Tower and Town, September 2014

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4 Years, 4 Months, 4 Days

Lissy Seidel’s roots are in Bavaria, but she has been living and working as a Vet in the Marlborough area for quite some time. In keeping with the aims of the Marlborough Litfest, we are very pleased to highlight this new local writer’s clean and flowing style, as she tells movingly of her time with her rescue dog Luka from the first diffident contact to full trust, joy and companionship, only cut short by Luka’s untimely death. The following four excerpts give a hint of the mixed emotions that this partnership engendered.

Oh hell and damnation! What a start to my life with a new hound – there he stood beside me, with a rather belligerent neighbour's chicken in his mouth.

Yes, I had kept him on the lead. I just had not kept the same short enough.

What was I going to do?

I have to confess I blanched at the thought of knocking on Shirley's door, owning up to one of her straggly hens having met an untimely end. I would never hear the end of it.

Not that her free roaming birds weren't regularly decimated by the healthy fox population thriving near the village, but this wonderful opportunity to keep me forever in her debt would not be missed. “Leave it, let go!” I hissed at the delinquent hound. He didn't even have a name yet, having shown no recognition for the name he had arrived with.

Little did I know that this episode was to set the tone for a time filled with drama, joy, happiness and laughter as well as nerve shredding anxiety and gut wrenching fear, ending with deepest despair and total heartbreak.

I knew the moment I clapped eyes on Luka that he was for me. Within a week I drove to Tewkesbury, completed the paperwork and took him home. Luka gently tiptoed into my hallway and promptly lifted his leg. I just hissed at him and he never did it again.

A dedicated dog sofa stood in the corner with two large beds spread out on the floor nearby. His eyes grew round and interested when he started to sniff the first beanbag. One careful paw stretched out and tested the surface. Gingerly he stepped onto the bed and lowered his body. Looking slightly perplexed, he shifted a bit closer to the second bed and slowly laid his outstretched head on the second bed. Obviously it still didn't feel right. He got up and moved over onto the second bed. He lay down, curled up and a massive sigh indicated that this might just be the right spot. The expression on his face said very clearly “you mean...all for me...?” Bedtime came and quietly, without fuss he got up and followed me upstairs. Having arranged yet another dog bed to his satisfaction he looked content and settled. Lights off, a blissful stretch of sleep beckoned.

Or so I thought.

No more than a few minutes had passed and gradually a disembodied voice seemed to float high under the ceiling. Hardly audible at first, but soon it became clear, yes, a soft whining accompanied each breath, sometimes punctuated by a vocal question mark. Occasionally there was a little break of maybe 10 or 15 seconds before the high pitched whimper started up again. Don't worry, I told myself, he will settle, he won't carry on all night. An hour later I began to wonder. The last thing I wanted to do was to shout at him to shut up, it just meant I was giving him attention, a reward in itself for the relentless racket that very comprehensively ruined any chance of sleep. Several times I switched the light on, got up and fiddled with the curtains, just rubbing the hound's cheek lightly with a finger as I walked past.

The lights went out again and there was breathless anticipation, oh hurrah, he's quiet at last! Whiiiiiiiiiiiiinge...whiiiinge....I turned over restlessly, muttering angrily to myself. The clock struck twelve...one...whiiiinge...

I finally had enough. Grabbing a woolly jumper in the dark I bunched it up into a ball and fired this soft missile off in the general direction of the source of irritation. A surprised little squeak followed – then nothing. Blissful restful silence. Surely this couldn't last long?

Unbelievably though it did.

We were walking in the wide open space of Beckhampton Gallops. A very popular spot for dog walkers in the afternoons. Sunlight lit up the pale gold of the stubble field and the high pale blue sky, over the rolling turf. I felt at peace and watched my Lurcher trotting languidly along the edge of the field, sniffing at a clump of grass, a large Sarsen stone marking the side of the path. I watched him sniffing the breeze and looked far ahead towards the steep rise of the bank above the emerald green strip of the grass gallop ahead. My heart missed a beat – there the unmistakable shapes of three grazing deer showed up quite clearly against the pale gold of the stubble. I saw Luka's ears prick up. “Wait!”

The urgency in my voice got an immediate response, his head swivelled around and I drove home my advantage.

“Come, come” I called in a clipped voice, heart hammering in my chest. I could see he was torn, the deer were looking up, motionless, but if they broke into a run his hunting instinct would kick into overdrive and he'd be gone.

It didn't bear thinking about. With a very busy road not far from the crest of the bank, pictures tumbled in my mind, brakes screeching, the dull sound of body on metal...all my focus was intently directed at Luka. I kept calling, forcing myself to move, run away from him rather than towards him. A turn in my direction, another call, a hesitant step towards me, I turned round, walking as calmly as I could manage towards him. Another look over his shoulder, another quiet 'come' from me...I hooked the lead on the collar, adrenaline rushing through my veins, leaving me light headed, heart pounding, legs shaking.

'Ahhh...bless him, he's old, isn't he?'. Helen, my friendly next door neighbour bent down, stroking the hound who had limped towards her, milking a small cut in his pad to full effect. Liquid brown eyes were trained at me, clearly expressing his appreciation of someone who really knew how to treat a grievously injured hound. I started to explain that, in fact, he was only three years old when suddenly he spotted a cheeky rabbit lingering in the churchyard.

In an instant the slightly decrepit, painfully hobbling object of pity turned into a blurred missile, disappearing at what seemed like 50 miles per hour after the hapless rabbit. The expression on my neighbour's face was simply priceless, astonishment mixing with incredulity, shock and surprise. “Well”, she drily remarked, “he's not doing too badly, is he now?”
(to be continued)

Lissy Seidel