My mum was like the Pied Piper: Leading the fun from the very start.
My mum, Queenie, was primed and ready for fun. Always.
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Ever since we could walk — she had nine of us — she teased us to join in and give it our best shot.
Even as she grew older and a bit of arthritis set in, she would shake it off before her morning walk — a little stiff-legged at first, then trotting then running as she warmed up. By the time we’d get down to the river she was ready for a swim to the island in the middle, where she loved to climb on to her favourite log and roll a ball off it.
She was doing that a couple of weeks ago. She had better balance than me and loved walking the plank on a treefall and climbing old tree roots sticking out of the river so she could pick her way around the roots and branches and find a tricky way for her ball to roll down into the water. She’d wait for it to drift out from under the log and work out the distance so she could belly flop into the water and grab the ball in her mouth before she went under.
As she got older she took more care about the big belly flop, so when the river was low and the log too high above it, she’d roll her ball off the log and have a few false starts and then decide discretion was the better part of valour and run back to the bank to grab the ball at a less painful elevation.
Fun and games: She loved finding a tricky way to roll her ball into the river.
But she’s had her last swim. Rolled her last ball. Fetched her last duck. Last week she packed it in. There’s a big empty space around me and I don’t know how to fill it.
I know I’ve complained about her a lot. She had the pesky habit of nipping me on the ear to let me know who was top dog and, as I grew to twice her size and weight, she just bit harder: if I jumped on her during a playful scrap and landed a little heavily she’d take a piece out of one ear or the other.
Being the athlete I am, I could run much faster and knock her over, no trouble at all — except she wouldn’t let me get away with it. She always had the last word — or in her case, the last bite.
Despite her stiffness and advancing years, she wasn’t ever going to cede top dog to me and she took a perverse pleasure in showing me up when I’d hurtle past whatever it was we were retrieving, on account of my being enthusiastic and trying to beat her. She’d stand where it was and either pick it up or just wag her tail slowly, like she was dealing with a stupid person.
She gave me the feeling she was disappointed in me and expected something more of me. The Boss says that’s pretty normal and I shouldn’t feel bad about it. As he is fond of saying, every 80-year-old mother looks at her 60-year-old son, vainly hoping for signs of promise. He reckons it’s probably the same for a dog.
But he says you only get one mum in this world and you have to put up with their funny ways because they’re special.
I suppose she was. She seemed to think it her motherly duty to protect me forever: I can look after myself but she would ferociously pile into any dog that looked like it was having a go at me — or even playing roughly with me.
I’ve been with her nearly every day of my life, listening to her breath, waking to her morning yawn. Now her smell and her stretches and bossiness aren’t there and there’s her leash hanging by the door and an empty kennel. I keep looking around the place expecting to see her wander in with a wag and that bright twinkle in her eyes. I’d be happy to take the odd nip on my ear if I could have her back for a spell.
The Boss says I need to man up and move on. He should take his own advice. Woof!
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