The Tale of Levi Mouse.
Once upon a time this annoying hyperactive kid just tried everyone’s patience to the limit. They excluded him from school so he went hunting all day. He was good at it. It was the only activity he had the ability to focus on. His mother was relieved on two counts - it kept him out of trouble and it saved on her grocery bill. Years passed and Leviticus grew into a very handsome young man, strong yet nimble-footed.
But looks and agility count for nothing when the deer on Lord Soanso’s estate dwindle in population, when exclusive shooting parties have to be cancelled. And tongues quickly waggle when blame needs a head to rest upon. Fingers point to Leviticus. His mother points to the horizon. Levi’s chin points to his chest. Sorrow.
Beyond the verdant pastures he knows so well, there are high steel blue mountains. Beyond those lie unknown kingdoms and peoples. Levi’s sprawling stride carries him to the mountain-top quickly but before his eyes he sees a spectral land – a land of cold grey slabs on all sides and between. Levi shudders as clouds obscure the sun and shadows chill his back.
He descends alongside a mountain stream. Hungry, he tickles for trout, and quickly seizes a great fat fish. It flails in his hands, drops to the riverbank and casts an angry eye over Levi.
‘You young fool. If you proceed you will die. And if you eat me you will surely die.’
‘What the hell?’ blurts Levi. ‘What are you talking about?’
The wise old trout warns Levi of the curse of Tombetown.
‘Everyone is old,’ it says. ‘Each time a child is born, the evil monster Lillicanthus descends from the skies and seizes the child to feast upon its flesh.’
‘But why don’t the people stop it?’ Levi consterns.
‘They die trying.’
‘I will make it my purpose to find and destroy this heinous creature, and free these people from its abominable curse. Then I can return home a hero.’
The fish tells Levi to pluck out its eyes and use them when he needs their magical properties.
The Tombetowners are gathered in the tavern where daily they drown their sorrows. They are all middle aged and more. On hearing Levi’s mission statement they don’t know whether to laugh or cry. A wrinkled crone croaks at him ‘it's impossible for two reasons. One - you are like a mouse compared to that gargantuan, and two - there are no babies.’ But Levi has the heart of a hunter once more and nothing can thwart his intention.
In ancient woods, where long ago the last baby was seized, Levi breathes the air deep. He has missed this thrill. Reaching for his knife he discovers the trout’s right eye in his pocket looking like a shrivelled seed. ‘What use is a seed to me?’ he mutters, tossing it through the air. ‘What I need is a baby.’ No sooner does the seed alight on the earth than it begins to change colours, puff and swell. The air smells of blood and puke and suddenly, there is a tiny naked infant bawling on the ground before him.
‘Oh my God,’ gasps Levi, and a far off blood-curdling shriek alerts him to the awakening of Lillicanthus. ‘Bring it on’ Levi intones but is almost immediately bowled over by the almighty rush of wind created by Lillicanthus’s enormous sweeping wings. He is flat on the floor – ‘shit!’ The grotesque reptilian behemoth is lunging towards the bawling baby.
Levi’s brain spins fast thoughts and he plunges his hand into his pocket. He feels the other eye there and in a split second he has swallowed it while thinking - ‘I need to fly.’
As Lillicanthus’s spiked talons pluck the infant from the earth, a cerulean raven swoops. It circles the monster's crocodilian neck, again and again, the blade in the raven's beak slicing through and through the warty, gristly skin, spilling viscous ruby blood all over the countryside. A thunderous rumbling crash reverberates and a death-rattle screech is forced through Lillicanthus's huge slacking jaw.
Feathers swirl to the ground as Levi lands. A colossal eyeball regards him wistfully then sinks back into the titanic skull. Dead.
A high-pitched cry reminds Levi of the infant, but there huddled against a mossy tree trunk is a pale-skinned beautiful young maiden, the babe full grown. What is a full-blooded, hyperactive hunter to do on witnessing such a sight? Levi removes his bloodstained cloak and makes decent the confused girl.
What a hero!
Thought I would share this memory of life and loved ones. I wrote it when I lived at my old cottage in Devon some years back.
HUTCH
You would look at Hutch and say - god! he’s horrid - because all you would see is the warty red skin around his face, the big knobbly lump at the top of his nose that denotes his maleness. You’d look at those and that’s all you’d see - the weird bits. But I look at Hutch and see a calm, gentle creature - self-contained, composed. He somehow speaks to me, says ‘slow down, go gently.’ And I hear him, I try to do just that. His amber eyes watch me and he's thinking - something.
His underbelly and the tops of his wings are sooty black. His tail and wingtips are an iridescent deep bottle-green, they catch the light and shimmer and shine like oil on water. When he stretches and stands tall, spreading his wings out fully, you see they are white underneath. This is not any ordinary white, this is an impossibly pure white - fresh thick drifts of Northern snow. Curiously, they are warm and comforting to me.
The top of his head and down the back and sides of his neck he is a mottle of black and white, the black motts gradually all but vanishing into his snowy bib.
His beak is about three inches, not broad, a child’s paintbox skin-pink with grey outline and nostrils. His feet are pink and grey too, only a little darker. He has pointy toe-nails at the ends of the long toes that form a support structure for the web of skin between them.
Right now he is standing next to my son’s old bright royal-blue paddling pool. This morning’s ice has finally melted and Hutch is cleaning and attending to every single feather on his wings using his beak, which he intermittently dips into the freezing water. He catches each feather at its ‘root’ then runs it through his beak, over his tongue, between those little hard serrated beak edges which could almost pass for teeth. I am watching from my open bedroom window - he knows - and looks up at me every few moments. I haven’t called to him - he is an observer of life. He has turned right round to face me, and I now see his snowy neck, slender and short, and his puffed-up surf-white breast. I watch how he lowers his head by folding his neck down into his chest, a familiar movement in a swan with its long graceful neck, but handsome Hutch, the ugly duck to some, does it too, with a becoming natural elegance.
Now he walks over towards me and I don’t laugh - I grin with joy - for it’s one of his most endearing features that his feet overlap as he sets them down. With each new step he has to pull the foot he wants to put forward out from under the other, only to set it back down on top of the foot he just pulled it from beneath - progress can be slow. His legs support a broad, heavy body and seem to be spaced wide apart at the hips (if birds have hips) but they angle down inwards towards his comical feet. My bandy-legged boy with skin-thin flat feet.
He has just taken a practice run along the grass, wings wide open and flapping powerfully. Muscovies can fly. It is February and Spring is in the air. I will have to clip one of his wings if I want him to stay here. He would like to go and find a mate I suppose, but would get eaten by a fox far quicker than he’d find a lady.
I feel sad for Hutch sometimes, I believe he's a sensitive soul. When he was born there were three in the brood. His two brothers were Desmond - a grey muscovy, quite swan-like with a 'forever cygnet' appearance - and Starsky, who was like a twin to Hutch - they could only be told apart because Starsky had far more black feathers on his head. (Get it?) There was also Donald their dad, and Peeps our lovely Mummy duck. ('Peeps', so-named because unlike the males who make hissing, grunting noises, she simply cried ‘peep, peep, peep, peep, peep.’)
Over a period of about four years, Peeps, Donald and Desmond were all ‘foxed’. Starsky and Hutch then fought savagely for dominance until in the end I had to take action. Starsky drew the long, though possibly better straw and was relocated to my friend’s pond where three, grey muscovy ladies live. He looks very stately when I see him there - but not at all dominant! With spring coming we are all hoping he will find his feet, so to speak. This left dear Hutch stuck with me and my assorted furry friends, the chickens, and Jake our little call duck who currently thinks he’s a chicken but used to think he was a rabbit - that’s another story!
Hutch was clearly depressed when Starsky went - they had shared the duck-house and slept side by side every night of their lives - almost four years. It was a great loss. Hutch became withdrawn and didn’t smile or communicate for months - just endured. Sometime before Christmas, when the fox was about, I decided to put him in at night with the chickens and Jake and it seemed to settle him. He allowed himself to be amused and accompanied by these clock-watching layers and Jake the comedian.
Perhaps it's the company, his new feathered family, but Hutch has gradually become more interested in life again. He has someone to poke his beak at when they get in his way, someone’s feathers to grab if they try to get to the corn first in the morning. And he’s begun coming out across the yard and doing his old rounds of the garden, bathing in his private pool, shimmering in the early morning sun and keeping a watchful eye on me. Nothing could make me happier - to see this handsome gentleman back on form - my muscovy boy.
The Painted Lady.
She glides through the creaking house at peace with herself. All the mirrors are covered with heavy black cloths and the clocks have been stopped, the windows shuttered, the fires extinguished. She herself has sent home the woman who comes to cook every day. No one must be here. She must be alone.
There is a dark engulfing silence which her pale thin-lipped mouth sips and her chronic lungs clutch at like a craving. Her hands quietly shut each door behind her as she passes from one room to the next, winding a snail-slow trail from the kitchen to the dining room, the lounge to the hall. She climbs the stairs to the first floor, passes bedrooms and bathrooms and finally she stares at the steep and narrow steps which lead to his cold, morose, empty of him, study. Up, up, no way back, she climbs in the darkness, no light but the glint through the keyhole before her.
Her blood curdles thick in the clogged veins of her throat, murmuring their weariness as she reaches out to turn the scorning handle and enter. He will be there - still - seated on his swivelling throne. He’ll deign to acknowledge her, his slit silver eyes will alight on her for as long as it takes to slide his disapproving look down her entire body - right to the floor - and then, having diminished her, his disgusted tombstone body will turn slowly back to the wall, to the painting, his precious painting.
The scraped and torn canvas hangs in curling strands. Shards of hard cracked oils needle under her fingernails. Her half dead heart flaps its tattered wings at the memory and her wisp lips tremble to keep her smile secret. She steps up to the back of his heavy ox-blood leather chair and presses her hands tight to its sides. 'Today you’ll see MY face. You will see ME - what you've made me.' The lumbering chair turns slowly under her furious, vengeful touch, the floorboards underneath rumble and remind.
