So. It's been nearly 3 years since I said goodbye. Perhaps too long. Perhaps time enough. Either way, here I am, and there we were, in Brighton.

It was around about this time that I developed a hunger like I'd never felt before. It gripped me inside and led me to eat anything and everything, regardless of whether it was edible or not. Chip wrappers...rotten fish bones...seaweed...stones...driftwood...any poo I came across, including my own...My tiny belly just kept getting fatter and fatter yet it never felt full. I was like a scrawny barrel on scrawny legs, if you can picture such a thing.

What you have to understand at this point is that Eyes had never brought up a pup before, having been brought up herself with cats. She'd been around enough to know the basics, but some things were a mystery to her. And she was young, so young. Just 17, and barely able to look after herself. No wonder she struggled with me at times. Man, however...Well, I'm not sure about him. He really had no excuse. For any of it.

Eventually, however, it became clear that all was not well, and I found myself paying my first ever visit to the Vet.

In 10 days time...

In 10 days time, a whole year will have passed since Mad Dog left for the Bridge. I still miss him horribly, and no doubt always will, but enough time has now gone by that it's time I got back to telling his story.

I originally planned to write under this, my own username, once he had gone. But he still feels so close each and every day that it feels right for him to continue under his own name, for a little longer at least. He tells it so much better than I can, after all.

So...Over to you, dear sweet Mad Dog. You live on through your memories and your words.

Happy 14th Birthday Mad Dog.

A couple of poems for and from my precious boy.

Rainbow Bridge

Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge. When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.

All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor; those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.

They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent; His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster. You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart. Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together.

*

Author unknown.

The Legacy

When humans die, they make a will

To leave their homes and all they haveto those they love.

I, too, would make a will if I could write.
To some poor wistful, lonely stray

I leave my happy home,

My dish, my cosy bed, my cushioned chair, my toy.

The well loved lap, the gentle stroking hand,the loving voice,

The place I made in someone's heart,

The love that at the last could help me toa peaceful painless end

Held in loving arms.

If I should die,

Oh do not say,

"No more a pet I'll have,to grieve me by it's loss"

Seek out some lonely, unloved dog

And give my place to him.

This is the legacy I leave behind -'tis all I have to give.

*

Author unknown.

It's been a while.

It's been a while since I was able to face this Blog. About 4 months, in fact. I knew it would hurt when Mad Dog went to Rainbow Bridge, but I had no idea quite how much. He's been my companion and my rock for my entire adult life, and the space he has left behind is hollow and raw.

I can shut my eyes and see every part of him. I can start from his long grey nails (always a battle to keep trimmed) and those big bony white paws that he never quite grew into; I can work my way up his foxy front legs which only looked black from a distance - close up they were chestnut and golden and every colour in between; I can picture his white fuzzy chest, and how when you rubbed his armpits his back legs would tickle, way back before his nerves let him down and the link between the two was severed; the way the white crept a little way around his neck, and under his chin, ruffling up under his collar; his smooth black muzzle and how it greyed over the years, each new white spot a badge of a battle fought and survived if not always won; his funny flappy tongue from the incident with the chilli when he was 4 months old; the little scar on the very tip of his lip from when he leapt out of the shopping trolley the third day I had him; the long white blaze which had seemed so big and broad when he was tiny, but which never grew with the rest of the dog so it got narrower as he got bigger; those deep brown eyes and all the things they saw but shouldn't have; the wide and velvety ears, and all the things they had to say to those who could read their secrets...

I can go on like this for the whole dog. I can tell you about every inch, from the white spot on the back of his neck to the white tip that he had on his tail before he lost it. I can tell you where that tail started from and where it ended up. I can bore anyone who's daft enough to listen on the subject and still have stories to tell. But none of it brings him back.

Both Mad Dog and I were homeless when we met, and we built our world together, through the very worst of times to the present day. He stuck by me whilst I made what some would see as unforgiveable mistakes, and allowed myself to be used by the lowest of people. But he never judged, and he never will...He just stayed by my side until I reached a point where he felt I was safe. I now have a secure home and a happy healthy family. To this end, his legacy is the bricks and mortar that surround me and the love within them. After much thought, we have a new canine in our midst now, a rescue dog who needed a forever sofa. She'll be along shortly to introduce herself, I have no doubt. In the meantime it's enough that Mad Dog - or Dogger, as he was affectionately known once I passed the age at which my original choice of name seemed like a good one - would approve. He didn't hang on all that time to see this haven created to just look down from the Bridge and watch it going to waste.

Was he ready to go? I think so. In fact I know so, he was waiting for me to be ready rather than the other way around - he probably would have been just as happy to go a few weeks before. But it had to be the right time for both of us, and he knew that.

The morning that he went, I came downstairs to find he had soiled himself completely, and was lying on the cold floor where he had kicked all his bedding to one side in an attempt to cover up. His nerves has gone so badly he couldn't even drag himself away from the mess, and the look on his poor dear face was of shame and humiliation. After I picked him up and carried him out to his favourite sunny spot in the garden, I looked out of the window and knew that it was time. His quality of life had finally gone, and it would be cruel to force him to carry on for my sake.

Two hours later, and after much consideration, we decided it was best to take him to the vet rather than have the vet come to us. We wanted his passing to be as calm as possible, and he trusted them there. At home, we'd have had hysterical kids and no peace, which above all else is what Mad Dog deserved at the end. Peace.

