Twenty-seven years ago, I wrote my memories of Scamp – my childhood
dog – in the sad days after he passed away at the grand age of seventeen. I still vividly remember cradling his
beautiful, tired, old head in one of his favourite spots under the dining table
as, coincidentally, fittingly, ‘Angels’ by Robbie Williams played on the
radio. Back then, aged twenty-one
myself, I was too embarrassed to share those memories or anything of my grief
with anyone. Now, with tears pricking my
eyes once again, I have no shame in my sadness and in recording these memories
of Bramble, Mum and Dad’s faithful companion of the past fourteen years and truly
one of my best friends, who passed away on Friday.
In the years between losing Scamp and Bramble arriving at Mum
and Dad’s home in Cornwall, I convinced myself that loving another dog would be
a betrayal of Scamp’s memory. As it
turned out, nothing could stop me making the long drive to Lizard to meet
Bramble just days after he made it his home.
In the years that followed, as they watched Bramble leap up at me and
lick me all over when I arrived for a visit or came downstairs each morning, apparently
greeting me as he did no-one else, Mum and Dad often commented on how – if imprinting
is a thing – I had imprinted on Bramble that first time we met. He imprinted on me too.
I doubt any of my friends would be surprised at my grief; I
spoke so much about Bramble and I’m certain Facebook is littered with photographs
of him. He was the puppy who ate homework,
albeit that of the children I taught. He
was the dog who couldn’t resist the smell of the sea, single-mindedly
disappearing into the distance on the approach to Kynance Cove, at Hengistbury
Head or on the Southbourne Overcliff. He
was the singing dog, who barked along joyously as Mum and Dad sang ‘Happy Birthday’
down the phone to me and who shredded wrapping paper like no other. He was the digger-dog who ferociously tore up
clumps of turf before spraying mud in all directions as he frantically set
about digging up the particular stone he had set his heart on playing with. He was the bouncing-dog, relentlessly leaping
up, spinning on the spot, ears flying madly in his bid to play. He was my companion during the sunny weeks of
the Covid lockdown, accompanying me on long walks across the empty Cornish
clifftops. He was a consistent comforter
in the past couple of years when so much of my life has fallen apart around me.
He was an extraordinary dog.
I’m sure all dog owners think the same of their pets, just as every
parent rightly believes their children are special; it makes it no less true
that Bramble was extraordinary. Setting
aside his condescension when it came to other dogs, his enthusiasm and joy for
meeting human-friends, old and new, was unequalled. His great brush of a tail wagged so uncontrollably
and so fiercely, it seemed to unbalance his whole body. His ears cocked handsomely, his bright eyes
sparkled and his faced seemed to break into a broad grin, long tongue lolling. He raced to meet you or strained at the end
of his lead in his eagerness.
He loved making new friends.
Many a stranger wrongly assumed he was scrounging for food when he bounded
up to the bench they sat upon actually seeking connection with them as much as
any titbits they might have, or they came to know Bramble when he dropped his
ball at their feet then lay patiently, blocking their path until they threw it
for him. On one of his recent visits to
Bournemouth, I walked him through the lower gardens toward the beach, when a family
of three generations approached from the opposite direction, the youngest among
them a girl of three or four who was obviously unnerved by the sight of Bramble. Instinctively, he just lay down to meet first
the girls’ parents and grandparents and then to welcome her own little fingers tentatively
tickling at his ears. I like to think
that his gentle yet keen friendliness may have been a life-changing introduction
for her to man’s best friend – the unintended therapy dog.
To the end, a game of fetch was the most fun possible – for both
of us. I loved to turn a corner or pass
through a gate on a walk to find nothing other than a ball, neatly placed in
the middle of the path, knowing that somewhere, just a little further ahead,
lay Bramble, no thought for anyone walking from the opposite direction, caring
only for the continuation of our game. I
smiled at his unerring failure to grasp gravity as he lay at the top of a steep
hill, watching the ball he had just placed at his own feet bounce back down the
steps he had just climbed before chasing back down after it only to return and
make the same mistake. Many a time, I made
the perhaps-deliberate mistake of taking both Bramble and a book to the garden,
for a spell of supposedly peaceful reading in the sunshine. Inevitably, the book was soon abandoned as
Bramble insisted on playing. The only
way our game could be improved was by shallow water – the pool beneath the
Bronze Age settlement at Kynance Gate, the River Otter near Newton Poppleford,
the Byes in Sidmouth or the shoreline on the beach in Bournemouth. Innumerable are the balls lost by Bramble as
he lay in the cooling water or lapped at it while his ball bobbed away out of
his sight or out of his reach. All that
could rival these games was our shared love of cheese. I’m certain no-one was really fooled by my assurances
that Bramble was merely supervising me as I prepared a suppertime cheeseboard!
There’s no denying my grief at Bramble’s loss is compounded
by its cruel timing, just a few months after losing his favourite companion:
Dad. I’m certain Bramble’s own grief for
Dad was as real as any human’s. When we
returned from the hospital for the last time in April, Bramble met me at the front
door, sniffed at me and sank. I had
never seen a whole being sink as he did in that moment; there was no doubt to
me that he knew what had happened.
One of
my saddest moments in the months that followed was on a visit to the
Bournemouth branch of the Halifax with Mum and Bramble. At first, Mum went in while Bramble and I waited
outside, then he and I joined her so I could help answer some of the assistant’s
questions. Bramble’s behaviour was bizarre:
even considering his love of making new friends, he was inexplicably
over-excited to meet this man. ‘I’m
sorry; I don’t have anything for you!’ the assistant said to Bramble. Baffled, I replied, ‘I think he might want to
eat you as much as any treat!’ The penny
then dropped as I saw the man through Bramble’s eyes. His height, body-shape, tone of voice and
easy, warm manner with Mum was everything Bramble recognised in Dad. Trying to hide my tears from Mum, I nuzzled
my face against Bramble’s and whispered sadly, ‘It’s not him. It’s not him.’ It’s easy to imagine that Bramble simply
missed Dad too much. Once more, ‘You’ll
never walk alone’ plays in my mind as I think of them eternally walking
together.
I have no hesitation in describing Bramble as my best
friend. Like all good pets, he provided
that unfailing, unquestioning faithfulness and love that seems all too rare in
other people. More than that though, his
joy among us and others and his boundless playfulness seemed to offer a valid
and important alternative outlook on life: ‘Put down the book, close the laptop
and play!’ he told me. He brought me a kind
of joy that I will miss terribly.
