Rubes
Legacy Name: Rubes

I feel you most strongly on days like this; when the sky is bright but the air crisp, and the leaves are starting to turn. It’s your time of year. I’m not even sure why that is, because your birthday, arrival into our family, and the day we had to let you leave us – they were all in Spring, spiralling around the month of March like a whirlwind. It might be because of the orange; that beautiful bright colour you wore so well that even nature itself couldn’t capture the likeness of. Or it could be the fallen leaves, brushed into corners on the pavement, brittle underfoot. You’d stamp your little feet in them without fail – it was like a compulsion. We always joked we’d lose you in them because of how successfully you were camouflaged. You always pottered back to us in the end, though.

I find my feet taking me on our usual route; down the road – a gentle slope past the big houses with the long driveways that you’d peer into, just in case any cats were lurking and in want of a big orange friend – and through the village, maybe stopping at the shop for a quick drink for me and some treats for you. I then loop back round, past the cottages with the beautiful gardens and those tall plants with the papery-looking flowers that I can never remember the names of. You’d stop on the corner to watch the people at the greengrocers, so I find myself stopping for a moment too. Without you, though, I find myself stuck for reasons to linger too long, so carry on up the narrow path to our favourite (or one of, at least- we had a few in our repertoire) park. The rec, as it's known locally; short for, unsurprisingly, recreation grounds. It’s essentially a very large swathe of land, mostly grassy fields - four of them, connected by a central path and interspersed with what people call woodland but is way too small and sparse to be that in actuality. We’d walk through them with you so you could be an ‘intrepid explorer’, the three of us weaving through the brambles and young pines. In honesty, the change in ground surface was good for your arthritis- but you always seemed excited when you got to march a path through this little patch of wilderness.

I don’t walk through the trees now, not on my own. Despite it not being dense woodland, and in a fairly well-traversed area in a ‘good’ village, it doesn’t feel quite as safe or fun without you. Adventures don't have quite the same allure.

Instead, I take the winding central path past the playground, pausing now and then to smile at people walking in the other direction, some with dogs and some without. Some I recognise from brief meetings when you’d stop to say hi to a fellow canine, but without you with me any more there’s no demand for them to stay put and make small talk. A nod and a smile works, anyway. They look at me sadly now - the lack of your presence is a blaring alarm of loss, and I don't want to make them feel awkward. Instead, I stop to take pictures of the sunlight hitting the small dips and rolls of the fields where they put the drainage systems in place last year after it flooded; the earth itself has healed over now, but the wave in the land remains. The photos look nice, I think, when I check them, but I’m struck now by the lack of you in them. I got so used to seeing a little spot of orange in every photo that I think now that I didn’t nearly appreciate it enough. My stomach drops every time I realise that every photo now will be devoid of you, that never again will I get to chase after you in a vain attempt to try and get the right angle. It was always essentially pointless: you’d do want you wanted regardless of me trying to coax you into posing for a picture. That was the beauty of it, I understand now.

As I slip past the vehicle barrier and into the little snicket-way – a dimly lit, narrow path lined on both sides by a tall fence and, beyond that, a suburban warren of houses with long gardens and tall trees – I feel that familiar lump in my throat. There aren’t any pricklings of tears that I can sense as of yet, thankfully - as I try actively not to ruin my eye-liner for fear of reapplying it - but my throat definitely feels like a ball of cotton wool has gotten stuck in there somehow. It’s a horrifying and unfortunately regular reaction to memories of you, no matter how happy- a physical reaction to my own grief. It almost feels not unlike an allergic reaction; my throat closes, and breathing is suddenly a conscious effort. Anyone walking past me would assume, most likely, that I was suffering some form of exertion from the walk, that the sun and my pace were catching up to me. I wish that were true, really. Instead, I’m walking along and feeling the physical trappings of my missing you, the absence of my little orange dog manifesting as laboured breathing and a pain in my chest so intense that I have to press a hand to my heart to try to sooth the aching. The memories of you are so strong here, and I can feel you so intensely – to look back and not see you there is harder than I ever anticipated. It doesn’t feel fair that you’re not here to appreciate a day like today, where the air is cool enough that you wouldn’t overheat, but the sky is clear and rain-free to keep your little white toes dry. But, as I try to clear my throat, I am. And you’ll be with me wherever I am, and I’ve got to appreciate these things for you.

Turning the corner back onto our street, the pressure eases a little. I’m not sure why; the memories here are just as strong. I think it’s a feeling of peacefulness, really, more than anything. We’re going home, Rubes. There are photos of you on our walls, little memories everywhere that we can sink into at our own leisure. Your urn is by my bedside, that stupidly expensive and gaudy orange wooden box that you chose at the vets that day before you had to leave. You’re a massive part of our every day, still, just like you were as soon as you came home to us.

I know the pain will get easier over time, just as it always does, but you’ll always be a part of me. Always. I’ll see you in every turning leaf, every hint of orange on a bright autumn day. Every little old dog needing love.

Thank you.

Ruby, my precious orange eggdog.
12th March 2007 - 27th March 2014 - 1st March 2019

Kenmilleven Athena, named by the kennel club. Was given away at 6 months old, to be used for breeding until she was 7 years old. She came into our lives suddenly and turned us in a completely different direction. Summer of that year, 2014, she moved with us into a tiny flat in London where we lived until late 2016. City life was definitely weird but she loved the tube, buses- all sorts of things you wouldn't expect a dog to like. We made lifelong friends there because of her. There's a lovely family in London with an illustration of Ruby on their hallway wall to this day. They planted daffodils in their garden when she passed.

Moving back north in 2016, she suddenly had a large and lush garden with no lift (or 'magic moving box' as we coined it in our apartment building) to have to navigate to get there. Things were overall quieter and easier for an aging girl. We'd go on weekend trips to see my Nanna, who she adored - almost as much as she enjoyed Nanna's sprawling country house and garden, and the farmland beyond the gate. We had some fantastic times. We also had some not-so-fantastic ones, when things got dark and scary and we only had the three of us. Ruby helped us to be brave, to put one foot in front of the other - because she always did. We came out the other side of it, like we always did.

And then she got sick. No sign of it, really - we were playing in the garden and she was zooming and doing excited donut spins in giant, looping circles. Then she was fitting. The vet was optimistic still, then. Did some bloods. Went home. Things got worse, so we went back. We had to make the hardest decision; to let her go to sleep one last time. Fed her chicken on the floor with her toys around her, wrapped in her favourite blanket. She wagged her tail - but her eyes were tired. The vet cried. We cried.

She went the rainbow bridge just after 11am on March 1st, 2019.

One day soon, when our hearts don't ache quite as much as they do now, another wobbly older dog will arrive at our door.❤