We pulled up in our usual spot outside the surgery, and I climbed into the back seat to say goodbye to my first love for the last time. I sat there with him and for the first time in over 13 years he let me wrap my arms right around him and hold him tight. He laid his head on my shoulder and nuzzled my neck as I cried into his fur. I told him I was sorry, so sorry, that there was nothing more I could do. I was sorry I had failed him at the last post, but couldn't bear to see him suffer any more. At that point he made a huge effort and shifted his face up to mine to lick away my tears. He knew what was happening, and he was saying "it's ok".

The vet came out and I let him go, whilst R leaned in to carry him through the door for his final journey. I didn't trust my legs, unreliable as they are, not to let me down. But he was unable to lift Dogger at the last minute, so fierce were the tears rolling down his face, so in the end I took him myself. I didn't let go of my boy until his paw had been shaved, and the drugs had eased him on his way. I held him and smoothed his head as he relaxed, truly free of pain and discomfort for the first time in years. Then he gave a great sigh and his body went slack, whilst his soul leapt up and ran away to freedom.

His body was cremated and is in a box looking down on where I sleep when I am home. That comforts me. He lives on through his memory - they remember him at his vet, and in most places that he visited regularly in his last years, as well as here at home - and his legacy. He will never be forgotten. He taught me how to trust, and how to love.

Goodbye dear, precious Mad Dog. See you at the Bridge.

Sad News.

Mad Dog was helped to die at 12.15 this afternoon, 28th October 2007. He went peacefully. It was his time.

I will continue his blog on his behalf when the tears have cleared.

SNAPSHOTS: Brighton by night, June 1994

The Palace Pier, as it was called then. Up the steps to ground level and the first thing to see and smell was the doughnut stand. 5 for a pound, a warming snack to set the night's adventures off to a good start. Through the golden arches and out along the boards, the water rushing in beneath my feet. Peering nervously over the edge and breathing in the smell of the sea. Padding along it'slength, pausing to be lifted so I can peer through windows and into bright cases. Tinkling laughter and shouts of fun from the visitors from that other world which isn't our world, the world which does not know that this is our roof as well as their playground.

Down the steps on the other side to run along beneath the prom, letting off steam before the night begins in earnest. To our right, beach huts set into the wall, havens for the taking if only we'd thought of it sooner. To the left, shingle and then darkness. The whole area deserted late on, just me and Eyes, together with no-one else to get between or disturb our peace.

Along the front itself, there we were, a stark piece of the dirty reality of the town beneath it's anarcho-holiday exterior. Bright lights and dim futures. The all embracing society of leisure which left us out, heads turning and people tutting as they passed us by. Everyone's welcome in Brighton. The dirty hippies just add to it's alternative credentials. So long as they don't actually want to come in, that is.

The fabulous Royal Pavilion. A little piece of fantasy and folly in a world gone mad. Learning to sit and lie down in the lights, framed insanity at it's very best. How could anything be wrong with the world when you can turn the corner and find yourself in another one as quickly as this?


The Victoria Arcade, where we finally found the perfect place to busk. Halfway down, blending in with the mosaic, with acoustics that made even the breathy and jaded sounds of a busker in her fourth continuous hour sound like something direct from the heavens. Watching the faces of our audience as they turned the corner, looking for the source of those angelic, rippling sounds, only to be crestfallen when the spy the dirty and crumpled heap which makes up Mistress and Dog. The shine of the flute a surreal addition to the scene. The number who turned away, listened again, then returned shamefaced to drop. Their guilt is our living, their mall our concert hall, covering a multitude of weary musical sins.

The Laines. The alternative heart of Brighton, where even we didn't look out of place. Padding down narrow streets and through well-lit alleys, always ready to be surprised and never disappointed. So long as we kept to the dark hours, when no-one could see the ingrained grime on our faces and in our coats, we fitted in here. In daylight, even the head shops watched us and judged us, the very people who their customers were pretending to be. They didn't know what it was really like, when the wind whipped through under the prom and the rain and spray flew straight in off the ocean into our beds. Crusty was cool in the early and mid-nineties, in more ways than one.

Brighton. The only city in England where you can feel like you belong no matter how much people want you to vanish back into the hole from which you emerged. Alternative capital of the UK. Alternative hell in disguise.

Steps Out Of Puppyhood

By this time I was about 12 weeks old, and had been allowed to basically do as I pleased on account of being so small and young. I'd been taught only the word "NICELY", a command I learnt the night we spent in Worthing after I nearly removed several of Man's fingers with my puppy needles when reaching for a chew. A simple process of drawing the treat away when I went to snatch until I got the hint and the lesson was very painlessly learnt. Painless for me, anyway. Other than the odd threat to "SCRUFF YA" when I was making a particular nuisance of myself - I was seriously pathetic when it came to even a flea inspection on the back of my neck, yelping like the end of the world was nigh even though any vet will assure you that I couldn't actually feel a thing - I had basically just been being a pup, with no expectations of anything more.

It was when we got to Brighton that my training "proper" began. Being a hungry little soul, I didn't like it one bit, as the first and, I now appreciate, most important command for any street dog to learn was "WAIT". And the best way to teach it is to make the pup in question wait for his food. Oh dear.



The first day of training was the one when we busked in Churchill Square. It was fairly late when we packed up, so food was dished out there and then rather than waiting until we'd made the long trek back to the bottom of town for the night. In retrospect, it was dead simple. Pour out two bowls of food. Command both dogs to "WAIT". JD does just that, this being old hat for him, a ritual observed every night. Put pup down in front of his bowl and place hand gently across his chest between him and the food, repeating the command. Encourage his back end to rest on the deck as his older companion is demonstrating.Then cower with embarrassment as said pup proceeds to howl, yelp, yap and howl some more, drawing every judgemental eye for streets around to stare at "Those awful tramps, look what they're doing to that poor little puppy".