There he sits, cold and dumb and deaf. There he sits, as she clambers onto his lap. There he sits, as she drags her teeth over his brow, his waxen cheeks. There he sits, as she grinds her thumbs into his eyes, pushing deeper and deeper to the back of his concrete skull. There he sits, repulsed by her little show begging for his attention. There he sits - invisible.
Falmouth’s Secret Safari
Meet Terry at 11pm on a Monday night in April and May at the car park on Pendennis Point. Make sure you don’t get confused with the doggers. Terry is quite distinctive - think Ray Mears with dreads.
He’ll check you over and brief you - it’s usually a small group. No cameras, mobiles, inappropriate footwear or food. No heavy scents - fabric conditioner etc. No torches. No talking. Terry advises warmth in layers - the temperature drops markedly over the hours you’ll be ‘on safari’. Don’t take your eyes off him.
You’ll set off along the road towards Gylly but then take a left turn through a hole in the hedge on the sea side - you wouldn’t have noticed it. If you’ve worn shorts you‘ll now regret it, as you’ll be battling brambles back in the direction of the Point, just a few feet lower than the road. The track however proceeds to tightly zigzag sea-wards.
Terry, like a ghostly ninja, will suddenly raise his hand. You’ll stop, hold your breath expectantly. The sound of water splashing against the rocks beneath comes into sharp definition over that of breaking waves further off at Castle Beach. You’ll continue slowly.
The undergrowth ends just ahead. Terry’ll drop to a hunkering position - you will too. His forefinger on his lips will warn - not a sound. He’ll scramble up some rocks on the left, you’ll follow. Terry‘ll cross them like a nimble goat, but then you’ll all stop abruptly, faced with a ten foot drop onto more rocks below.
Terry’ll indicate that you should now lie as flat as possible. He’ll stretch his arm to the right and point in a series of downward jabs. This means - don’t take your eyes off that spot. Only now will you notice the chill, especially where your body hugs the stone. But you’ll also be wired with excited anticipation, a buzz which dismisses any sense of cold. You’re now playing the waiting game.
The temptation to talk will be intense but the forbidden adds to the electricity of this experience. All of a sudden there’s a movement in the water. A dark shape is stirring the sea close in to the rocks. At first you’ll think - seal. Then you’ll see something more distinct. A black and white blur streaks over the rocks and clambers into the sea. The two creatures now swim and play together. One more arrives and then before you’ll know it, five of them are in the water. A smaller one stands on the rocks and you’ll sense it’s not sure of itself.
This is the only known family of sea-faring badgers in the UK. They live in the woodland that surrounds Pendennis Castle, and climb down through a centuries old secret tunnel to the sea. The young one is the only cub that has appeared this year. It has yet to learn about the water. You might be lucky and see it take its first swim. You mustn’t say a word.
Satire piece on the November 2014 G20 summit held in Brisbane, Australia – inspired by talking to my big sis in Brisbane, who was banjaxed by the inner city security lockdown. PM Tony Abbott was ribbed for his first names approach and Mr Putin was viewed with suspicion when he arrived with a few warships! (Generic Oz accent essential)
Gee (20) Tony!
Today is a big moment for Aussie PM Tony Abbott, the warm up man for this weekend’s G20 summit in Brisbane. Go for it Tone!
‘G’day cobbers. Welcome to Oz. I’m pretty stoked to be host for this Gee 20 thing, so let me tell you, we’re going to have a good ole yabber over a few drops of the amber nectar in the next few days.
Now listen guys, we don’t see eye to eye all of the time, and fair dinkum, there’s always a fruit loop in any group who’s as useful as tits on a bull, but I like to think of us Aussie’s as a warm, inclusive nation of people, so my vision for this weekend is for us all to rub along nicely. I don’t want any formality - strewth it’s ruddy 40 degrees out there, so if you want to go native and get your boardies and thongs on, good on you! Can I just say though, no budgie smugglers please, they’re kind of trashy.
OK, it’s just a thought, but what d’you say we just drop all this Mr President stuff and call each other by our first names? I mean I’m cool with Tone. I do think it’s the way to get more done and like the head-quacks say, it’s important to remove barriers and bond. Oh, and while we're on that subject, this isn't the time for playing nosey-beaks on each other. I’m sure Vlad knows what he's up to in the Ukraine - he doesn’t need anyone sticking their oar in. We’re here for a bit of hard graft, sure, but there’s plenty of roo steaks on the barbie, and coldies at the bar. Feel free to go walkabout - the security staff will keep you right.
Now, I know we’ve got to talk about all the boring stuff - no, no, hear me out, yea,yea, I know, I know, but it’s important – we’ve got issues of transparency in financial institutions and governments, sustainability, and how to get the big bastards to pay their taxes, but Vlad has brought along a few special ships so we can all go shark-fishing too. Hey Bazza! Obama! Yeah you! You might prefer to go see the aborigines doing their, what’s it called? Cororor? Corobora? Crroborroworra – ah jeez I dunno - dancing mate. I think it’ll be right up your street.
Yeah David - what is it? Listen Dave man, you’ve gotta lighten up mate. It’s depressing banging on about global warming - no one wants to hear about it - ruins the party atmosphere. Bloody poms! I think we might take you out fishing David, you’d make a good shark biscuit!
Jeez, I'd say it must be time for a smokoe then we’ll wheel out Kylie for a few songs. Yeah, she’s a bit of a dog now but we’re saving all the young Sheila’s for tonight’s party! Come on guys – what are you waiting for?’
THE LETTER
She’s been pretending not to care for years – perhaps to annoy Mr Perfect next door. So many weeds in the cracks of the slate slab path, the window frames rotting. She notices the things that matter – jackdaws in the chimney, the oak before the ash, caterpillars on the nettles. No need to control everything. So much noise he makes next door – chopping and strimming, mowing and hacking, adding, subtracting. Improvements! She can’t improve on nature, she co-exists.
The rusty old key clunks in the faded primrose front door – long time since she’s tried it. The porch has partly tumbled down so it’s easier to go around the back.
Today a letter came, very short, but like a cock crow. How long had she been asleep? Fifteen, twenty years? Longer? Something had caught in her throat like a fly, as words spidered in through her cracked spectacles. Her heart dropped her onto a chair of pancaked cushions. Light sieved through the little panes of the kitchen window. She had stared at where the garden exists beyond and recalled his innocent, fragile, pale-fleshed body standing in the old tin bath full of water. The hosepipe in his hand hurled a silver snake up to the sky, over the hedge, into the rabbit run, across the windows. His screams of delight rang in her ears – she’d never experienced such intense feelings as he had aroused – her little angel.
He’s coming to visit, so the letter says. He's coming. Well then, she’d better sort things out. Where should she start? The whole cottage needs going over, but his bedroom . . . She pulls the curtains back and dust puffs and talcs her hair. The cast iron fireplace she once painted bright blue shrinks back into the surrounding wallpaper of ancient steam trains, which themselves have puffed away into the distance. Tiny lego models, colouring books, Jethro - his favourite teddy, farmyard animals standing patiently in their corral – all layered with dust – like choked up tenants living by a coal mine.
So much to do, where should she start? That front door, the porch – how will he get in? What will he think? Her head starts to ache with it all. So much she should do. But why? Won’t he love her anyway – he’s her boy after all, he knows what she’s like – surely? This isn’t about him next door – always making it clear what he thinks – 'she’s never taken enough care’. No wonder she does so little – it’s just to annoy him. You can’t control everything. You have to learn to live with things. Let nature take its course – stop interfering. Everyone knows paths get slippery when they’re wet, and slate can be unforgiving, but you can’t put cotton wool around everything. And they do move so fast, children. Mr. Perfect should keep his nose out – he’s like a curse someone’s put on her.
Dear me, where was she? Oh, that’s right – the letter. Now, what did it say? Milk, bread, potatoes, eggs . . .
The Beauty of Tremough.
She skipped ahead, excited, calling back, ‘is this it? Are we near?’ What fortune the sun was shining. My heart flowered in my chest. The creamy cob-wall ran along on our left, camouflaged mostly by pink and white blossom-weighted camellias, attention-seeking pink and magenta rhododendron trees. ‘Wait for me,’ I called. This vivacious red-headed creature captivated my whole being and I wanted to see her beautiful face react to her first glimpse of the secret garden.
‘I believe you’re just teasing me,’ she whispered in my ear, her velvet lips brushing my cheek. I placed my hands over her eyes and walked carefully behind her, directing gently - a few steps further then a ninety degree turn to the left. The tiny wooden door was wide open, as always. A secret that’s there for everyone, if they simply explore.
‘Slowly now,’ I said, ‘almost there.’ Twelve more steps and we were standing on the other side of that wall, sunshine picking out the subtle strawberry hues in her hair. ‘Close your eyes till I say.’ I dropped my hands and stood to her side, watching her face. ‘Alright, you can open your eyes.’
First she looked ahead at the endless tangle of naked apple trees on the sloping lawn of primroses. Her eyes widened, her eyebrows arced upwards on her forehead as her mind comprehended the vision. She scanned the garden to her right, to her left, her mouth curved to a smile then popped open. Her delightful cornflower blue eyes swam over the entirety – sun-filled, sparkling. Her butterfly hands flew together in front of her face and she clapped them together, gasping excitedly. ‘Oh my goodness Edgar, it’s beautiful.’ She then stepped off around the edge of the lawn along the top path.
Giant magnolias spread their arms full of ivory, almond, coral and champagne-pink blooms. Huge petals lay like a giant’s teardrops on the path. In determined hordes the daffodils wobbled their trumpeting heads in the whispering gusts of the spring breeze, watching proudly over the violet, marbled, snow white and egg-yolk yellow crocuses like indulgent parents at the park. The grape hyacinths practiced their usual humility, sitting tight and simply contrasting the free spiritedness of every other bloom in sight.
At the centre of the garden the old red-brick based Paxton greenhouses warmed in the March sunshine, from their toes to their Victorian glass tops. A gardener was filling seed trays with some mixture of earth and grainy shingle, new life was destined to be nurtured here.
I returned to my own hopeful thoughts, the love I desired to nurture.
