I’m running late…I’ve missed two months! My excuse? Well, I don’t really need one, do I? But an explanation might involve the ‘freedom’ I craved, and claimed, being little short of a whirlwind, and only increasing in strength. Tables are strewn with year planners: 2026, 2027, 2028. Mostly filled. This year I have kept a few days in November and a week in August, in which I’ll be moving into the flat I seem to have accidentally bought (more on that later).
I was looking forward to a breather, after a month working once again on the mosaics at Highland Stoneware (suffering from two years of neglect) and two painting holiday itineraries – one in Assynt and one in the Dolomites – and the chance to catch up with admin and some writing, ho ho. However, anyone who thinks that three weeks in a remote location on the NW coast will be plenty of time to ‘get things done,’ has obviously never looked after a dog.
At least, not one with so much energy; a sharp mind that requires stimulating; long, shaggy coat to pick burrs and ticks out of (with a great deal of protest) and a fluffy belly that needs rubbing. One that’s not afraid to insist, and one I can’t refuse. Because she’s just so damn adorable, and in the absence of her Mum and Dad, I’m her everything.
She’s such a quirky, funny character. Strong and wilful, yet sensitive and loving, she was supposed to be on crate rest interspersed with very short, gentle walks, as she’s hurt her back. Just try to tell her that! Thankfully, she’s feeling so much better and we’ve enjoyed swims, woodland sniffs and breezy coastline strolls to no ill effect. She has special rubber steps to get into and out of the car, which she travels in willingly because she understands we’ll be going somewhere exciting. Mellon Udrigle, Loch Maree and Flowerdale House are all on the menu; she sees the point of the journey, but not of the steps. She leaps (when my back’s turned) onto rocks, sofas and beds, and charges up stairs. So, what’s with the car steps? She asks. If I’m firm with my instructions, and timely with erection, she’ll walk up them obediently, rolling her eyes. If I’m a second late unfolding them, she’s in the boot, curled up, or leaping out of it, raring to go. It’s an ongoing battle, but rules are rules. Eh, Breagha?
Of course, I also love to walk, and I don’t need much persuasion. It’s perhaps a good job she can’t go too far or, with the lovely weather we’ve had until yesterday, we’d have been up Munroes, out all day and I’d be getting nothing achieved at all. What she really wants to do is chase rabbits, and she’s literally pulled me over in trying. I can’t let her off the lead or she’ll vanish down a burrow, as opposed to just sticking her head into one, ripping out the surrounding grass in a frenzy with her teeth, and emerging covered in sand, grass seeds – and ticks.
Most of the day is spoken for. She has her routine, and if I err, I’m greeted with incredulity and dismay. I’m just about trained by now, but the first time I forgot her after dinner chew, which I’m supposed to hide, she spent ten minutes tearing through the house, stopping to look at me with her head on one side as she searched from room to room and, incredible though that now seems, I couldn’t figure out what she was doing. It was only our second night, and I put it down to her being unsettled, perhaps looking for her parents? Silly me. She simply couldn’t find that to which she was entitled, and she wanted to know where it was.
She’s very food oriented, and seems to like anything. In many ways this makes life easier. Until we’re out. Her obsession with rabbits does not discern between alive, dead or somewhere in between. Walking down a narrow lane I spotted something lying in the middle of it, but not before she did. I had barely registered it as a newly knocked over rabbit, bloodied and perhaps still warm, before she’d pulled across me and had it in her mouth, refusing to relinquish it. Incredibly responsive to commands under normal circumstances, I had the idea she might ‘leave it’ when asked to do so. The biscuit I offered in exchange just wasn’t cutting it. Treating it as a game of ‘tuggy’ resulted in two of the unfortunate bunny’s legs coming away in my hands, while the rest of it remained in her mouth, halfway down her throat, like a seagull trying to swallow an entire fish supper before being chased away. Trying not to gag and angry at her disobedience, I frog-marched her home while she crunched. The whole thing. Minus two legs.