I did my absolute best to convince every single one of them that I was subject to the most awful and heinous abuse, and succeeded. One even came up and enquired, although I was dismayed to find that they were quite approving when told the whole story. After what seemed like hours, I noticed JD glaring daggers at me and realised he was being kept from his dinner as well. I shut up and sat down for approximately one eighth of second before Eyes said "Go on then" and my tummy was filled. Three days later I was mirroring JD like an old paw.



Once Eyes was certain that this command had gone in, she started making me wait for all sorts of stuff. Eventually it became clear that I would do exactly what I was told on the "WAIT"ing front, so late one evening she scooped me up and we left the cosy circle at home to ascend the steps into Brighton nightlife. This was to be the start of a new ritual for us, and was when we really bonded as Mistress and Dog. Up until then I had looked to Eyes for love and protection, but little more. It was on our night-time training treks that we became a cohesive and working partnership, as we explored the city together.

The first night, she carried me across the main road between the beach and the town, then headed off to the East where there were quiet residential streets with no traffic. Backwards and forwards we drilled, as I learnt to walk at her heel ("WAIT" when I tried to trot ahead), stop at a road ("WAIT"), sit quietly whilst she admired a view ("WAIT"), and even stay where I was left when she walked away ("WAIT"). I hated that bit, and whimpered, but I didn't move. These lessons learnt, more command were fed in - "WAIT AT THE ROAD" when I was allowed to trot ahead. "STAY CLOSE" when I needed to be within grabbing distance."WAIT FOR ME" when I got too engrossed in something just out of sight.



After several nights of this, she took my tiny lead off for the last time. I wouldn't need one again until I started to get too old to resist the temptation of a passing bitch or tempting snack. That would be many years later. These days I feign deafness, but then old age is always meant to be a second puppyhood, and I am enjoying mine to the full. But for now, I was a proper street dog. Free as bird but with no desire to take that freedom. Then we started REALLY exploring.

Life Ticks On

In through the door, people tumbling over one and another in the crush. We hang back until a path clears and go into a reception area with posters on the wall. "Need Help With Benefits?" they ask. "Drugs A Problem?" "Housing Issues?".



To the right, a doorway to showers and washing machines. To the left and into a hall, formica-topped tables and plastic chairs set out. Most are taken, but we find a corner and settle down, me and JD, Eyes and Man, and our three friends from under the pier. The men go up to a long bench and return with tea and sandwiches. We eat and Man mingles, giving it large to the scarier types. Eventually they disappear out of a back door, and he returns, smiling. Eyes raises an eyebrow and Man nods. She breathes a visible sigh of relief - not for herself, but for him.

Eventually we leave and head into town. We find the busiest area, in a large modern square at the top of town, and Eyes and I sit down and start to ply our trade. Man sets up across the way, juggling balls flying, JD's scarf ruffling in the breeze. He seems to be doing more watching than earning. The music gets lost in the crowd, and not a great deal happens, but eventually the coins start to fall and the mood of both music and musician lifts.



We run through our usual repertoire. Old busking favourites - Bright Eyes, Stranger on the Shore, Annie's Song. The flute sings out, clear and strong. Irish jigs dance across the pavement, fingers flying, breaths coming quick and sharp. More slowly now, English folk. The Young May Moon and it's ilk. Summer is Coming. Then a few classics, as Eyes starts to get bored and her ability shines through. The Halle Sonatas soar out amongst the shoppers, and Dvorak turns surprised heads. Chanson de Matin raises eyebrows. Satie's Third Gymnopedie stops them in their tracks. Unfortunately none of these actually draw any of the hard stuff we are after, so it's back to the beginning and Bright Eyes all over again.

Back to the pier and the humans stretch and smoke. Man is not happy with the meagre haul. He is particularly unimpressed with how small his portion of it is. Words are exchanged and Eyes hangs her head as she agrees to take on the burden of making the next day's money whilst Man goes off in search of The Big Issue, whatever that may be. He relaxes and skins up. She sighs and I curl up. JD throws up, and Man is after him, dragging whatever rank remains he is attempting to eat from between his jaws. The party disperses.



Dusk stretches it's fingers along the coast, and lights flicker on along the prom. The pier is reflected along it's length, the lower version dancing like fire in the water below. The beach clears, and we surface from our gravel-strewn home and amble along the front, a happy group of five adults and four dogs. I dart amongst their legs, weaving between the long human ones, and getting tangled in those of my fellow canines, who nip and growl at me in that maternal way reserved for the baby amongst them.

Eventually we find another group of street people, some faces familiar from this morning, others not. This time everything is calm, as the unspoken etiquette of the soup kitchen calms tempers and admonishes drunks. "These people are here to help us", the older, bigger, and scarier ones say, "Have some respect." One man won't listen, and there is a tussle before he leaves with his proverbial tail between his legs. I watch it all from my hiding place beneath Eyes' skirt, reaching my nose up and my tongue out to take pieces of sandwich and pools of soup poured onto the floor for my satisfaction.



Afterwards we head back down to the stark uprights of our beachfront mansion. Beds are rolled out and joints rolled. I sniff about under the boards and between the timbers, discovering a whole delicious world of seaweed and burger leavings, shellfish and chip wrappers. I have my fill, before returning to curl up in the bed and drift off to sleep, listening to the gentle crash of the waves on the shingle just feet away.