‘I love it,’ she said. ‘I could live here. Look, there are olive trees in those great pots.’
‘It’s an Italian garden Signorina,’ I replied, ‘I’m so pleased you love it too. Let me show you the herb garden. Do you like basil, oregano, thyme?’
‘I like time with you,’ she said looking into my eyes, slipping her hand into mine. ‘I want the sun to shine like this forever Ed.’
(story inspired by the hybrid rhododendron which was created at, and called, 'The Beauty of Tremough'. Tremough is the campus site of Falmouth University, Penryn, and indeed there is a hidden secret garden in the grounds which many students never even discover!)
SMILE PLEASE.
It’s hard to wipe the smile off Debbie’s face today. She lightly climbs the steep narrow staircase of the cosy, terrace house, a cup of peppermint tea in her hand. She opens the back spare-room door and crosses to the window. It’s February. She draws wide the thick woven curtains her mother gave her from her childhood home and allows the watery sunshine to trickle in. Not quite bright enough she turns on the central light. Debbie sets down the mug on a small desk, puts her hands on her hips and breathes in. Her smile widens and her delightfully thick, dark bob seems to complete and frame her face. Her hands find their way to her tummy. They aren’t just resting on it - it’s as if they are communicating with it - or what is in it.
What is inside her is the source of her smile - the huge moment in her life she’s been waiting for. Less than an hour ago, in the little primrose bathroom next door, she did a test. It turned blue and tears of joy slowly welled and tumbled, stroking her cheek-skin. She wanted to phone Brian straightaway but stopped herself, deciding she had to see his face. She couldn’t deny herself that - it would be such an unforgettable moment. And, quite unlike Debbie, she was even strong enough to refrain from phoning her mum. Yes, it was the right thing to do - to let Brian know first.
And so, after floating and dreaming and floating and dreaming some more, here she is in the spare room, the dreams already becoming reality. She has to get on with something - her usual rounds of gardening jobs are weathered off - but never mind, it’s about time this nursery-to-be was cleared out.
An hour later and Debbie isn’t smiling. An hour later some very different tears have stained her face and her stomach has forced her to run to the primrose bathroom and urge over the loo. She makes herself go back in the room and look again, smell again. Kneeling in front of the built in wardrobe - its doors wide open - surrounded by an assortment of boxes and black bin bags, Debbie is staring at the contents of Brian’s holdall laid on the floor at her knees:
a white silk blouse with a frill - not a collar,
a black pencil skirt,
a very smart, matching, tailored jacket,
black stockings,
ridiculous high heels with pointed toes
underwear - pants and bra -
basically, some hideous, over the top, office outfit - Size 14, ‘TALL’.
The five foot, four inch, t-shirt and jeans clad gardener is not staring at her own work clothes, that’s for definite. Who the hell does all this belong to? In the last half hour Debbie has run through all the possibilities - or so she thinks.
They’re obviously clothes that have been left somewhere by mistake and somehow ended up in Brian’s holdall, a joke - some matey, lads’ joke. Yes - he probably hasn’t even realised. But frankly - really - how many possibilities are there? The not-smiling lips quiver and flinch as Debbie’s teeth bite into the lower one. You see - really - only one possibility is flashing in her mind like a neon sign, hence her urging over the loo with The Shock.
And then comes The Anger.
‘Bastard! You bastard!’ She repeats this a few times, but the words sound somewhat alien on her bewildered lips, and completely alien in relation to her beloved Brian.
And so comes The Disbelief.
‘No! No! It couldn’t be, it couldn’t. There’s no way, no way. Brian would never go off with another woman, a ‘TALL’ woman. He'd never.’
But it’s hard for Debbie to keep disbelieving whilst staring at the lacy pink 38B bra and skimpy pants, and all the while a faint whiff of perfume floating into her senses.
It’s another few hours before Brian finally comes home. Debbie’s now leaning against the shut wardrobe doors with an old quilt wrapped around her. The light illuminates the floor of the ugly spare room, darkness has settled outside the window.
‘Debbie! Debbie love, I’m home.’
There are the sounds of his movements - into the kitchen, out again, front room, his feet on the steep narrow stairs. The light’s a give-away. Brian pushes the door open and walks in, looks down. The smile on his face vanishes, an unusual transformation occurs about his eyes, forehead and mouth.
‘Oh God. Debbie?’
Silence isn’t golden, it’s a sickening horrid feeling just a bit lower down than your throat. Debbie’s eyes can’t make the journey to Brian’s face.
‘Debs? Debs? I can explain Debs. For God’s sake Debs - look at me - I can explain. Oh Jesus! It’s not . . .
it’s not what you think . . . Christ! Debs?’
Debbie’s eyes remain fixed on the spread of clothes.
‘Go on then,’ Debbie’s small hurt voice says, ‘go on . . . explain these to me.’ Her finger's clutch more tightly at the quilt - her protective covering.
Brian crosses to the window, his eyes racing over the lamp-lit street. He’s come to think of this as home, even if his spirit belongs to the wild moorlands of Yorkshire. Jesus Christ this couldn’t be it, it can't be. His last night? Here, with Debbie? No no no! He doesn’t want things to end. His mind blanks momentarily then snaps back into reality - life, real life - real, awkward, gut-wrenching, 'how the hell do I explain this,' life.
He slowly turns to face Debbie, his back to the world. He can see her tear-stained face. He loves that face. Suddenly a lung-crushing tension bands his chest. She looks up at him, his eyes look away.
‘Brian, don’t you dare make me wait any longer.’
‘Debs . . . ’ He can’t face her, he’s so ashamed. It's everything he's dreaded and it's happening now - this is it - The Moment.
His life, Debbie's, their whole future together will be decided upon it.
He stammers. ‘They’re . . . they . . . they don’t belong to some woman - is that what you’re thinking? I haven’t, I haven’t
slept with some other woman. Debs! I’d never do that. I’d never. I love you.’
‘Oh,' Debs says, her tone facetious and sarcastic. 'Of course you do. You love me. Silly me for even doubting you. That’s ok then isn't it? "I love you Debs I’d never shit on you, you know that don’t you?" Oh great, glad that’s cleared up Brian.’
‘God, Debs. Please. Please, no, listen to me. It’s, it’s . . . ’ His hands fly up in the air, his palms smack onto his forehead and bang repeatedly against it. Then his long, hard-working fingers clutch fistfuls of his short, sandy hair, his voice breaks into childlike cry-breaths. ‘I don’t know how to explain.’
‘Too difficult is it? Or maybe I’m too stupid! Let’s see - a woman’s clothing, your holdall, last used - emmm let’s think - oh! that weekend, you remember, in October? A long weekend I seem to recall, when you ‘supposedly’ went to Birmingham for the Catering Careers convention. You remember? Oh you must do Brian.' She has found some vicious strength, it's been festering and growing inside her all day. 'Was someone catering for you?'
‘Oh God, Oh Christ. . . ’ Brian makes a wailing sound that surprises even Debbie. He drops to his knees and rolls forward - his head tucked in under his chest - his hands locked across the back of his neck. A loud, wrenching sob opens the guarding door to others.
This is hard to watch - Debbie is a very caring person. She'd felt quite strong for a moment, now she fights the impulse to go and soothe him. No! She has to have this out. Today, more than any other day of her life, there’s so much at stake, so much at risk.
‘Brian, sit up and talk to me,’ she says, a little softer than she’d have liked. ‘Whose clothes are they?’ She is not sure how long she can actually wait, she has never felt so sick.
Slowly, Brian straightens up, but he can’t look at her.
‘Tell me! . . . Tell me! This minute Brian!'
A tiny voice whispers '. . . they’re mine.’
Silence, then it says a little louder, 'they’re mine.’
At first Debbie’s gut reaction is to laugh, until her brain processes this information to its shocking conclusion. Her eyes flash open wide, horror draws her jaw down and her lips stretch around a gaping ‘O’ shape - The Shock.
This is beyond urging over any loo. This is ‘stop you dead in your tracks’ shock. Debbie, who thinks she’s done quite well up until now because she hasn’t screamed, is speechless - so she hears clearly everything Brian says next, only none of it's clear. Nothing.
'Just get it all out,' a part of his brain is telling him, pushing him towards what he's been dreading - The Full Confession. Surprisingly, despite catching his breath throughout, it seems hard to stop now he’s finally started.
‘They’re - they're - my clothes Debs - they’re mine. I bought them - and - I wore them - that weekend in my hotel room. It makes me feel - I’m sorry, I don’t know how to say this. I - I like wearing them. I feel - alive, all of me. It's like all of me’s really alive.’
Debs jumps to her feet, rushes out of the door. Brian hears her wretching in the bathroom. He is jerked back from where he has just been - momentarily experiencing a mixture of release and freedom. Now the more familiar feelings of shame and disgrace swim through him - the very things that have made him keep this part of himself secret for so long. He IS disgusting! What a perverted, twisted, mucky man he must be. He can feel his mother’s tongue whipping his ears, her large hands crashing on to the skin of his little-boy legs.
‘You disgusting little boy. You filthy child, you’re vile, d'you hear me? You're vile and evil.’ Slap. Slap. Slap.
He collapses once more onto the floor, overcome by the colossal effort it has taken to open so much of himself to the person he cares most about in the world.
Debs sits on the edge of the bath shivering with shocked coldness. Her mind is racing, confused. This is the bathroom where she felt so happy this morning, where she loved Brian so much she couldn't wait to see him. Brian? Her mind's eye leaps back to the man in that little bedroom rocking on his knees like a terrified animal. She is piecing together a jigsaw of words, thoughts and feelings. Her trembling hands rub her goose-pimply arms - she is suddenly exhausted - she craves comfort. It occurs to her that amazingly - somehow - she hasn’t fallen to pieces on hearing this revelation. She’s still alive - of course she is! In fact it all sounds vaguely familiar - was there something on Oprah perhaps? She can’t remember, but it gives her some reference point she can work from. She breathes more deeply, more slowly. That’s good, good. 'Breathe Debbie.' She feels safer, more anchored, here in the half-lit comforting bathroom. She doesn’t know how she’s going to cope with this other secret Brian in her life, she doesn't know what's going to happen - she can't imagine - but right now she’s gripped by her own need. She reaches down into the wicker waste-basket and retrieves the test stick - blue. She is instantly sure - whatever happens, things will be ok.
