Bunty Takes Sanctuary at the Manor

THE END OF AN ERA

   I spent Sunday morning in the Gym. They now have battle ropes! More fun to watch than use, methinks. There was a couple of very fit young ladies giving a good account of themselves and I felt it only right to spend a few minutes admiring their efforts. Managed 20 minutes on the rowing machine, followed by a good 40 lengths of the pool (mixed strokes). All very invigorating. 

Later I spotted Cynthia and Monica talking their heads off in the café… at least, Monica was talking and C was nodding sagely…which usually means she’s being polite but not really listening, so I decided to give ’em a wide birth.

Cook made me a toasty for lunch instead. Cheese, ham and pickle, my absolute favourite, but hardly got a look in before Trenton had snarfed it off my plate, behind my back. I was pleased to see he still had it in him. He’s always been a devil for thievery, even as a pup. 

Early to bed for us both. Cynthia had kindly agreed to take me to the station for 7.05 in the morning and she needs her full eight hours.

Cynthia Comments

The alarm went off at six and I tottered down to make us a pot of tea, leaving the boys abed. A glorious morning without a cloud in the sky. House martins swooping around and I felt like I could fly too.

I knew something was up when I came back up with the tray. Crichton was on the floor by Trenton’s basket. I think he might have been weeping but he braced up and told me the worst. Our dear old friend had passed in the night. He was still lying curled up looking for all the world as if he would wake and start whistling again. 

If one must lose a dog, there can be no better way than this, but it was still a shock.

Alexander was very sympathetic when I rang the office to say Crichton would not be in, and he said on no account come he back until he felt completely OK. Maybe Alex is a kinder man that I thought. 

A dark day indeed and the end of an era. 

We all knew that it would come. A Labrador cannot live much more than 14 years and what years they were! But I did not expect it today. I just wasn’t ready.

I found the old boy in his basket this morning, curled up with his paws crossed as always…stiff as a board. He could not have suffered.We took his collar off, wrapped him in his blanket and I buried him bottom field with Pitch and Toss and the hamsters.

Stubbing and I dug him a grave in the grass under the oak tree. The ground was like iron and it must have been 85 degrees in the shade, but it did me good to work up a sweat. Trenton was a chunky fellow and it took us the best part of two hours. All the while I expected to feel him come up behind me and wipe his slobbery jowls on my trousers.

The twins were both very upset, and even The Sausage seemed subdued for once. Arraminta wrote me a poem about a rainbow bridge. I usually find these sentimental things quite nauseating but today it seemed to help. Jerome found another rainbow badge (I wonder where he gets these things) and pinned it to Trenton’s blanket before we put him in the ground… I admit to having shed a tear or two in the bath, with the door locked.

On Tuesday, I had meant to get a grip and go back to work, but I couldn’t summon up the energy. I felt such a fool and rather ashamed that I couldn’t remember feeling this low when Pa died…but then I was away at school and hardly ever saw him. 

I could tell that Cynthia was doing her best to tread softly around my grief. She allowed me two whole episodes of ‘Poirot’ before asking to change channels, but it did little to raise my spirits. The house seemed so very empty and quiet. Still feeling down in the dumps, I walked over to see Mother. She may be mad as a hatter these days, but she understands about losing a dog and just gave me a stiff gin and a couple of cheese straws. 

She didn’t need to say anything.

Cynthia Comments

Today we took a flask, with cake and sandwiches, to the bottom field, just like we did when the twins were small. Crichton carried the old tartan rug and we decided to leave The Sausage behind. 

‘Let’s be just the two of us, for a change,’ I said. 

‘Are you buttering me up, old girl,’ he said. ‘You can go ahead with the kitchen, you know, without dragging me on a picnic.’

I worry about him. He’s looking thinner. It can’t just be the gym.

After tea, Crichton lay on the rug with eyes closed.

It was a perfect afternoon. Sunshine, blue sky, tiny butterflies in the long grass and the steady thrum of grass hoppers. 

‘Do you remember the year Arraminta caught four of them and carried them to the Pet Service at St Apollonia’s in a jam jar?’ he said. ‘Her hamster had just died, and you wouldn’t let her take Trenton because he wasn’t house trained?’ 

How could I forget…her tears when nasty Gavin Watson said grasshoppers weren’t proper pets, and his, when Jerome hit him. That’s the only time I’ve ever seen Jerome really angry. The twins were so close in those days.

Later while Crichton slept and I read my book, I thought I heard a sound behind me. A gentle snuffling…with just a hint of a whistle. Without thinking, I put out my hand expecting to feel warm breath and a cold nose…nothing. 

I must have imagined it. 

But when I looked round I could have sworn I saw two liver and white spaniels rush up the field with a black Labrador, racing to catch them up. Young and fit with puppy-bright eyes. And then they were gone, and Crichton was awake asking for a drop more tea from the flask.

I won’t tell him. 

No point dragging up those feelings again. 

Men don’t like that.