Large Scale Streetlife

There are certain places every homeless wanderer knows are good ones at which to start when it comes to setting down roots and making contacts in a new town. One of the best is confined to towns with a relatively large transient population, and Brighton certainly fits that bill. So it was that we followed our new friends under the pier deep into the backstreets on our first morning to find the Day Centre. I have a vague recollection that it was called St Ann's or St Ann Street, something like that, I'm not sure. It was not somewhere we visited very often afterwards. What I do remember was coming out of an alley onto a fairly main road, with a church fronting the street and the day centre attached to it's side. It didn't open until 9am, and this was a little before that. Outside was a large gathering of all kinds of flotsam and jetsam, ragged people of every shape and kind.



One thing you have to understand about the homeless community in larger urban areas back then was that it was very definately divided into groups. There were your classic tramps and bag ladies, the permenant residents of the town's bridges and doorways, who had control of the best skippers and woe betide anyone who tried to step on their patch. There were your Brew Crew - generally site travellers whose affection for a drink had led them to lose their vehicles for while, so they ended up with the streetlife until they got it together to return. There was the punk squatter element, who didn't class themselves as homeless at all, who only "lowered" themselves to mixing with the rest of us in order to "work the system". Then there were the homeless travellers like us, whose dream was of one day being on site, and who considered themselves free rather than downtrodden. Of course, apart from the first group they were all kidding themselves. They were all just as down and desperate as each other. But it is human nature to build hierarchies - humans are pack animals, just like dogs, except humans have more hangups. We dogs just had a fine old time, without the delusions of status.



Of course, it was never as cut and dried as all that. The "real" homeless held all the genuine power, and looked down on everyone else, who in turn looked down on them as "dirty tramps". Just as well there are no mirrors in the gutters, eh? The Brew Crew lorded it over the Punk Squatters, even though they were often one and the same. In fact, usually the Brew Crew were the ones who had "bettered" themselves by having been on site - even though they'd managed to screw up even that. The Squatters looked down on the Brew Crew because they were always banging on the splintered and broken door and taking refuge. The Brew Crew looked down on the Squatters because they had never been on site, even though it actually took a fair amount of organisation and brains to open a squat and keep it open for any length of time. Of course, none of this was ever openly talked about, which in turn meant that fights were forever breaking out over something and nothing, with no-one fronting up to what it was really all about. The Travelling Homeless looked down on all of this because actually they were terrified of it. The tramps drank. The Brew Crew drank and took drugs, the Punk Squatters drank and took drugs, whilst the Travelling Homeless just toked and had the odd can here and there. They were better because they weren't useless pissheads. The fact that they were useless potheads instead passed them by completely. All the groups were arrogant, all of them used that arrogance to cover up their underlying fear of each other, and all of them were forced to mix to a certain extent in order to get what they needed to continue on their spiral of self destruction. Consequently, Day Centres were violent places. And they closed early.



This all probably seems a little harsh, considering I'm talking about "my own kind". Back then, of course, I was nothing but a pup, curled up under Eyes' coat. The politics of the whole thing went straight over my fluffy head. But one thing even a puppy can do is take in atmosphere, and this atmosphere with all it's undercurrents terrified me. I can look back now and see how sad and ridiculous it all was, but at the time I was just plain scared. Eyes was too, that I could also sense. She wore a floor length coloured skirt, and I liked to curl up under it, lying on the folds of fabric which gathered beneath her legs when she sat, the front section hiding me from the world outside. I felt safe under there. I never even noticed that her legs were trembling.



Man, an arrogant little sod to start with, simply puffed up even more when he knew he was out of his depth. The louder he proclaimed his own virtue, the more you knew he was quaking inside. We stayed away from the anarchy of all this most of the time on our travels, but he needed his smoke and therefore he needed to convince the Brew Crew and Punk Squatters who had control of it to sell it to him. And so there we were, Eyes and I, sitting quietly to one side, my nose barely poking out from under my safety curtain, watching them all strut there stuff in the pantomime which is the status battle of the streets until the big wooden doors swung open at 9 o'clock sharp and we all piled inside.

The Root of the Trouble

It will have been noted by the more observant among you that an awful lot of this story so far has revolved around the presence of sickly sweet smoke. In those early days before we left Salisbury I was aware of both Man and Eyes' capacious appetite for it, but familiarity and Eyes' contacts in the town meant that it was just something that was always around, never a big deal, and certainly never lacking. What I never noticed then was that whilst Eyes would indulge quite happily of an evening, Man was toking constantly. The other thing which never raised it's head until we got to Brighton and the supplies ran out, was what would happen when there wasn't any.

I am older now and have taken in more over the years than people would expect for a dog. I know that Eyes never actually needed to toke, just that she liked to...and that she picked it's time and place. She wouldn't smoke pot in the mornings before doing her work. She rarely had anything during the day, only the odd puff amongst friends before retiring to whatever godforsaken hole was home at that particular time. And when there wasn't anything to smoke, it didn't matter. Hash was a pleasure, not a prison. It was an enjoyable thing to do when relaxed, not the only way TO relax. Sure, she was no angel - I later learnt that before I came along she had been tempted down the road of fiercer recreation in the form of Speed and Acid. But it bit her back hard, and by the time I arrived in her life was just one of those mistakes she'd made and learnt from. Maybe that was why she never got herself too deeply "involved" with cannabis on a personal level - certainly the capacity for going overboard was still there, as will be evidenced much later in this tale, but at that time it was as far from a problem for her as you can get.


Well...I say that...but there is such a thing as co-dependancy, and that was what proved to be her undoing. Co-dependancy is when the partner of an addict becomes as wrapped up in an addiction as the user themself. There are many reasons why people fall into this trap. In Eyes' case it became rapidly obvious that fear was the main driver. She wasn't then, and still isn't, a person with a great deal of confidence - despite all appearances to the contrary if you meet her today, but that would be leaping ahead again, so all in good time. It would be a trap she fell into more than once, and one which has shaped as great deal of our lives together as she has learnt to avoid it, and reacted against it in turn. It shapes the way she has relationships now, albeit in completely the opposite direction. It is every bit as insidious as addiction itself, and can lead to addiction itself in an attempt to break free from it's shackles.