‘Brian? Brian?’
She hears him slowly move, stand up. He comes to the bathroom door. His face is red, wet, child-like.
Her eyes rise to meet his cautiously - it looks like her Brian, it really does.
She raises her hand towards him. He sees the white plastic stick and looks back at her face.
‘I’m pregnant.’ Her lips curve into the shape they love the most - The Smile.
It’s hard to wipe the smile off Debbie’s face today. She lightly climbs the steep narrow staircase of the cosy, terrace house, a cup of peppermint tea in her hand. She opens the back spare-room door and crosses to the window. It’s February. She draws wide the thick woven curtains her mother gave her from her childhood home and allows the watery sunshine to trickle in. Not quite bright enough she turns on the central light. Debbie sets down the mug on a small desk, puts her hands on her hips and breathes in. Her smile widens and her delightfully thick, dark bob seems to complete and frame her face. Her hands find their way to her tummy. They aren’t just resting on it - it’s as if they are communicating with it - or what is in it.
What is inside her is the source of her smile - the huge moment in her life she’s been waiting for. Less than an hour ago, in the little primrose bathroom next door, she did a test. It turned blue and tears of joy slowly welled and tumbled, stroking her cheek-skin. She wanted to phone Brian straightaway but stopped herself, deciding she had to see his face. She couldn’t deny herself that - it would be such an unforgettable moment. And, quite unlike Debbie, she was even strong enough to refrain from phoning her mum. Yes, it was the right thing to do - to let Brian know first.
And so, after floating and dreaming and floating and dreaming some more, here she is in the spare room, the dreams already becoming reality. She has to get on with something - her usual rounds of gardening jobs are weathered off - but never mind, it’s about time this nursery-to-be was cleared out.
An hour later and Debbie isn’t smiling. An hour later some very different tears have stained her face and her stomach has forced her to run to the primrose bathroom and urge over the loo. She makes herself go back in the room and look again, smell again. Kneeling in front of the built in wardrobe - its doors wide open - surrounded by an assortment of boxes and black bin bags, Debbie is staring at the contents of Brian’s holdall laid on the floor at her knees:
a white silk blouse with a frill - not a collar,
a black pencil skirt,
a very smart, matching, tailored jacket,
black stockings,
ridiculous high heels with pointed toes
underwear - pants and bra -
basically, some hideous, over the top, office outfit - Size 14, ‘TALL’.
The five foot, four inch, t-shirt and jeans clad gardener is not staring at her own work clothes, that’s for definite. Who the hell does all this belong to? In the last half hour Debbie has run through all the possibilities - or so she thinks.
They’re obviously clothes that have been left somewhere by mistake and somehow ended up in Brian’s holdall, a joke - some matey, lads’ joke. Yes - he probably hasn’t even realised. But frankly - really - how many possibilities are there? The not-smiling lips quiver and flinch as Debbie’s teeth bite into the lower one. You see - really - only one possibility is flashing in her mind like a neon sign, hence her urging over the loo with The Shock.
And then comes The Anger.
‘Bastard! You bastard!’ She repeats this a few times, but the words sound somewhat alien on her bewildered lips, and completely alien in relation to her beloved Brian.
And so comes The Disbelief.
‘No! No! It couldn’t be, it couldn’t. There’s no way, no way. Brian would never go off with another woman, a ‘TALL’ woman. He'd never.’
But it’s hard for Debbie to keep disbelieving whilst staring at the lacy pink 38B bra and skimpy pants, and all the while a faint whiff of perfume floating into her senses.
It’s another few hours before Brian finally comes home. Debbie’s now leaning against the shut wardrobe doors with an old quilt wrapped around her. The light illuminates the floor of the ugly spare room, darkness has settled outside the window.
‘Debbie! Debbie love, I’m home.’
There are the sounds of his movements - into the kitchen, out again, front room, his feet on the steep narrow stairs. The light’s a give-away. Brian pushes the door open and walks in, looks down. The smile on his face vanishes, an unusual transformation occurs about his eyes, forehead and mouth.
‘Oh God. Debbie?’
Silence isn’t golden, it’s a sickening horrid feeling just a bit lower down than your throat. Debbie’s eyes can’t make the journey to Brian’s face.
‘Debs? Debs? I can explain Debs. For God’s sake Debs - look at me - I can explain. Oh Jesus! It’s not . . .
it’s not what you think . . . Christ! Debs?’
Debbie’s eyes remain fixed on the spread of clothes.
‘Go on then,’ Debbie’s small hurt voice says, ‘go on . . . explain these to me.’ Her finger's clutch more tightly at the quilt - her protective covering.
Brian crosses to the window, his eyes racing over the lamp-lit street. He’s come to think of this as home, even if his spirit belongs to the wild moorlands of Yorkshire. Jesus Christ this couldn’t be it, it can't be. His last night? Here, with Debbie? No no no! He doesn’t want things to end. His mind blanks momentarily then snaps back into reality - life, real life - real, awkward, gut-wrenching, 'how the hell do I explain this,' life.
He slowly turns to face Debbie, his back to the world. He can see her tear-stained face. He loves that face. Suddenly a lung-crushing tension bands his chest. She looks up at him, his eyes look away.
‘Brian, don’t you dare make me wait any longer.’
‘Debs . . . ’ He can’t face her, he’s so ashamed. It's everything he's dreaded and it's happening now - this is it - The Moment.
His life, Debbie's, their whole future together will be decided upon it.
He stammers. ‘They’re . . . they . . . they don’t belong to some woman - is that what you’re thinking? I haven’t, I haven’t
slept with some other woman. Debs! I’d never do that. I’d never. I love you.’
‘Oh,' Debs says, her tone facetious and sarcastic. 'Of course you do. You love me. Silly me for even doubting you. That’s ok then isn't it? "I love you Debs I’d never shit on you, you know that don’t you?" Oh great, glad that’s cleared up Brian.’
‘God, Debs. Please. Please, no, listen to me. It’s, it’s . . . ’ His hands fly up in the air, his palms smack onto his forehead and bang repeatedly against it. Then his long, hard-working fingers clutch fistfuls of his short, sandy hair, his voice breaks into childlike cry-breaths. ‘I don’t know how to explain.’
‘Too difficult is it? Or maybe I’m too stupid! Let’s see - a woman’s clothing, your holdall, last used - emmm let’s think - oh! that weekend, you remember, in October? A long weekend I seem to recall, when you ‘supposedly’ went to Birmingham for the Catering Careers convention. You remember? Oh you must do Brian.' She has found some vicious strength, it's been festering and growing inside her all day. 'Was someone catering for you?'
‘Oh God, Oh Christ. . . ’ Brian makes a wailing sound that surprises even Debbie. He drops to his knees and rolls forward - his head tucked in under his chest - his hands locked across the back of his neck. A loud, wrenching sob opens the guarding door to others.
This is hard to watch - Debbie is a very caring person. She'd felt quite strong for a moment, now she fights the impulse to go and soothe him. No! She has to have this out. Today, more than any other day of her life, there’s so much at stake, so much at risk.
‘Brian, sit up and talk to me,’ she says, a little softer than she’d have liked. ‘Whose clothes are they?’ She is not sure how long she can actually wait, she has never felt so sick.
Slowly, Brian straightens up, but he can’t look at her.
‘Tell me! . . . Tell me! This minute Brian!'
A tiny voice whispers '. . . they’re mine.’
Silence, then it says a little louder, 'they’re mine.’
At first Debbie’s gut reaction is to laugh, until her brain processes this information to its shocking conclusion. Her eyes flash open wide, horror draws her jaw down and her lips stretch around a gaping ‘O’ shape - The Shock.
This is beyond urging over any loo. This is ‘stop you dead in your tracks’ shock. Debbie, who thinks she’s done quite well up until now because she hasn’t screamed, is speechless - so she hears clearly everything Brian says next, only none of it's clear. Nothing.
'Just get it all out,' a part of his brain is telling him, pushing him towards what he's been dreading - The Full Confession. Surprisingly, despite catching his breath throughout, it seems hard to stop now he’s finally started.
‘They’re - they're - my clothes Debs - they’re mine. I bought them - and - I wore them - that weekend in my hotel room. It makes me feel - I’m sorry, I don’t know how to say this. I - I like wearing them. I feel - alive, all of me. It's like all of me’s really alive.’
Debs jumps to her feet, rushes out of the door. Brian hears her wretching in the bathroom. He is jerked back from where he has just been - momentarily experiencing a mixture of release and freedom. Now the more familiar feelings of shame and disgrace swim through him - the very things that have made him keep this part of himself secret for so long. He IS disgusting! What a perverted, twisted, mucky man he must be. He can feel his mother’s tongue whipping his ears, her large hands crashing on to the skin of his little-boy legs.
‘You disgusting little boy. You filthy child, you’re vile, d'you hear me? You're vile and evil.’ Slap. Slap. Slap.
He collapses once more onto the floor, overcome by the colossal effort it has taken to open so much of himself to the person he cares most about in the world.
Debs sits on the edge of the bath shivering with shocked coldness. Her mind is racing, confused. This is the bathroom where she felt so happy this morning, where she loved Brian so much she couldn't wait to see him. Brian? Her mind's eye leaps back to the man in that little bedroom rocking on his knees like a terrified animal. She is piecing together a jigsaw of words, thoughts and feelings. Her trembling hands rub her goose-pimply arms - she is suddenly exhausted - she craves comfort. It occurs to her that amazingly - somehow - she hasn’t fallen to pieces on hearing this revelation. She’s still alive - of course she is! In fact it all sounds vaguely familiar - was there something on Oprah perhaps? She can’t remember, but it gives her some reference point she can work from. She breathes more deeply, more slowly. That’s good, good. 'Breathe Debbie.' She feels safer, more anchored, here in the half-lit comforting bathroom. She doesn’t know how she’s going to cope with this other secret Brian in her life, she doesn't know what's going to happen - she can't imagine - but right now she’s gripped by her own need. She reaches down into the wicker waste-basket and retrieves the test stick - blue. She is instantly sure - whatever happens, things will be ok.
