Home is where the Dog is..

Home is where the dog is

Have you ever been so upset you cleaned the bathroom? Scrubbing the bath through your tears. Today is that day ..

My hometown story was going to be very different about growing up in a small rural town and not fitting in.I tried to write it but I was too sad , I do not write sentimental stuff , after all I am a goth , a tough girl who wears black, who did not fit in.

But today my Mum had to have her dog put down, and all I can now process is memories of Barney. And how he will forever be linked to the country village my Mum lives in, and what now may be considered our home town, more a home village, one store, one church, one small playground, two pubs...

Barney was a rescue dog , most of Mum's pets are rescues and every one has accompanied us on our ups and downs through life.

He was a simple soul, a boisterous black flat coat , a big old softie, who would give paw and smelly licks.He would steal food unashamedly. He was my Mum’s companion especially since the death of my Dad. Barney would be there every morning through these times with a wag of his tail , it would really help. Often my Mum would be sad as life can be cruel, no parent should outlive their child , and Barney with a simple motion of putting his paw on her knee, or sometimes his head on her knee would give her some relief from this sadness. A simple gesture from a knowing dog. I think the Dog gave my Mum more comfort than my Dad , through no fault of his own as he was sick and during this time he would go more into himself. Barney was a comfort for both..

After all Dog is God spelt backwards.

I now realize that our life’s memories of my home town are intertwined with the pets we have had. That for me growing up in a rural town that I found boring, frustrating at times. I realized I actually did NOT want to fit in, hence the goth mask that I perpetuated, to make my escape, through it all I had dogs to make everything seem better

I grew up with dogs and cats , In fact our house always had pets. The house was a detached house in an estate, with a veneer of normality, similar houses similar lives , roads led to crescents, crescents led to closes, closes led to drives. We were on Buckingham Road , next to Sandringham close , round the bend was Burley Crescent, which led into Balmoral Drive and Windsor Drive.I am now realizing these names all had a Royal reference , so strange I do not remember making this connection at the time, they were just the roads of my youth .

I guess that makes me the Princess of Buckingham Road.

Although back then the kids in the neighborhood would use different names for the road , Buckingham road became “Fuckingham'' road. There were a lot of jokes back then that were somewhat mean, and a lot of name calling. I started to realize that I did not fit in with the kids on my estate.

Children could be cruel, but I would hug my dog.

The first was Honey, a Labrador , she was with me as I changed from a sweet little girl to a stroppy teen. I would walk Honey down to the local paper store to buy sweets, my favorite was cherry lips and midget gems. As I matured so did my dog walking adventures, I would often sneak out with the dog to “walk” Honey past a house that a beautiful boy lived in on a nearby road, I here he wondered why I was walking up and down so many times , waiting to be noticed.Honey did not mind Yes everything in my home town was better with a dog.

This was the town that made me who I am , slightly weird. There was two chip shops, a movie theatre that showed two Disney films on a Saturday morning, my Dad played football on a Saturday afternoon , and they we would have fish and chips. It was a simple life , I craved more.

The next rescue was Brin a mutt , we got him one day that my Dad was recovering from a hangover, I think my Mum was annoyed at him, and off we went to get a puppy. In my memory I see her briskly marching muttering under her breath, she was really mad. The house we got Brin from was down past the allotments where all the older men dallied, in their flat caps, smoking pipes and cursing about life. I liked walking past there, it seemed colorful ,more interesting than my dull housing estate. My Mum had been thinking about getting another Dog for a while so it was not a hasty decision ( dogs should not be adopted hastily) but it did seem more as a slap in the face to my Dad. He was definitely in the “dog house” that day, because of his hangover and then literally because of the new addition to our home. My mum was the animal lover, she always took the lead on getting her dogs, Dad would mumble and complain but he knew that is what made her happy and really made her house a home Once she set her mind to something she would usually get her way, I really am a chip off the old block.Dad often would curse “bloody dog” after an accident on the floor , or when food was stolen. Once a Sunday roast off the table , poor Brin he was quite often really in the dog house. But secretly Dad loved this revolving door of rescue pups. we would catch Dad , sneakily feeding them pieces of bread and cheese, or holding a rice pudding container to be licked.

I left home as a goth, Brin stayed behind, and I escaped, the boredom of my rural town. My home town changed twofold as my parents moved and I went to University, two very different worlds Mum got a red setter called Sherry and lived on a hill in the country.

I lived in a squat with some other art students and we got a black dog we named Faust .. our goth pet. Still our lives were enhanced by the dogs. Faust was with me through art school, through discovering a new “hometown” and the realization that there were other freaks in the world that were like me. Freaks that wanted a dog called Faust, we wore black, we painted our rooms black , we listened to Bauhaus and sold gothic clothing at the flea market.

I finished art school and moved to London,but would still visit, with various boyfriends in tow.I am sure my Mum would tell the dogs all about how much she did not like those boys. I often heard her talking to the dogs.

Brin passed as did Sherry and both were buried in the garden. Eventually my Mum and Dad retired and moved again.back close to the town I was raised. To the village I now think of as my hometown.Mum had started her love for flat coats , Glen and Jasper.. no matter where she lived there were always dogs,

I moved to New York, a very different town, and rescued a dog from Dominican Republic called Dog. She was a miracle dog that survived the Parvovirus, (at considerable vets bills)but gave me a purpose during some crazy times. Pets keep you grounded.

My Mum's dog adoptions continued Jess, a wire haired mutt, Oliver a Spaniel and Ralphie a barker , as the years passed unfortunately so did our Dogs but the joy they brought my Mum was worth it.

Of all her dogs Barney was the most memorable, the licking out of the yoghurt pots, the simple cockeyed head one ear up one ear down . The constant chasing a frisbee , or ball, Mum would try to hang the washing out on the line and all he would do would be to bark until the frisbee was thrown. Sometimes my mum would just go out there to be with the Dog and escape the sickness of my Dad. She would walk Barney across the fields crying as it was a hard time being a carer for my Dad, Barney would be her confidant and her carer, that dog knew what to do and Mum would come home and put on a brave face. He should have been a therapy done he had a healing spirit.

Barney made our hometown and now he is gone, the pain of a dog dying is so numbing , but there is a reason that we keep going through it with the sheer happiness they bring. My Mum is 85 and has been saying she is too older to have more dogs, which makes me sad.

Today after grieving for a few weeks my Mum said “I happened to look at the dog rescue website today” so I am hoping there will be more dog adventures to come

Home towns change , dogs pass ..but the memories are intertwined.