But hang on a minute here, I hear you cry. We're talking about cannabis. Pot. Dope. Grass. Weed. That harmless natural plant beloved by all hippys since time immemorial, the antidote to the hard drug bad press. How the hell can anyone get into trouble with a bit of pot for crying out loud? The answer is simple. In moderation, cannabis is - for most people at least - no more damaging than a civilised glass of wine, a quick pint, or a strong cup of coffee to get you going in the morning. But what about when that glass of wine every night becomes a bottle? When that quick pint after work becomes 3 or 4? When you need an entire jug of coffee just to wake up, never mind function? Then you have a problem. And believe me, when it came to his hash, Man had a problem. A BIG problem.

Palace under the Pier

As the sun came up and the grey light of dawn crept into our sleeping place, I could see it for what it was. A stone folly, as found at the end of many beaches and promenades, three sided with doorways on two of those and an arched roof. Just as well the weather was holding, because had it rained we would soon have been soaked.

EYES: A word, if I may.

Maddog is old now and his health is failing. At 13 years, 5 months and one day old, he is doing very well for a dog of his breeding - 13 is generally accepted to be "last legs" territory for Collies, and "dead" for the other breeds in his makeup. In other words, we are very lucky that he is still with us at all.

Given the above, it is unrealistic now that he will fulfill his aim and finish telling his life story for himself. He simply hasn't got long enough left. I do not exagerrate (sp?) when I tell you that he has cost me more in vets' fees in the last month alone than the house in which we live costs me in mortgage payments. Just this morning I forked out yet another £110 for his various drugs, dressings, creams and special foodstuffs. He eats like a king now, as he is under vet's orders to be spoilt rotten and fed "whatever you can tempt him with". So far today we have managed to get half a tub of Liver Pate, half a homemade (by one of his many friends) caramel slice, several tuna and mayonnaise sandwiches and a few mouthfuls of actual dog food down his now spectacularly scrawny neck.

He has a neurological problem in his spine, which has left his back legs extremely weak. An ear infection in his right ear has alerted us to the presence of a tumour which makes his balance iffy to say the very least. He has such advanced muscle wastage that he is skin and bone, a condition which results in the appearance of pressure sores, which he then chews into gaping wounds, which in turn have to be cleaned, creamed and dressed twice a day. He is on a cocktail of medications to help him enjoy his last days as best he can, all delivered wrapped up in wafer thin ham. Preferably honey roast. We did not expect him to last the summer, hence the lack of postings to his blog - it has simply been too painful to look back on his youth when every week I have expected to come home and find he has passed in my absence. That said, it is now late August and he is still tottering on. So maybe we need to think about getting him out to do his business once the weather is too cold to leave the back door permenantly open, after all.

Reading the above, it would be understandable for you, the reader, to consider me cruel in keeping him going at all. In fact only a few weeks ago, when what turned out to be the aforementioned ear infection was causing him acute distress, we actually got as far as paying for a vet to come out and put him to sleep. Those few hours, thinking my first love would be leaving me forever, were some of the most heartrending I have ever experienced, and when it turned out we could help him after all the £250 bill was merely a relief. The point, though, is that when it is time I know I will have to let him go, and I am prepared to bite the bullet and do it. But that time hasn't come yet.

He still scarpers down the road every time anyone leaves the gate open. He still barks for attention and hauls himself across the garden when he needs to "go" - unless you leave him with a dogsitter (in the form of my husband's nephew) for a few days in which case he feigns incontinence. To go into too much detail about his other little geriatric escapades would be to spoil his story for those who stick with it to the end...Suffice to say there's life in the old dog yet. This morning he sat bolt upright in the Landy on his way to the vet with the biggest erection he's had in years. Of course, the second we stepped through the surgery door his legs went everywhere and he looked a mess as he collapsed in a pathetic looking heap by the counter. He then suddenly managed to summon enough energy to haul me across the car park on the way out again, pausing to stick his nose up a very unimpressed young Rottweiler's bum on the way past. Draw your own conclusions. His heart, at least, is still strong - in every respect.

I shall step back now, for as long as he is still here he can speak for himself. I'll return when he finally says his last goodbye. In the meantime, you can rest assured that there never has been, and never will be, a dog as loved as Maddog.

Slow Boat to Brighton

Travelling by bus is never the most efficient way to get from A to B, but since I had no idea where we were going, or how long it should have taken, who was I to complain?


As we boarded the first leg of the journey, abandoning bags in the luggage rack by the door and climbing the stairs to the upper deck, anticipation ran high. JD had one seat, with Man behind. Eyes took the seat behind that and I sat alert in her lap, watching the road to the South Coast go by. As the day wore on, we wove through villages and along country lanes, until eventually the view became more urban, and the smell of salt was in the air. Noses twitching, we climbed down and out, into the bright sunshine and holiday bustle of Portsmouth, with it's Naval harbour and seafaring spirit.



Thinking we had arrived, I relaxed and prepared to stretch and run as I was set down on the pavement and water was poured into bowls. The sound of ferries drifted in from the water and I started to wonder what this new place would have in store for us, casting around for people and dogs who were, if not familiar, then at least of our kind. There were none to be seen, so maybe we would have to get out of the bus station to find them, in which case what were we waiting for? Why, after all the time it took to get here - 2 hours seeming a lifetime when you're a pup - were Eyes and Man not raring to go? Nothing was happening at all, we simply moved ourselves and our bags from one stand to another and sat down again. What was the point of that?