‘Brian? Brian?’
She hears him slowly move, stand up. He comes to the bathroom door. His face is red, wet, child-like.
Her eyes rise to meet his cautiously - it looks like her Brian, it really does.
She raises her hand towards him. He sees the white plastic stick and looks back at her face.
‘I’m pregnant.’ Her lips curve into the shape they love the most - The Smile.
A Lucky Man.
I’m dead now a'right - should’a been dead long before - but I’m lucky I am - one of those - what you call them? - 'miracle babies'. Shouldn’ ha’ survived the birth canal - but me an' water - seems to be my medium. The midwife, she’d had to stick 'er whole hand in, up to the wrist. Yanked me out. Yanked! Like a prophecy for me life - a yank-loving water-baby! Well, kind of, so I like to say.
I should’ha died then, I didn’t. I screamed and squawked - probably did me mother’s 'ead in. But she loved me, t’was an 'appy home. She were a big influence on me. Great baking woman - bread, cakes, puddings. It were natural to her and passed to me. She were so proud o’me – ‘chief baker on the Titanic’, I wrote. No sooner had that letter arrived and there were bad news, really bad news. She thought she’d never see me face again.
*
I decided to marry a yank, 'ad to cross an ocean to get to her. Women, water and cake, tha’s me life. She were a passenger on The Olympic when I worked onboard - fell for 'er - hook, line and sinker. A classical lookin' lady. First saw her in this fine pale blue silk evening dress with the thinnest wisps for sleeves, like a summer haze it were. What slender dainty arms she had.
Caught 'er eye next day as I refilled the bread baskets at luncheon, spoke to 'er as she perambulated the decks, simply to enquire everything was in order for her. She took me 'and!
Two days later we had docked in London an' she insisted I accompanies 'er to The National Portrait Gallery and The Royal Parks at Kensington and St James's. T’were good news to these ears that Americans don’t hold with them old pretensions o’ class.
Then she were flitting off to Europe in a flurry of tears - melted me 'eart. I signed up for me new position on the maiden voyage - t’were a good step up, Titanic. Plan was I’d meet her in New York and make 'er proud - my sweet little gal!
*
‘We was all good men as far as I could see Sir.’ They questioned me for a whole afternoon at The British Wreck Commissioner’s Enquiry.
‘I threw women and children onto them boats. We ‘ad to go below and haul them up Sir, the ladies were too scared to leave the ship.’
I 'ad to steady me nerves with a few glasses of whiskey, and I’m not what you’d call a drinking man, but under the circumstances....
I 'eard the awful crashing sound as she buckled and I 'eaded up to poop deck. People was falling all over as she listed to port. Scrambled me way to starboard and just clung on to those railings for dear life. I climbed over onto the outside as she slowly slipped under. Expected the water to suck me down with her, but t’were all so gentle, that never ‘appened.
Treaded water for hours in the dark, held up by me life-belt. That belt and the whiskey saved me. Come daylight I got picked up by a lifeboat, they were by no means full when they entered the water I’m sorry to say, but it’s not for the want o’ trying.
I told the Commissioner, I said, ‘the men were holdin' back for the women and children. I saw no sign of foul play, not on me own station.’
*
Got took to New York on the Carpathia, saw me true love and proposed. You don’t never know what’s coming I learnt, so don’t waste time.
Went home to see me mother, God bless 'er, and the family. 'Me ‘air turned white overnight' she said. T’were a sorrowful mix of emotions, didn’t want to put them through it ever again. Weren’t easy to announce I’d be setting off once more to cross that terrible ocean.
*
Nellie Rose. We’d the most wonderful wedding cake any of 'er friends ever tasted - baked by guess who? T’were the most happy day o’ me life. First time I felt properly warm inside since that night. I’m a lucky man you see, a lucky, lucky man.
(based on the accounts of Charles Joughin (1878-1956) chief baker on RMS Titanic)
I’m dead now a'right - should’a been dead long before - but I’m lucky I am - one of those - what you call them? - 'miracle babies'. Shouldn’ ha’ survived the birth canal - but me an' water - seems to be my medium. The midwife, she’d had to stick 'er whole hand in, up to the wrist. Yanked me out. Yanked! Like a prophecy for me life - a yank-loving water-baby! Well, kind of, so I like to say.
I should’ha died then, I didn’t. I screamed and squawked - probably did me mother’s 'ead in. But she loved me, t’was an 'appy home. She were a big influence on me. Great baking woman - bread, cakes, puddings. It were natural to her and passed to me. She were so proud o’me – ‘chief baker on the Titanic’, I wrote. No sooner had that letter arrived and there were bad news, really bad news. She thought she’d never see me face again.
*
I decided to marry a yank, 'ad to cross an ocean to get to her. Women, water and cake, tha’s me life. She were a passenger on The Olympic when I worked onboard - fell for 'er - hook, line and sinker. A classical lookin' lady. First saw her in this fine pale blue silk evening dress with the thinnest wisps for sleeves, like a summer haze it were. What slender dainty arms she had.
Caught 'er eye next day as I refilled the bread baskets at luncheon, spoke to 'er as she perambulated the decks, simply to enquire everything was in order for her. She took me 'and!
Two days later we had docked in London an' she insisted I accompanies 'er to The National Portrait Gallery and The Royal Parks at Kensington and St James's. T’were good news to these ears that Americans don’t hold with them old pretensions o’ class.
Then she were flitting off to Europe in a flurry of tears - melted me 'eart. I signed up for me new position on the maiden voyage - t’were a good step up, Titanic. Plan was I’d meet her in New York and make 'er proud - my sweet little gal!
*
‘We was all good men as far as I could see Sir.’ They questioned me for a whole afternoon at The British Wreck Commissioner’s Enquiry.
‘I threw women and children onto them boats. We ‘ad to go below and haul them up Sir, the ladies were too scared to leave the ship.’
I 'ad to steady me nerves with a few glasses of whiskey, and I’m not what you’d call a drinking man, but under the circumstances....
I 'eard the awful crashing sound as she buckled and I 'eaded up to poop deck. People was falling all over as she listed to port. Scrambled me way to starboard and just clung on to those railings for dear life. I climbed over onto the outside as she slowly slipped under. Expected the water to suck me down with her, but t’were all so gentle, that never ‘appened.
Treaded water for hours in the dark, held up by me life-belt. That belt and the whiskey saved me. Come daylight I got picked up by a lifeboat, they were by no means full when they entered the water I’m sorry to say, but it’s not for the want o’ trying.
I told the Commissioner, I said, ‘the men were holdin' back for the women and children. I saw no sign of foul play, not on me own station.’
*
Got took to New York on the Carpathia, saw me true love and proposed. You don’t never know what’s coming I learnt, so don’t waste time.
Went home to see me mother, God bless 'er, and the family. 'Me ‘air turned white overnight' she said. T’were a sorrowful mix of emotions, didn’t want to put them through it ever again. Weren’t easy to announce I’d be setting off once more to cross that terrible ocean.
*
Nellie Rose. We’d the most wonderful wedding cake any of 'er friends ever tasted - baked by guess who? T’were the most happy day o’ me life. First time I felt properly warm inside since that night. I’m a lucky man you see, a lucky, lucky man.
(based on the accounts of Charles Joughin (1878-1956) chief baker on RMS Titanic)
Chihuahua Times
Mama, dear Mama,
I write to put your mind at ease - I am quite safe Mama. Please don't be frightened by what you see or hear on the news or on Mrs.Whinevoiceley’s facebook. It's true - I have been stolen - dognapped from poor Emmy, but I’m being treated extremely well, honestly I am. I can't say more, I mustn't give details - Lupus forgive I should write something which leads to my discovery. I pray this letter reaches you as I may not be able to write again for a long time. Mama dear, please take heart from all the other letters I’ve ever written to you since I was taken from your side and know I will always be, your ever loving Honey xxxxxxxxxxx
****
My name is officially Honeypie Sweet Charity La Cointreau. Mama calls me Honey. Her name's even longer but I’ll spare you that - it’s all to do with people’s obsessive compulsive disorders. What I can tell you is that I’m a honey-coloured smoothcoat Chihuahua - supposedly descended from Chico of Belamie.
Mrs Whinevoiceley is one of those OCD breeders - what can I say? She dotes on all her darling dogs - mainly for money and prestige - but yes, you could also say for 'love'. Mr W. left her a long time ago - he ran off with a Rottweiler breeder - probably the biggest insult of Mrs Whinevoicely's life.
I was just 4 weeks old when Emmylou-Jane and her parents came to see me. In fact they wanted to look at all of us, my beloved brothers and sisters too, but for some reason she couldn’t take her eyes off me - she was so excited. It was flattering of course, but I didn’t understand what was actually happening - Mama hadn’t given us ‘The Talk’ at that point - she liked to wait until we were eating solids and a little bit more independent of her. It came as a huge shock a week later when she told us we would all be going to extremely special new families - that our lives were just beginning. ‘It’s an adventure,’ she whispered, ‘you’re all going to have such wonderful happy lives.’ I wasn’t convinced.
At the end of July I’d just turned eight and a half weeks when Emmylou-Jane and her father showed up again. Mrs Whinevoicely was singing and rushing around tidying the kennels when Mama said to me, ‘darling Honey, I think this is it. I’ll say goodbye now my dear child or there’ll be no time. Whatever happens always remember I love you and I always will. If ever you can write to me please, please do - it would make me so happy.’ She had tears in her eyes as the pen door opened and Mrs W’s hands fluttered down and lifted me high up into the air and away from Mama. I tried desperately to look back and cried out ‘Mama! Mama!’ but I was being bundled into a small cardboard box and Emmylou’s hand was dangling in through the top of it - the fingers poking around my face and tummy, her voice cooing at me. ‘Honeypie Sweet Charity - you’re coming home with me. We’re going to have such fun - the holidays have just started.’
