A Doggone Disaster

I was crying at 3 am on the day of my dissertation deadline. With 8 hours left to submit the gargantuan project, a pounding migraine brewing behind my eyes, and the sense that all my hard work had been for nothing, I started to cry. You're probably wondering how I got in this position - why didn't I start sooner, right? Well, you'd be right to ask. I did start earlier you see - an accident involving a gerbil, a glass of wine, and my laptop set me back considerably.

24 Hours to Deadline

New laptop, right out of the box - it's usually a great moment tinged with a little bit of excitement. Tia and Bilbo, my little shadows, were excited at least. They tore the paper wrapping and filling, throwing it in the air like so much confetti, eyes sparkling, tails wagging. For me it was a desperate moment.

Every second that it took to set up, configure, and ready the laptop, every second that it took to download the dropbox app and frantically search for chapter drafts was too much.

I had drafts of three out of five sections and a plethora of notes. Not terrible, but far from ideal. I sat quietly with the realization that I had one day to recreate a dissertation that had taken almost a year to research and write. I was crushed, chilled, my heart raced and I felt sick. Then a warm, moist swipe on my elbow drew me out of my head; Tia, her gold eyes full of trust and love, tail still wagging, with a scrap of brown paper wrapping on her shiny nose. Bilbo huffed, turning in circles on the couch before settling down with a grumble,

"Let's get this walk out of the way, then," I said, the forced cheer in my voice swallowed by their genuine joy.

12 Hours to Deadline

Twelve hours later my eyes were dry, my shoulder and hands were aching, my head was heavy and achy. Shooting pains were grinding into my thighs and hips. The pressure of just sitting, sitting tense and panicked with nothing to do but force the memories of that first dissertation together while the clock ticked, ticked, ticked down.

In the first few hours of the process, the word count dropped steadily as I re-read and refined the words to gather the threads of my thinking. Though it was helpful, bringing to mind the arguments I had made (and even forcing new realizations), the sight of that dropping number was matched by the sinking feeling in my stomach.

As one light bulb moment forced the removal of four full paragraphs and the word count fell below six thousand words, I sighed and turned away from the laptop, letting my head fall into my hands.

Snuffling sounds overcame the thudding in my ears; Bilbo approached, sensing my need for help in the way that only dogs can. He licked my hands and face, then slunk away, shoulder blades rolling under his shiny fur, then returned with his favourite toy; a positively demonic stuffed frog knitted by my mother.

Though it had mismatched, bulging eyes, a lumpy body, and it was made of partially glittery yarn (it was her first attempt at the design) it was a prized possession for him. Many fights between him and his sister had been fought over this frog, the dogs used to take turns sleeping with it under their bodies.

He dropped it at my feet and nosed it towards me, and I mistakenly picked it up and threw it for him. Bilbo grabbed it and brought it back, this time he placed it on my lap and wagged his tail. Pure love. Pure compassion. All he knew at that moment was that his frog made him feel better, feel happy, and he wanted me to feel happy.

So I sat on the floor for twenty minutes and played tug of war with him while his sister snored in her bed, just feet away, occasionally opening a honey-coloured eye to take in the scene with gentle exasperation.

8 Hours to Deadline

3 am and I was crying. It had finally become too much. The brewing headache had become the start of a migraine. My body was filled with the kind of restless shooting pains you only get after sitting in the same position hour after hour, tense and ready to break. I would never finish, I had decided, and my endless studying would be for nought.

I hadn't eaten since the laptop arrived and had drunk nothing but coffee before moving on to whisky. The only breaks I had taken were to feed, water, and walk the dogs; I now realize that these short breaks were the only reason I made it through those first sixteen hours without hitting a wall.

I slipped to the floor and lay down, terrified I would fall asleep, but totally unable to hold myself up anymore. After a few moments, a thump sounded in the room and a soft, wet nose nuzzled at my face. Warm, hush-hush breathing and the tickle of whiskers and then the press of a furry head on my shoulder as Tia lowered herself to lie beside me. A few moments more and Bilbo joined us, lowering his bulk with a sigh to press his head onto my lower legs.

And we lay like that, me sobbing, them with endless patience until my cracked patience and pounding head find some kind of equilibrium and Tia rose to get a drink... from an empty bowl. So I dragged my body, aching and heavy to refill it. Then filled a glass for myself, took two paracetamol, and divided the remnants of a packet of sliced chicken between the three of us.

If we can learn one thing from dogs it is that everything is marginally better after a piece of chicken. They shook their bodies and paced back and forth to the door until I opened it to let them out and felt the first kiss of cold, fresh air (along with a few spots of rain).

4 Hours to Deadline

With less than two thousand words to finish and something close to a hangover brewing, I rolled my shoulders and looked at the clock. 7 am, and time to walk and feed the dogs once more. They rose from their beds groggily; though they had dozed through the night they did not sleep. They stepped up at intervals to lick my elbows and ankles or press their heads to my lap.

The first crackle of the Dentastix packet, though, is like a siren song. They hopped from foot to foot with tails wagging sluggishly and snatched their prize from my numb fingers as if the devil might whip it away, sneaking to separate corners to devour the crunchy, chewy treats with gusto. In the golden light of the rising sun, it all seemed a little more manageable.

I poured a cup of tea, filled their bowls, and sat for a few moments chewing through a packet of biscuits with the kind of numb, mindless hunger that sleeplessness brings. Sugar and heat and the fresh slap of cold, moist air chased out the dreary certainty of failure.

The dogs pushed out ahead in the dew-covered field, tails wagging, wreathed in a halo of dawnlight with their breaths misty in the air. I can still see the tracks that their paws made on the silvery grass and hear their sharp yips and barks as, free at last from the leash, they chased each other in wide arcs, hopping to see over the tall swaying grass.

That was contentment. That was the moment where everything that comes with the strenuous, upward battles of life seemed both pointless and easy to overcome. The dogs returned to their beds soaked with dew, with full bellies, and flopped down as if weighed by all of my cares, and I threw myself back into the fray with something like hope.

2 Hours to Deadline

"I love you, I love you, I'll be back soon I promise," I whispered as I backed away from the door and the dogs approached, tails swishing to and fro. The door locked, keys checked, USB in hand, I ran for the bus, catching it with seconds to spare.

1 Hour to Deadline

The satisfying 'clink, thunk' of the dissertation landing in the submission box sounded like a jail door opening. I sighed and took three steps back to let the other students in, then stumbled outside, not talking, not pausing.

When I think of this moment in the future, I will wonder how on earth I mustered the strength to go on to do an MRes. Then, however, I only wanted to drink, eat, and sleep. After a few beers and a greasy chicken and bacon wrap with a friend then dragged myself to the bus stop and almost slept through my stop.

'Paws' for a Breath

At 3 pm, I lay in bed holding one end of a thick chew toy, twisted rope running through its body, and stared at Bilbo as he fought the dead weight of my body with infectious enthusiasm. Tia snored behind me, and the dust motes in the air danced like ballerinas in the sunlight that peeked through the half-drawn curtains.

I wondered then if I had passed.

Now I wonder if I would have gotten through the night without them, my little shadows. So intuitive, so compassionate. Always there. Though they are older now, and have started to slow down, they have not lost that warmth and empathy.

But they need mine, more and more often. Now I stay awake with them when their joints ache, and hug them tight as their little bodies start to give way to the pressure of time. But I still see those excitable, loving puppies in them when they pick up a tug-toy or fight for their ever more bedraggled stuffed frog. Every moment of the last ten years they have been by my side - what a wealth of memories... but it's this one that really sticks out.