The point became clear with the arrival of another bus. We clambered on once more and this time, feeling somewhat misled by the idea of this travelling lark, I curled up and dozed, the rocking of the suspension lulling me away into my own thoughts.



I have no idea how much time had passed when we eventually got off, but I do know that the sun was low in the sky and the shadows were lengthening in the afternoon sun. Worthing is a penshioners haven, but for us it was home for the night. At the end of the prom was an old folly, and it was here that blankets were rolled out and dog bowls filled. I fell asleep in my usual place inside the sleeping bag, sniffing the sea air and wondering what tomorrow would bring. The answer, although I didn't know it then, was the bright lights of Brighton.

SNAPSHOTS: People left behind, Salisbury, Early Summer 1994

Mick and Dog. A tall ex-Navy man from Ayre and his shaggy black and tan Collie cross. Enough said already.

Ian and Miles Dog. The first in his late 20s, the second so called because Ian had to go "miles and miles" to get him.

Gimme Jimmy, AKA Animal and Pup. Gruff old timer, with his tiny tan bitch. On licence after stabbing his wife 24 times and serving most of a 14 year sentence. Heart of gold.

Catweasel. Mad, filthy, but irresistable funny. Fondness for Valium. Not anythign like as old as she looked.

Jason AKA JJ. Had a black and white mongrel who's name I forget but who left scars which still remain. Mean and mercenary little sod, but kind of endearing with it. Much like his owner.

Steve Mac. Hapless Glasgow lad turned worse. Usually found in a pool of his own vomit demanding "twos up" on cigarettes smoked by innocent passers by. Women couldn't help but try and mother him. Favourite song - "All Together Now", usually belted out on the way to soup kitchen.

Mick AKA Ed the Duck. Green Mohawk. Thought a lot of himself. He was the only one who did, except perhaps for his girlfriend Alex in her drunker moments.

Tina. Ex-Warrington girl, former model. Hard but decent lass, sadle mainly attracted to arseholes.

Tweaky and Niamh (pronounced "Neeve") - Ex traveller, now settled down in a house with the mother of his former girlfriend. Didn't drink or toke, smoked half a roll-up at a time. As sound as sound could be.

Ian and Carey, with Mutley and Socks respectively - Travellers again, forced into various forms of accomodation by heroin addiction and general chaos, but basically more together than the rets of us.

Jimmy Buchanan - Another loud middle-aged Scotsman, lived in the Friary Estate with on-off "bird" Mel, who was even louder.

Babs, Old Jo, Jenny, Nat and Tyler, Mad Gary and his three labs, Gary D and Vic - the lad responsible for his near-fatal and brain damage inducing car crash, still his friend...the list goes on and on. Good people, despite the rough exteriors.

They would not all be there when we returned.

24th March 2007

I am 13 today. Where did it go?

Time to Go

The laws of Physics say that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. The laws of Skippering are no different. A few days after returning to town, we were pushed out onto the streets once again.



It was a Sunday, and we'd had a lie-in. Mick had reappeared mid-morning, Dog in tow, after spending the night in the Police cells. He'd been arrested for Drunk and Insensible (D&I) again, but as he said, at least he'd had breakfast. After sparking up the first of the day's joints at about 11am, the munchies set in and Eyes busied herself pulling out the gas stove and opening a tin of meatballs. The sun was streaming in through the window, Mick and Man were bantering rather than bickering, and all was good in our little world. We were looking forward to a well deserved lazy day, toking and relaxing and working through our thoughts about the Shaftesbury experience - Mick had been on site up until a few years previously, and both Man and Eyes had harboured dreams in that direction for a good long time. Our visit had only strengthened their resolve.



It was just as that first tin had been opened that the door downstairs was kicked in and heavy boots could be heard down below. We all froze as they headed for the stairs and it wasn't until we heard them start to climb up towards us when Dog and JD finally came to their senses. They were closer to each other than they had ever been as they shot down towards our "visitors", barking for all they were worth. There were sounds of a struggle and a yelp, followed by an angry of "Gerrof me you manky fucking mutt", the sickening sound of plank being swung at JD and then bouncing off the wall, and a second voice shouting "Fuck this, I'm getting mi'shotgun, filthy fuckers". More footsteps as the intruders backed off to the bottom of the steps, low warning growls from the two canines, and then the first voice again, giving us an hour to get out or they'd be back, and warning that no fleabitten mongrels would stop them beating us out if we were still there when they paid their second visit. We didn't need telling twice. We'd thrown everything together and run within twenty minutes. The can of meatballs may well still be there to this day - my last image of that place remains the sight of it sitting on the floor, all glistening and tempting to a hungry pup like me, and thinking what a waste...

I don't know where Mick went - he had his boltholes, as we all did. Our little family headed into town and called in on a friend of Man's called Tina, a girl who worked in the local Wimpy bar. He had been new to the area just a few months before I found Eyes - they hadn't known each other long when she got me - and Tina was an incomer too, lured from Warrington by the promise of Stonehenge and the New Age. He called in to the shop for a cup of tea one day and things went on from there. Sometimes we visited her at her tiny bedsit on the edge of town, but we were never able to stay the night there for fear of being caught by her landlord. This emergency was no exception, but it was in the course of talking things over together that Man announced that it was time to move on. He had drifted from town to town before washing up in Salisbury - getting run out of most of them, it later transpired - and now was the time to do the same thing again. Eyes readily agreed. If we couldn't get onto a Traveller's site yet, the next best thing was just to up sticks and get travelling. Tina was disillusioned by the reality of the small Wiltshire town in which she found herself beached, and said we should go for it while we had no ties. After the usual "waste" from the burger bar had been fed to me and JD (the sausages were our favourite), we headed back to the tunnel we had squatted in previously to make our plans.