It was awful. I felt sick as a cat on that journey, rolling around in that box of strange smells and all I could hear was Emmylou-Jane and her dad arguing.
‘Just leave it in the box till we get home.’
‘Dad she’s only a baby. She needs cuddles.’
‘You’re anthropomorphising it already,’ he said.
I’d no idea then what he meant - but he was right - and that was only the beginning.
****
Dear Mama,
I don’t want to worry you but I’m not very happy here. I miss you so much and our happy little family. Have the others gone too, are you all alone? I know it’s not been long and I’m still a tiny puppy but the girl, Emmylou- Jane, doesn't seem to realise that I can walk. She puts me in a bag and carries me everywhere. She’s always shopping with girls who scream all the time and never stop poking me. They push my legs into silly clothes which are tight and I can’t move - not that I ever get to much.
She argues with her mama and dad all the time. I get so scared I can’t eat, then I have to go to a white place where a man sticks sharp silver thorns into me. I’m so sorry if I disappoint you Mama but I miss you so terribly much. Knowing you love me gives me a warm feeling though.
Always yours, Honey xxxxxxxxxxxx
****
It was a huge shock to me to be dressed up and carried around like a doll. I was Emmylou-Jane’s 15th birthday present and she was the only one of her friends with a Chihuahua. I began to realise that what these girls wanted was something to love and play with but they didn’t want to play with dolls anymore and they weren’t allowed to have their own babies. And there was something else - Emmylou-Jane had to be the centre of attention. Her mama’s best friend was a very good dressmaker, so when it came to matching outfits "Emmylou-Jane and her adorable toy dog 'Honeypie’" began to make headlines in the local newspaper and some glossy fashion magazines were interested in doing stories about us.
****
Dearest Mama,
I hope you will forgive my last letter as I was so unhappy and unsettled at that time. I want you to know that I’m much happier now - I’ve become used to Emmy and the constant bickering with her parents. Apparently it is quite normal for teenage girls to try to get everything their own way - Emmy seems to be very good at it.
I am enclosing a picture for you - I have become a fashion model! Emmy has plans to start her own clothing store online, ‘Chihuahua Chique’. She is quite a determined young lady so I’m sure it’ll be successful. I hope you are proud of me. I love you more than anything Mama.
Yours ever, Honey xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
****
I write to put your mind at ease - I am quite safe Mama. Please don't be frightened by what you see or hear on the news or on Mrs.Whinevoiceley’s facebook. It's true - I have been stolen - dognapped from poor Emmy, but I’m being treated extremely well, honestly I am. I can't say more, I mustn't give details - Lupus forgive I should write something which leads to my discovery. I pray this letter reaches you as I may not be able to write again for a long time. Mama dear, please take heart from all the other letters I’ve ever written to you since I was taken from your side and know I will always be, your ever loving Honey xxxxxxxxxxx
****
My name is officially Honeypie Sweet Charity La Cointreau. Mama calls me Honey. Her name's even longer but I’ll spare you that - it’s all to do with people’s obsessive compulsive disorders. What I can tell you is that I’m a honey-coloured smoothcoat Chihuahua - supposedly descended from Chico of Belamie.
Mrs Whinevoiceley is one of those OCD breeders - what can I say? She dotes on all her darling dogs - mainly for money and prestige - but yes, you could also say for 'love'. Mr W. left her a long time ago - he ran off with a Rottweiler breeder - probably the biggest insult of Mrs Whinevoicely's life.
I was just 4 weeks old when Emmylou-Jane and her parents came to see me. In fact they wanted to look at all of us, my beloved brothers and sisters too, but for some reason she couldn’t take her eyes off me - she was so excited. It was flattering of course, but I didn’t understand what was actually happening - Mama hadn’t given us ‘The Talk’ at that point - she liked to wait until we were eating solids and a little bit more independent of her. It came as a huge shock a week later when she told us we would all be going to extremely special new families - that our lives were just beginning. ‘It’s an adventure,’ she whispered, ‘you’re all going to have such wonderful happy lives.’ I wasn’t convinced.
At the end of July I’d just turned eight and a half weeks when Emmylou-Jane and her father showed up again. Mrs Whinevoicely was singing and rushing around tidying the kennels when Mama said to me, ‘darling Honey, I think this is it. I’ll say goodbye now my dear child or there’ll be no time. Whatever happens always remember I love you and I always will. If ever you can write to me please, please do - it would make me so happy.’ She had tears in her eyes as the pen door opened and Mrs W’s hands fluttered down and lifted me high up into the air and away from Mama. I tried desperately to look back and cried out ‘Mama! Mama!’ but I was being bundled into a small cardboard box and Emmylou’s hand was dangling in through the top of it - the fingers poking around my face and tummy, her voice cooing at me. ‘Honeypie Sweet Charity - you’re coming home with me. We’re going to have such fun - the holidays have just started.’
It was awful. I felt sick as a cat on that journey, rolling around in that box of strange smells and all I could hear was Emmylou-Jane and her dad arguing.
‘Just leave it in the box till we get home.’
‘Dad she’s only a baby. She needs cuddles.’
‘You’re anthropomorphising it already,’ he said.
I’d no idea then what he meant - but he was right - and that was only the beginning.
****
Dear Mama,
I don’t want to worry you but I’m not very happy here. I miss you so much and our happy little family. Have the others gone too, are you all alone? I know it’s not been long and I’m still a tiny puppy but the girl, Emmylou- Jane, doesn't seem to realise that I can walk. She puts me in a bag and carries me everywhere. She’s always shopping with girls who scream all the time and never stop poking me. They push my legs into silly clothes which are tight and I can’t move - not that I ever get to much.
She argues with her mama and dad all the time. I get so scared I can’t eat, then I have to go to a white place where a man sticks sharp silver thorns into me. I’m so sorry if I disappoint you Mama but I miss you so terribly much. Knowing you love me gives me a warm feeling though.
Always yours, Honey xxxxxxxxxxxx
****
It was a huge shock to me to be dressed up and carried around like a doll. I was Emmylou-Jane’s 15th birthday present and she was the only one of her friends with a Chihuahua. I began to realise that what these girls wanted was something to love and play with but they didn’t want to play with dolls anymore and they weren’t allowed to have their own babies. And there was something else - Emmylou-Jane had to be the centre of attention. Her mama’s best friend was a very good dressmaker, so when it came to matching outfits "Emmylou-Jane and her adorable toy dog 'Honeypie’" began to make headlines in the local newspaper and some glossy fashion magazines were interested in doing stories about us.
****
Dearest Mama,
I hope you will forgive my last letter as I was so unhappy and unsettled at that time. I want you to know that I’m much happier now - I’ve become used to Emmy and the constant bickering with her parents. Apparently it is quite normal for teenage girls to try to get everything their own way - Emmy seems to be very good at it.
I am enclosing a picture for you - I have become a fashion model! Emmy has plans to start her own clothing store online, ‘Chihuahua Chique’. She is quite a determined young lady so I’m sure it’ll be successful. I hope you are proud of me. I love you more than anything Mama.
Yours ever, Honey xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
****
I hoped Mama would feel proud but something deep down inside me felt uncomfortable. I didn’t really know what she’d think about me dressing up - I suppose I’d never seen Mama wearing clothes so that was why it felt wrong. I painted a rosy picture for her though and I can’t say I was miserable - I mean Emmy certainly loved me and I must have had my head and face kissed a thousand or more times a day by her and her friends and sometimes complete strangers. I was passed around like a new baby.
The hardest thing for me was being so sweet and nice all the time. I was a dog underneath all those cutesie clothes and sometimes I just couldn’t help it - my instincts cut in. I might see a hand coming towards me and get a bad smell from it - I just wouldn’t like the person on the end of the hand. Once or twice I raised my lip and growled and Emmy was furious with me. She pinched the skin on my neck so hard with her fingernails that I nearly fainted. No one could see what she did as her hand was under my leopard-spot fleece jacket. I soon learned to be ‘good’ in spite of my gut feelings.
I also hated being shoved into bags and carted about - sometimes I’d be stuck in there all day. I’m only small, I can’t hold my pee-pees forever. Emmy found that out the hard way and I found out the hard way that I must hold on. Between pinching me and screaming at me Emmy would make the rules quite clear - her rules. But I guess you could say we were getting to know each other, and I shouldn’t complain because sometimes she would see terrible things on facebook and tell me about them. ‘This poor little kitty got put in a liquidiser and mushed up like a smoothie Honeypie. Doesn’t it make you sick? Aren’t you glad you live with me?
****
Dear Mama,
I hope you are well. I do so wish I could come and see you - I hope you get my letters - I would love to hear some news of you. It doesn’t seem fair to be apart forever - all of us. Do you ever hear from the others - Charterhouse, Winston, Diamond, Coquetta? I hope they're happy.
Life with Emmy is changing a little. She has gone back to school and sometimes I go too. (Mama, I learn such a lot there, like where Mexico is!) And ‘Chihuahua Chique’ is doing very well. I meet other toy dogs when they come to be fitted for new outfits but we’re not often allowed down to play. More photos enclosed also - I don’t want you to forget what I look like!
Your ever-loving Honey xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
****
Actually, it was a bit of a shock when Emmy went back to school. I had no idea what it meant but on the first day she pushed me into a new bag and told me to be very quiet. I was terrified - school was loud and bumpy and I spent a lot of time zipped in being bounced around in the dark with hard books and pens. I couldn’t help it - I began to whine - and then all sorts of trouble erupted. Emmy’s mum appeared and took me home. That night they were all arguing downstairs as usual and Emmy wasn’t smiling when she reappeared. ‘They won’t let me take you to school so I’m not going. The whole point of a tiny, tiny toy dog is to take it everywhere - they just don’t get it. I mean it Honeypie - I will not go to school if I can’t take you.’
The long and short of it was most days I stayed home. I was so lonely at first but Emmy would leave the TV on in her room for me. I liked wandering around the house. I would scamper up and down the stairs as much as possible to strengthen my short legs and then I would be so tired I would sleep and not notice the time passing or being on my own - which was just as well because it was becoming clear I wasn’t always the most important thing on Emmy’s mind - there were boys too.
