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.'