Neither of us had any way of knowing it at the time, but this decision was to be one of the first big mistakes that Eyes made. A few days later Man signed off and collected our meagre dole money - a glitch in the law meant he could claim for Eyes too, even though she was too young to claim for herself - and we said our goodbyes before getting on a bus and leaving town.

Shaftesbury Site.

As we headed out to the Blackmore Vale, the windows were opened and I could smell freedom on the wind as the roads narrowed. Eventually we turned down a dirt track and headed deeper onto the common, bumping along until finally dark shapes started to loom out of the by now twilight mist. Closer still, the shapes began to emerge as trailers, buses and trucks, each tucked into a clearing of it's own. The car stopped and the doors were opened. JD and I were set free and left to explore, whilst Eyes and Man took our bags and put them inside one of the caravans.

Running, sniffing and leaping through the grass, we rolled in delight at the space and the clear, natural smells. Here and there woodsmoke reached our noses, along with the scent of wild animals and other dogs. JD vanished in search of those dogs after a short while, but I was still small, nervous, and easily tired, so I made my way back to Eyes.

She scooped me up and we headed towards another trailer, this one painted marroon, with curved front windows and another smaller set along the top. Chas and Man talked about it as we walked, commenting on it's "mollycroft" and distinctive shape which marked it out as "a Safari" and "classic".

By this time it was dark and cold, so I was both surprised and comforted to feel a blast of heat as we opened the door and clambered inside, shedding footwear as we entered. Inside was candlelit, with a small kitchen room to the right with a sliding door, and a larger area to the left. Turning into the warmth, I could see a long bench seat with coloured throws and cushions along one wall and a woodburning stove on the other, with a tall stack pipe leading out through the roof. At the far end was a double bed, again with a coloured throw, and a dog basket underneath in which lay a tan-coloured bitch. Sitting on the bed was a girl in a red jumper, with a ring through her nose and a head full of thin, finely woven dreadlocks. She was smiling, and reaching out to pet her dog, and next thing I knew I was being held down for the older female to investigate me, ears up and nose quivering. Once she was satisfied that I was too small to intrude on her territory, "Carolyn" (the dreadlock girl) lifted me up onto the bed and I sank into it's warm and cushioned softness. Within seconds I had company, and I curled up with my new canine acquaintance, nose on the edge of a large cushion so as not to miss anything.

As the evening unfolded, it passed in much the same way as any of those we had spent in the skippers. Wood and hash smoke mingled, and conversation flowed in it's usual mellow fashion. JD reappeared at some point and took up a place in front of the stove - after a thorough vetting by the mistress of the house, naturally. Dogs were fed and at some point thick slices of toast slathered with lemon curd were prepared by Chas in the kitchen by the light of a hurricane lantern and passed around - a good quantity making it's way to the slobbering chops of the canine members present. Endless cups of tea were made from a big kettle which was refilled and kept permanently just off the boil on top of the stove. No-one present was a drinker, so the atmosphere was soporific, all of us slowly succumbing to the haze.

The big difference to a normal night, however, was the feeling of safety. There was plenty of wood to keep feeding the fire, collected and cut by Carolyn earlier that day. There was no need to hide our lights lest anyone should see - when I ventured outside to do what was needed, I only had to look up to find my way back. The door was always left open for me to return. The food was basic, but fresh and hot. No-one was concerned about what happened outside, and it was only as we relaxed that we realised the extent to which we had been permanently on guard for trouble. Here we could let it all go. Here we were secure.

Eventually Man, Eyes, JD and I headed back to the first trailer - Chas's, it turned out - and bedded down. It was cold in there as it had been empty for a while and didn't have the comforts of the Safari, but we soon cuddled up as a family, and the feeling of release continued. We slept like babies, even JD finally letting out a deep sigh and going off duty.

The next morning we awoke to birdsong and headed back to town. It had been a short respite, but an important one. Now we had a goal. We didn't know how or where we were going to do it, but we all knew that site was where we wanted to be.

A Taste of the Future

We made our living by busking in those days. Eyes played her flute and did well, while Man juggled elsewhere in town. He wasn't much good at it, to be honest, which is why me and Eyes always made more money. After disproving the theory that this was because of my cute puppyhood by swapping dogs for a day or two, Man finally conceded that it was simply down to greater skill on her part, a fact which was to prove important when things started to go into decline later on. At this point, however, he was still trying, with varied success. With his ubiquitous top hat and tails and purple dreadlocks, he certainly looked the part.

Salisbury was still at that time something of a centre for the New Age community, and many of the travellers from surrounding sites would pass through to either sign on or make their money by street performance, as we did. Eyes often teamed up with a local fiddler to play frantic Irish reels, whilst Man eventually met Chas, who was similarly incompetant but took himself far less seriously, something which could only be a positive influence.

They made quite a pair, 6ft-something Chas in his combat trousers and Mohawk, and 5ft 8' Man in his flamboyant attire. They both juggled as a team - or tried to - dropping clubs and balls everywhere and laughing as they failed. They made money by being cheerful. Since Man was prone to black and cruel moods - something else which would come to the fore further down the line - this friendship ensured our family stayed a happy one, if only for the time being.


Back then there was a large Travellers Site just outside Shaftesbury in Dorset, about half an hour's drive from Salisbury, and this was where Chas lived in his 14ft trailer. He had a ratty old car with which to both pull the caravan and get himself to the surrounding towns to busk.