****
Dear Mama,
I am just writing a short letter to tell you I've been to my first ever football match at the local club. Emmy’s new boyfriend took us. His big brother plays in the team - Dorchester Town - and they are in a League. They won the match and everyone was cheering. For once I wasn’t scared by all the noise - probably because Robbie had me tucked inside his jacket and he smells so good.
I never knew how different boys can be - he is such fun. Emmy laughs a lot and we’ve been to the cinema, the bowling alley and Macdonalds. I am so happy that Emmy is going out with him. He’s so nice and always plays with me. I thought Emmy having a boyfriend would mean she’d forget about me but instead I’m having lots of fun.
I wish you were with us too Mama!
All my love, Honey xxxxxxxxxxx
****
Looking back, I can honestly say I think it was me who was in love with Robbie, not Emmy. It was all fine to begin with but then Emmy started getting very sulky. She would hate it if he had anything else to do and wasn’t with her, and Robbie had lots to do because he’s older and had exams and important interviews to go to. Emmy didn’t seem to take her schoolwork too seriously at all - she had her online fashion business - which really her mum sorted out most of the time!
Then came Christmas and everything was ok for a while. Christmas smelt wonderful. For once the whole world seemed to be hyper-excited not just Emmy. I had a feeling that Emmy’s dad wasn’t as thrilled but then he always seemed to be ‘putting his hand in his pocket’ as he said, so I think he felt like a rapidly emptying piggy-bank.
****
Merry Christmas Mama!
I hope you have a wonderful festive time at Mrs W’s.
I have a special Santa outfit for Christmas day and Robbie has got Emmy a beautiful silver necklace - he told me in secret! It has her name on it, isn’t she lucky? There are even presents under the tree for me! It seems such a nice time of year - people are being kind to one another and I wonder why they don’t do it all the time.
I will be thinking of you Mama and am sending you a big present of all my love,
Honey xxxxxxxxx
****
The long and short of it was most days I stayed home. I was so lonely at first but Emmy would leave the TV on in her room for me. I liked wandering around the house. I would scamper up and down the stairs as much as possible to strengthen my short legs and then I would be so tired I would sleep and not notice the time passing or being on my own - which was just as well because it was becoming clear I wasn’t always the most important thing on Emmy’s mind - there were boys too.
****
Dear Mama,
I am just writing a short letter to tell you I've been to my first ever football match at the local club. Emmy’s new boyfriend took us. His big brother plays in the team - Dorchester Town - and they are in a League. They won the match and everyone was cheering. For once I wasn’t scared by all the noise - probably because Robbie had me tucked inside his jacket and he smells so good.
I never knew how different boys can be - he is such fun. Emmy laughs a lot and we’ve been to the cinema, the bowling alley and Macdonalds. I am so happy that Emmy is going out with him. He’s so nice and always plays with me. I thought Emmy having a boyfriend would mean she’d forget about me but instead I’m having lots of fun.
I wish you were with us too Mama!
All my love, Honey xxxxxxxxxxx
****
Looking back, I can honestly say I think it was me who was in love with Robbie, not Emmy. It was all fine to begin with but then Emmy started getting very sulky. She would hate it if he had anything else to do and wasn’t with her, and Robbie had lots to do because he’s older and had exams and important interviews to go to. Emmy didn’t seem to take her schoolwork too seriously at all - she had her online fashion business - which really her mum sorted out most of the time!
Then came Christmas and everything was ok for a while. Christmas smelt wonderful. For once the whole world seemed to be hyper-excited not just Emmy. I had a feeling that Emmy’s dad wasn’t as thrilled but then he always seemed to be ‘putting his hand in his pocket’ as he said, so I think he felt like a rapidly emptying piggy-bank.
****
Merry Christmas Mama!
I hope you have a wonderful festive time at Mrs W’s.
I have a special Santa outfit for Christmas day and Robbie has got Emmy a beautiful silver necklace - he told me in secret! It has her name on it, isn’t she lucky? There are even presents under the tree for me! It seems such a nice time of year - people are being kind to one another and I wonder why they don’t do it all the time.
I will be thinking of you Mama and am sending you a big present of all my love,
Honey xxxxxxxxx
****
Emmy liked her necklace but somehow it didn’t seem enough to make her happy - the sulky moods returned. I don’t know what she wanted - Robbie was such fun to go out with and she had loved it all at the start, but now it was more about how she looked and didn’t he find her attractive? Just because he didn’t want to spend the whole time kissing her and playing on her bed she would accuse him of not fancying her and he would say, ‘Emmy you’re only 15 - we’re not going to do anything stupid. Let’s take Honey out’, and that was music to my ears, but she would be furious because she said it proved she was right.
I didn’t care though. He called me Honey - not stupid Honeypie! And he threw a ball for me and played tug of war with the bright red rope I’d had for Christmas which no one else ever even waved in front of my nose.
****
Happy Easter Mama,
Don’t eat any chocolate - the vet has told Emmy it’s not good for us. You probably know that!
All my love, Honey xxxxxxxxx
****
I didn’t care though. He called me Honey - not stupid Honeypie! And he threw a ball for me and played tug of war with the bright red rope I’d had for Christmas which no one else ever even waved in front of my nose.
****
Happy Easter Mama,
Don’t eat any chocolate - the vet has told Emmy it’s not good for us. You probably know that!
All my love, Honey xxxxxxxxx
****
The big fall out happened at Easter. The poop-poops hit the fan when Robbie said he would definitely choose St Andrew’s University if he got good enough grades - apparently that’s a long way away. 'In another country!’, Emmy screamed. She also screamed ‘forget it!’ and told her friends he was probably gay anyway as he never seemed to find her sexy.
I was heartbroken. I can’t believe how bad I felt - it was like my whole world had ended. I had Emmy’s full attention again but somehow that wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted to be around Robbie - he'd made me feel so alive. I wasn't hungry and felt so sad - 'grumpy' Emmy called it. I got taken to see the vet who explained I was probably coming into season for the first time. I had no idea what that meant but Emmy was convinced it meant I would have puppies. What a shock! I felt I was only just starting to grow up. Puppies weren't what I wanted - I just wanted to see Robbie. Thankfully the vet told Emmy it would be a bad idea for me to have puppies quite so young but she started telling all her friends that in a year’s time they could each have a puppy. She put it on facebook and even mentioned it on Chihuahua Chique. My life was all planned out for me.
****
Dear Mama,
I hope you are ok. I’ve been thinking a lot about you recently and I miss you so much. I wish I could see you - there are so many things I’d like to ask you. Now that I‘m one year old and know so much more about the world, I realise I hardly got to know anything about you. I don’t know where my brothers and sisters are and it makes me sad.
I’m fine of course - don't worry - it’s just that sometimes I feel alone, in spite of Emmy and all my lovely clothes.
All my love to you Mama, Honey xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
****
Time’s a healer they say, but I think in a way it’s just that every day passes by and you can’t stop it - I certainly couldn’t. I wasn’t excited about my birthday - which seemed more like a party for Emmy than for me. There was a new outfit of course and a specially made dog cake which looked like a real cake but tasted like tuna!
It was summer again and Emmy went away for two weeks to the Canaries with a friend’s family and I missed her of course but I’m not convinced she missed me. It was nice not to be dressed up like a Barbie doll every day and Emmy’s mum and dad are actually ok people to be around when Emmy’s not here. It was relaxing. When Emmy returned it felt like a tornado had struck.
She was now 16 and boy mad. I was being used strategically in all her attention seeking ploys - I was sneaked into concerts, pubs, even a festival and was starting to chew the hair off my feet because I sensed so many scary things around me. There were lots of nice people too but Emmy wanted to smoke and drink and sometimes could barely walk home. I was squashed, starved and worst of all, in the stifling heat at Glastonbury I was pushed down into her bag to make sure I wasn’t seen and get us thrown out.
The vet looked at my feet and said I had an obsessive compulsive disorder. Me! No mention of the horrible life I was having to endure. I was still sad about losing Robbie but also missing Mama terribly. I hadn’t even the heart to write to dear Mama in case I worried her - but she was about to worry even more as it turned out - I was dog-napped!
It was September, and Emmy had gone back to school. I was all alone in the house and dozing on my bed next to her's with the telly on when suddenly I heard a noise right behind me. I don’t know what happened - usually I'm so quick to jump and although I instinctively felt ready to attack - someone or something was faster than me. The world turned black and I could feel myself being hoisted up in the air, suspended in a dark, disgusting smelly bag. It was tied up in a knot just above my head and there was no room to move. My heart was racing and my whole body felt like it wanted to burst out of itself. I was holding my breath to avoid the terrible stink and my chest felt horribly tight - I couldn’t get enough breath to even bark.
There was no sound, no voice, just the blackness and the sensation of movement which I could tell was taking me downstairs and through the kitchen. I heard the backdoor open and the sound of heavy rain, then as if the bag I was in wasn’t cramped enough, I was being squashed into an even smaller space - squashed flat - and I heard a zipper being pulled up extremely close to my ears.
A heart was pounding right next to mine and over that I heard the door shut. Then I was bouncing up and down - clearly running very fast - I was being taken away. For the second time in my life I was being taken away from everything I knew and I remembered the horrifying moment I was wrenched from my mama - it made me so rigid with fear that I must have passed out. When I came to I could hear a car engine and realised it was travelling very fast - with me in it. I felt terrified and the dreadful smell inside the bag was still getting up my nose. I couldn’t help it, I began to whine and shake but immediately the radio was turned on - very loud music filled the car.
I must have fallen asleep because I suddenly came to as the car stopped. The radio fell silent, a door opened and I could hear voices. Then whoosh! - someone grabbed the bag with me in it and I was being carried off somewhere else. I was plopped down in the bag and I heard a car door slam by my head. An engine started and my heart sank, this could only mean travelling even further from home. Suddenly I felt desperate for air and panicked - I howled like a tiny wolf - I didn't care what would happen, surely things couldn't get any worse. A hand dropped onto my head and a familiar voice said, 'everything’s OK Honey. We’ll stop soon and you can get out - we just have to make sure we’re off the beaten track little girl.'
