We got a new wooden gate and filled in the fox holes. We bought a pile  of doggy things from Pets at Home. 

We are completely new to this. Sita is much awaited. It won't be too long now. You will hear more soon. Of course, you will. 

Sailing By in Bleak House

Am I too gloomy to write tonight? 

If three chords and the truth are required, I have only the truth. This pandemic keeps poking me in the ribs.

Today, Scotland recorded a spike - 21 new cases. The highest in a month. As regards the rest of the world, often I can't bear to look.

But there's still such a taboo in society about saying - Hey, I'm feeling bleak and pessimistic and fearful.  People wince. People try to cheer you up. People think, focus on the positive, god dammit. 

Sometimes I am those people.  I often feel a duty to try to lift other people's spirits. I also feel a duty to listen to others, without trying to change their mood or their point of view.

Tonight, Matthew,  I am captain of the Bad Ship Melancholy. 

On the surface, Tess appears to be better, but she is still greatly curtailed by her throat/cough/ breathing issues. As I said in previous posts, I suspect it is a lesser-known, chronic condition called Vocal Chord Dysfunction. It's the opposite of a barrel of laughs. 

I am still chasing up her NHS consultant. He has ordered more tests. Lung function tests. We still have to wait weeks and months. I asked him, could it be Covid? His reply? You can't say 100% about anything, but this 100% isn't Covid. 

But how would we know? It appears anti bodies (and immunity!) can disappear after 3 months. 

This feels so hard. To have a child with a chronic cough/breathing disorder in the middle of a pandemic. To know that we  all have to be vigilant for the foreseeable future. And even vigilance is not fool proof. Yes, you sensible people know that. 

Most nights, I drift off to sleep with Radio 4 playing the Shipping Forecast and 'Sailing By' - a saccharine Blackpool-esque waltz. When I'm done imagining a moustachio man in a tuxedo playing a garish organ, I imagine our bed is a raft, floating out in a huge, dark sea, under a paper moon.

I tell myself -there is nothing more I need to do until morning comes again. Nothing more but sleep. It might be the best moment of the day.

Digging for the Meaning of Life

My lower back is sore. It's an almost pleasant hum. I have been digging the land - well, our garden - and it's as if 'the land' is speaking to me. It's saying, This is what we do to each other, this is as old as time. 

At the risk of sounding pretentious, there is something so earthing about getting muddy in the soil. So pleasantly purposeful. 

I am trying to rearrange the garden, so we have a larger grass area for Sita the Romanian Rescue Pup.

That is her superhero name. She will probably also be referred to as the cute one who made a mess on the carpet.

But, I can't get ahead of myself. 

I remember the hallowed day we got our our first pet. She was a stripy cat called Tigger, who was born on Kintra Farm on Islay. The farmer fed porridge to the cats from an old saucepan. 

My father drove us all home, bouncing down the farm track, 4 kids in the back of the car, ecstatic with excitement. Tigger was mew-ing, terrified, her head popping out of a cardboard box.

'THERE'LL BE NO TEARS WHEN IT DIES, NOW!' announced my Dad, in the car, attempting to prevent a broken heart 16 years in the future. 

16 years on, Tigger was as soft-bellied as Bagpuss.  One quiet Sunday, she started walking into walls with soft head-bops of complete disorientation. We drove her to the vet for the last time,  tears streaking our cheeks. 

Yes,  we did cry. We cried for two short days, but it was worth it. This is what we do to each other, this is as old as time. 

This morning, Hugh was on my laptop. He announced, 'I'm gonna google - What is the Meaning of Life. ' 

The question auto-filled as he typed.  

'Oh yeah,' commented Tess, as she walked by. 'I googled that yesterday.' 

I Dream the House is on Fire, but there's a Puppy in the Kitchen

My dream reflects my current state of mind. In the dream, I'm caught between the dog in the kitchen and the whole street on fire. Climate emergencies and pandemics, rain down with all your might! You will, regardless. But, wow, look at that pup. 

She's not here yet. We are hoping to adopt her from a rescue centre abroad. We have to wait 4 weeks for her to be fit and ready. I dread the thought of her long drive, but I'm assured it's all DEFRA approved, in a climate-controlled van, with 2 or 3 carers on board. 

And when she arrives, her life with us can begin.  Us!? We, who know zip about dogs, but are ready to learn, with open hearts. 

So there was me (in a mask) in Asda, trying to resist buying doggy treats and doggy accessories, like a pregnant women too scared to buy baby-grows and bibs in the first trimester. Better not to risk any tempting of fate. 

And, now today, all this talk of the Scottish/English border. Could that affect her journey?

Boris said there is 'no such thing as a border between England and Scotland.' Aye, right.  

Right now, there's a 'border' round the city of Leicester, because Boris's government failed to make 'pillar 2' Covid test results public.   Cases rose rapidly, because people weren't warned. Why is this not a bigger scandal?

Leicester is doing the right thing locking down again.  And likewise, while Scotland has a handful of new cases each day, England has at least 1000 daily. 

At the risk of looking like Mel Gibson with my face painted blue, I'd support closing the Scottish border to all non-essential travel, or at least asking for 2 weeks quarantine. It makes sense to limit Covid spread wherever you can.

The puppy will have 2 week's quarantine in our home and garden. Of course we will follow that. I have booked a workman to build a tall wooden gate to make our enclosed garden secure. 

When we need gates, we need them. When life is safer, we can open them up. I don't have any great wisdoms to wrestle out of the gate metaphor. You get the point.

The kids' daily catch-phrases are no more, or no less, profound. But they pepper our days. 

Damn it feels good to be a gangsta, says Tess.

Hugh replies - That's you. That's you on a daily basis. 

Another day, another dollar, good people of 2020. 

Maybe tonight, I will dream of running with wolves, I mean, rescue pups, under grey skies, through empty parks with knitted seats.