Being "on site" was something both Eyes and Man talked about, a dream and a potential way out of their current homeless situation. The skippering and squatting communities had close ties with the travellers in rural areas like this, so it was the obvious way forward - both in terms of perceived status and security, albeit of the usual temporary nature. At least when travellers got evicted they took their homes with them, rather than having to pack it all up and hope for the best. They were rarely without a roof completely.

It will therefore come as no surprise that the day came when we were invited back to Chas's place for the night, and that we jumped at that offer. As we all piled into his tow-car, the excitement in the air was electric - at last we were going to see where we were headed, where our future lay.

Reopening the Carpet Skipper

I forget where exactly we spent the next few nights, truth be told. I know that the first was under a railway arch just around the corner from the Railway Skipper - a wide open area which offered no protection or privacy whatsoever, and hence very little sleep for any of us. A couple more were spent on a friend's floor, Eyes having pulled strings and used local contacts, just as she had when we moved into the hut. I have a scar on my nose to this day from launching myself headlong out of the shopping trolley in an abortive attempt to chase a duck, on the way to the flat.

The same thing happened again with the arches next to the river,DHSS office and Playhouse, a skipper Eyes had used for many weeks in the past - to the point that she still had an old mattress hidden in the bushes there. It was well hidden and well covered, and the wind blew through it at just the right angle to make an open firepit inside a realistic proposition - many a night was spent burning scavenged pallet wood and watching the flames light up the low tunnel walls as we dozed off in the warm woodsmoke. Sadly, this too came to an end after unseasonably rainy weather made the river rise enough to flood us out, so on we moved again.

As I think I've said before, Mick was always someone around whom there was an atmosphere. Eyes alternated between relaxation and fear, whilst Man veered from open hostility to over-compensating friendliness, both of which Mick himself saw straight through. He seemed to consider Eyes' reaction totally normal, it was Man who he engaged in an ongoing game of one-upmanship, and invariably Mick won. Whatever the history was, it was this loud, toothless, middle-aged Scotsman that even Man was forced to thank when he announced with fortuitous timing that he had re-opened a favourite old skipper of years gone by and invited us to join him in it. If you head out of Salisbury town centre along Fisherton Street you will come to a gap in the facades, on the corner of which is a yellow-painted shop selling carpets, next to a Chinese Restaurant - or at least there was then. Head along the side of that building and you came to a small two storey warehouse with no obvious means of entry. Along the far side was a board, and was this that Mick had loosened in order to reclaim the squat known since time immemorial as the Carpet Skipper.

Obviously approaching the place past the shop and owners' flat above was a no-no, so we got there from behind, scrambling over rough ground, squeezing past the end of another building and under or over a barbed wire fence before slithering down the final bank to approach the building. The contentiousness of this particular spot meant that stealth was paramount - we only ever entered or left under cover of semi-darkness, and if you were in during that day that was it, you stayed in until twilight. On the plus side, once you were actually in, no-one could tell you were there, which meant that lazy Sundays at home became a reality for the first time since I left my mother.

Inside, the initial view was not encouraging. An inky black space was filled entirely with indeterminate junk, with no available clear floor to camp on. But over in the corner was a pool of light, and careful picking through the debris revealed it to be a staircase. Climbing up was a precarious feat, as so many steps were unstable or had rotted away completely, but it was worth it, because the first floor room was as close to paradise as we were ever likely to find. The room was warm and weatherproof, and on split-levels, which protected the main area from stairwell drafts. The pitched roof was open to the beams, with a ledge running around the top of the walls where a ceiling had once been. To the left was a decent sized window, complete with intact glass. It faced onto the back of the Chinese, so no-one could see a light up there, and the constant hum of the catering fans gave the illusion of cozy heat (the weather had in fact improved by then) and provided a comforting audio backdrop with which to block out the world and relax. It was obvious why this place had been the scene of so many fights and arguements, and had persistently been reopened despite the owner's best efforts to board it up and abandon it to the ravages of time.

Mick and Dog had the right hand side of the room, and we had the left, with all dog bowls on the lower level area by the top of the stairs. There was room for our stoves and other personal tat in the middle, and candles were placed on the various ledges and the windowsill. No skipper is perfect and I suppose it was inevitable that we would not be the only living creatures to seek refuge here. At night you could here scratching and scattering around the top of the room, and dark shapes darting about, even running across the main beam which traversed the space above our heads. JD went mad trying to work out where the noise was coming from, and after a couple of days our new neighbours became bolder and took to the floor. Our staple diet was Gilpa Value (Value Mix), and any which was not eaten the night before would be gone by morning. We soon learnt to eat it or lose it.

Things came to a head when I woke up early one morning five or six days after we arrived, to hear a Eyes emit a kind of strangled squeak. Tunnelling up to the top of the bedding, I saw the startled look on her face and turned to the wall as she had, only to see an enormous black rat which had emerged from a hole in the brickwork there. It was up on it's hindquarters less than three inches from her face, chattering it's yellowed teeth and rubbing it's forepaws together as if in glee. At this point I finally found my voice, and my first ever bark (although it was more of a yap) was heard in our joint defence. The rat vanished back into the wall, the hole was boarded up to prevent a repeat performance, and I was the tiny hero of the day at all of ten weeks old.

Once animals and humans alike had agreed on which bits of the skipper belonged to who, we settled into a pretty harmonious peace - even Mick and Man called a truce for the duration of our stay. The benefits of good sleep and warm nights soon showed themselves in all our faces as we marched brightly into town to the Library Steps together each morning, and life's gentle routine ticked on, unencumbered by bags and trolleys once more.