Chihuahua Chique and Facebook asked for help to track me down -
I was heartbroken. I can’t believe how bad I felt - it was like my whole world had ended. I had Emmy’s full attention again but somehow that wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted to be around Robbie - he'd made me feel so alive. I wasn't hungry and felt so sad - 'grumpy' Emmy called it. I got taken to see the vet who explained I was probably coming into season for the first time. I had no idea what that meant but Emmy was convinced it meant I would have puppies. What a shock! I felt I was only just starting to grow up. Puppies weren't what I wanted - I just wanted to see Robbie. Thankfully the vet told Emmy it would be a bad idea for me to have puppies quite so young but she started telling all her friends that in a year’s time they could each have a puppy. She put it on facebook and even mentioned it on Chihuahua Chique. My life was all planned out for me.
****
Dear Mama,
I hope you are ok. I’ve been thinking a lot about you recently and I miss you so much. I wish I could see you - there are so many things I’d like to ask you. Now that I‘m one year old and know so much more about the world, I realise I hardly got to know anything about you. I don’t know where my brothers and sisters are and it makes me sad.
I’m fine of course - don't worry - it’s just that sometimes I feel alone, in spite of Emmy and all my lovely clothes.
All my love to you Mama, Honey xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
****
Time’s a healer they say, but I think in a way it’s just that every day passes by and you can’t stop it - I certainly couldn’t. I wasn’t excited about my birthday - which seemed more like a party for Emmy than for me. There was a new outfit of course and a specially made dog cake which looked like a real cake but tasted like tuna!
It was summer again and Emmy went away for two weeks to the Canaries with a friend’s family and I missed her of course but I’m not convinced she missed me. It was nice not to be dressed up like a Barbie doll every day and Emmy’s mum and dad are actually ok people to be around when Emmy’s not here. It was relaxing. When Emmy returned it felt like a tornado had struck.
She was now 16 and boy mad. I was being used strategically in all her attention seeking ploys - I was sneaked into concerts, pubs, even a festival and was starting to chew the hair off my feet because I sensed so many scary things around me. There were lots of nice people too but Emmy wanted to smoke and drink and sometimes could barely walk home. I was squashed, starved and worst of all, in the stifling heat at Glastonbury I was pushed down into her bag to make sure I wasn’t seen and get us thrown out.
The vet looked at my feet and said I had an obsessive compulsive disorder. Me! No mention of the horrible life I was having to endure. I was still sad about losing Robbie but also missing Mama terribly. I hadn’t even the heart to write to dear Mama in case I worried her - but she was about to worry even more as it turned out - I was dog-napped!
It was September, and Emmy had gone back to school. I was all alone in the house and dozing on my bed next to her's with the telly on when suddenly I heard a noise right behind me. I don’t know what happened - usually I'm so quick to jump and although I instinctively felt ready to attack - someone or something was faster than me. The world turned black and I could feel myself being hoisted up in the air, suspended in a dark, disgusting smelly bag. It was tied up in a knot just above my head and there was no room to move. My heart was racing and my whole body felt like it wanted to burst out of itself. I was holding my breath to avoid the terrible stink and my chest felt horribly tight - I couldn’t get enough breath to even bark.
There was no sound, no voice, just the blackness and the sensation of movement which I could tell was taking me downstairs and through the kitchen. I heard the backdoor open and the sound of heavy rain, then as if the bag I was in wasn’t cramped enough, I was being squashed into an even smaller space - squashed flat - and I heard a zipper being pulled up extremely close to my ears.
A heart was pounding right next to mine and over that I heard the door shut. Then I was bouncing up and down - clearly running very fast - I was being taken away. For the second time in my life I was being taken away from everything I knew and I remembered the horrifying moment I was wrenched from my mama - it made me so rigid with fear that I must have passed out. When I came to I could hear a car engine and realised it was travelling very fast - with me in it. I felt terrified and the dreadful smell inside the bag was still getting up my nose. I couldn’t help it, I began to whine and shake but immediately the radio was turned on - very loud music filled the car.
I must have fallen asleep because I suddenly came to as the car stopped. The radio fell silent, a door opened and I could hear voices. Then whoosh! - someone grabbed the bag with me in it and I was being carried off somewhere else. I was plopped down in the bag and I heard a car door slam by my head. An engine started and my heart sank, this could only mean travelling even further from home. Suddenly I felt desperate for air and panicked - I howled like a tiny wolf - I didn't care what would happen, surely things couldn't get any worse. A hand dropped onto my head and a familiar voice said, 'everything’s OK Honey. We’ll stop soon and you can get out - we just have to make sure we’re off the beaten track little girl.'
Chihuahua Chique and Facebook asked for help to track me down -
There were some lovely pictures of me in my Santa-suit and the 'ivory-mist' wedding outfit Emmy designed. There were reports in the local newspaper and the Western Morning News.
I wrote to Mama to reassure her I was safe and I stayed in hiding for some time but eventually the dust settled and Robbie could take me out for walks on West Sands and along the coastal path to Crail. Scotland is the most beautiful place in the world and feeling the earth beneath my feet and the wind in my hair is exhilarating. If I had a biscuit for every time he told someone ‘it’s me mum’s dog’! Then he met Abbie and no one batted an eyelid at the sight of a girl and a guy with a toy dog!
I've learned so much from Robbie. He says a dog is meant to run around and play with other dogs and get muddy feet and bark and not be used to make money for its owners. He definitely doesn't like dogs being treated like fashion accessories and babies. It had made him sad to see me being dressed up in silly clothes by Emmy although he insists I wear a nice tartan dog coat for cold wet days. He's never said anything really bad about Emmy - he took ‘extreme action’ when he discovered she was planning to breed from me. His brother - the footballer with the sweaty footie-boot bag - helped him out. That was why I’d always loved being with Robbie – he cared about ME. I felt real with him. And now he had set me free forever, but a part of me also felt very sad.
****
Dearest Mama,
It’s been a long time since I wrote but I had to keep very quiet. I can tell you now - I didn’t want to be found. I was happier than I’d ever been since I left you, to be honest, and now I am happy all the time, except for missing you.
I feel so sad Mama - so sad for you. You are such a good Mama and loved all of us so much but you were left on your own.
I want you to know I think of you every day and I love you Mama, always
Honey xxxxxxxxxxxx
****
One day Robbie was looking at the Internet and he started shouting at the screen - ‘outlived her bloody usefulness more like! What a cow!’ I’d never seen him so angry. The next day he said he had to go down South and would be back as soon as he could. Abbie and I waited and worried - what was the matter with him - he hadn’t explained a thing?
A few days later he was back, but not alone - he had a surprise for me. ‘Would you like to come and see Honey?’ And there you were Mama - my own dearest Mama - sitting in the back of the car, looking older and awfully thin but how you jumped when you saw me. We ran all around the garden wagging our tails, rubbing our noses, barking and barking - free as free as free. It was like a million Christmases in one day - a miracle - an incredible dream come true.
Mama settled in very quickly and I discovered that I had many more brothers and sisters then I had ever realised. Dear Mama - she had lost them all but never complained - instead she had bravely smiled at each new litter of tiny beautiful babies and encouraged us to feel our futures would be bright and positive. Now, every day I see her getting stronger and happier. Her eyes bulge quite a bit but that’s how it is for Chihuahuas - no doubt mine will too eventually! For now, life could not be better.
'To the beach Robbie, let’s go!'
****
I wrote to Mama to reassure her I was safe and I stayed in hiding for some time but eventually the dust settled and Robbie could take me out for walks on West Sands and along the coastal path to Crail. Scotland is the most beautiful place in the world and feeling the earth beneath my feet and the wind in my hair is exhilarating. If I had a biscuit for every time he told someone ‘it’s me mum’s dog’! Then he met Abbie and no one batted an eyelid at the sight of a girl and a guy with a toy dog!
I've learned so much from Robbie. He says a dog is meant to run around and play with other dogs and get muddy feet and bark and not be used to make money for its owners. He definitely doesn't like dogs being treated like fashion accessories and babies. It had made him sad to see me being dressed up in silly clothes by Emmy although he insists I wear a nice tartan dog coat for cold wet days. He's never said anything really bad about Emmy - he took ‘extreme action’ when he discovered she was planning to breed from me. His brother - the footballer with the sweaty footie-boot bag - helped him out. That was why I’d always loved being with Robbie – he cared about ME. I felt real with him. And now he had set me free forever, but a part of me also felt very sad.
****
Dearest Mama,
It’s been a long time since I wrote but I had to keep very quiet. I can tell you now - I didn’t want to be found. I was happier than I’d ever been since I left you, to be honest, and now I am happy all the time, except for missing you.
I feel so sad Mama - so sad for you. You are such a good Mama and loved all of us so much but you were left on your own.
I want you to know I think of you every day and I love you Mama, always
Honey xxxxxxxxxxxx
****
One day Robbie was looking at the Internet and he started shouting at the screen - ‘outlived her bloody usefulness more like! What a cow!’ I’d never seen him so angry. The next day he said he had to go down South and would be back as soon as he could. Abbie and I waited and worried - what was the matter with him - he hadn’t explained a thing?
A few days later he was back, but not alone - he had a surprise for me. ‘Would you like to come and see Honey?’ And there you were Mama - my own dearest Mama - sitting in the back of the car, looking older and awfully thin but how you jumped when you saw me. We ran all around the garden wagging our tails, rubbing our noses, barking and barking - free as free as free. It was like a million Christmases in one day - a miracle - an incredible dream come true.
Mama settled in very quickly and I discovered that I had many more brothers and sisters then I had ever realised. Dear Mama - she had lost them all but never complained - instead she had bravely smiled at each new litter of tiny beautiful babies and encouraged us to feel our futures would be bright and positive. Now, every day I see her getting stronger and happier. Her eyes bulge quite a bit but that’s how it is for Chihuahuas - no doubt mine will too eventually! For now, life could not be better.
'To the beach Robbie, let’s go!'
****
( footnote - no actual chihuahuas or kittens were harmed in the making of this story )