A Dog's Life

A Cottage by the Sea - 2. 'A dog's life'

We are cycling hell-for-leather down a country road. Energetically. Not the usual slow meander. But as though our lives depended on it. My mother, my sister, a couple of our friends and me. We don’t speak. Our heads are down. We grip the handlebars tightly with grim determination.

We do not notice the scenery. But we are aware we are riding along strange roads which we have never seen before. Alien villages are passed through without us even noting their names. The buildings look different, almost sinister; the road cold and hostile. The sky is overcast, although it is quite warm. Subdued. To match our mood.

Bru and me

Bruno (also known as Bru or Bruey) was our only pet dog. Afterwards we had a string of border collies, but they were working dogs. (although they inevitably came to be treated as members of the household) But Bru was our childhood pet - our very own. Bru was a little character. My mother would open the door for him in the morning and he would scamper out to visit the neighbours (we were allowed to let dogs off the lead then). And so Bru would have several extra snacks a day. When he had distemper, my mother sewed him into an old ‘liberty bodice’ and he trotted around happily, unaware of the mirth he provoked in onlookers.

He was part of the regular decampment to Allonby. And that summer as usual he ‘ran wild’ around the village.

One day as we were eating our lunch, the window suddenly darkened and the rangy shape of Old Joe from next door blocked the light. He was knocking at the window and mouthing something. ‘It’s Bruno. Bruno.‘ Mum jumped up, ready to fend off the impending bad news. ‘Oh dear,‘ she said. She opened the door. ‘Bruno’s been run over’ said Joe, gesturing towards the road. ‘He was chasing a cat,‘ he said ‘ran straight over the bridge and into the road looking neither right nor left'

Mum tried to prevent us from hearing this, or from seeing anything, but it was too late. ‘What’s happened to Bru?‘ We peered out of the window, then ran to the door just in time to see Lenny Jackson, the idolised riding instructor pick our little Bru up by the tail - a shocking and undignified sight - and place him in a sack.

After lunch, my mother took us all on our strenuous, supposedly diverting cycle ride.
And later that afternoon, Lenny buried Bru in the sand behind The Hill.

The village seemed to be a foreign place that day as we struggled to come to terms with the first bereavement we had encountered. The world would never again be a wholly pleasant place.

Mum and Bru at Allonby