I’d been warned the rabbits around here have myxomatosis. I immediately Googled to see if that posed a risk to her. It didn’t. But I hadn’t considered the issues of intestinal blockages caused by bones and fur, or tummy upsets from the richness. I phoned the vet. Watch her for 48 hours, she said. Look out for vomiting, diarrhoea, straining, tummy pain, lethargy, loss of appetite. Make sure she drinks plenty. That in itself is difficult enough as she’ll only drink filtered water out of the fridge – except for murky pond water, of course. 72 hours and no symptoms (apart from being extra pleased with herself) later, I could finally relax. My cat Scrabble used to catch rabbits; he could put away a large adult, leaving just the gall bladder and tail, and still ask for his tea, so I don’t know why I was so worried. But a dog is a full-time responsibility, and someone else’s baby. This adventure served only to make her more hyper and utterly determined to grab herself another, similar takeaway. Not on my watch, Sunshine.
Other habits are more endearing.
While she’s eating her breakfast, I must take a short length of deer antler known as ‘Thing’ and hide it somewhere in the house, or in the garden if it’s fine and we have the door open. As soon as she’s finished her meal, she runs around, looking at me for a clue as to where I’ve put it. She goes first into her parents’ room, then into ours. If it’s not there, she’ll look for the subtlest indication – the movement of my eyes – that it might be outside. When she finds it, she brings it triumphantly to me and drops it into the biscuit tin I’m holding opened and ready, exchanging it for one of the biscuits.
At 11am she gets a toy called Kong, which I must fill with small pieces of biscuit and smear some cheese spread around. I don’t ask why. She takes this outside, shakes out the treats, licks the spread and abandons it there when it’s empty. I’ve now trained her to bring it back inside; we can’t have untidiness, can we? She needs a small reward, of course.
A little swim is the highlight of a walk. At a sandy beach she’ll roll exuberantly afterwards and bring home half the beach in her coat, so I’m trying to stick mainly to fresh water, unless it’s hot and I want to join her. She will only actually swim – as in, feet leaving the ground – if I throw a biscuit into the deep which she will swim out to, and eat. She’ll also fetch a stick, but will expect a ‘reward’ for retrieving it. I blame the parents.
Game time is when she comes into her own. She will select a toy carrot, pepper, cauliflower or pear, though it took some time for her to get used to my accent. She’ll find the right size and colour ring to put on a tower (with a little direction) and do all manner of gymnastics with the paw. The cleverest of all is when she’s asked to go into her ‘housie’. The crate which sits in the living room has a ribbon around the door handle. She’ll open the door with her teeth, go inside, then pull the door closed behind her; it’s the sweetest thing. She’ll do anything for food. Anything, that is, except let you remove her ticks. That’s her red line.
With intelligence comes wilfulness and she’s just like a toddler, if more articulate (and beautiful). I’m horrified and amused in equal measure by her behaviour when we’re out in public. She made a beeline for a stuffed Highland cow toy in the Inverewe Gardens gift shop before rubbing herself down a line of folded tartan rugs in an attempt to remove her harness, which she hates. But if she thinks I’m going out with her without it, she’ll have to address her mischievousness, no matter how hilarious!
She’s a contrary pup; she’ll bark at the hoover but lie down in front of the lawn mower. She’ll help put the washing out, picking up an item at a time and handing it to me; for a piece of kibble, naturally. When we get home, she’ll lie down and cross her paws. Her huge, fluffy, white paws, and I melt.
At least she’ll happily sleep for 10 hours, and is as still as a corpse under the bed in the morning, tail and back leg sticking out. There’s no movement if I go to the loo in the night or speak to her to check for signs of life. But as soon as she hears me pick up my jeans, it’s like pressing a button. We’re off!
Free time, I guess, is overrated. Soon normality will be restored, our umbilical cord severed. I’ll miss my baby girl, the diva, and it will be a wrench to leave her, to say nothing of these gorgeous surroundings, reconfirming what I already know, about where I belong. But the next time I ‘sit’, it’ll be for cats. Either that, or I stop trying to keep up with this blog!
In Scottish Gaelic, brèagha means ‘beautiful’, ‘fine’, ‘lovely’ or ‘pretty’.
From Middle Irish bregda (“Bregian, fine”), from Brega (“Bregia, country around the Hill of Tara”), possibly from Old Irish brí (“hill”), from Proto-Celtic *brixs (“hill”). Cognate with Irish breá (archaic breagha, breaghdha) and Manx braew. Possibly related to brìgh (“sense; strength; significance”).
(https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/br%C3%A8agha#Scottish_Gaelic)
Watching a West Coast sunset