beezle's dog blog

Photo of Beezle by Craig Fordham for Country Living Mag.

 This blog post is dedicated to Beezle who has died aged nearly 16. The inspiration for The Dog, Ray, he defeated death so many times during his life. He was kicked in the head by a horse, broke his front leg in numerous places and was sewn up too many times to count after running far too fast over flints after things that ran even faster.  But eventually he stopped eating and grew as light as a nest.

 A gentle, loyal,brave,curious, loving and noble friend he was loved by so many. Even the plumber who was mending something in the house the day he died and had known him for most of his life shed a tear when he said goodbye to him

He enjoyed sharing the limelight on publishing occasions and always put on an obliging show. He liked meetings his fans. Here he is at the launch of our book

When I first started writing this blog Beezle made his first contribution and it seems apt that I put it here.   He thought that blogs were more than likely just rather boring personal facts and opinions of the writer. I imagine he is right.                                                        

                                                            Dog Blog

All you out there

I’d like to share

The hair and now

 Of this dog.

This, -  my dog blog.

My feelings, asleep, in front of the log

Burner

about a catalogue of films by

Herzog

(Werner)

my memo of bones and their various tastes

How I would save

 the ozone

How many squirrels and stuff

 I’ve chased.

A detailed account of my very best runs

My view on the economy.

Pensions, hedge funds…

My opinion of soap stars and bio-diversity

Why I slept through my owner’s

Wedding anniversary.

Why long walks can make me weary

My thoughts on the 9/11 conspiracy theory

My very interesting dialogue

With next door’s dog

How I bit the guitarist

Who used to play

 with the Trogs.

I hear that cats are now the new dogs.

So I’ll probably change it to

Dog’s mog blog.

Any feed backs?

To www world wide woof

We buried him in the horse's field next to his beloved friend Jai the first wolfhound who died 8 years and two days before him. We made a nice grave and placed flowers on the top which later, when our backs were turned, Harry the horse ate.

After the last blog post Widget flew to freedom and the next day I discovered this little chap in the long grass. Unlike Widget he cannot and still cannot feed himself and makes very loud noises and stands with his scarlet red mouth open demanding his food. He is a very sweet writing companion and sits on the back of my chair whilst I work. He is called Capote after Truman Capote who had a pet raven.

 Then last week I had a message from a vet that he had found a young crow in the middle of the road. When I went to look at him he was a rook that they had named Croaky.(obviously thinking it was a crow) We thought they'd be good company for each other as rooks are very social birds - also he could feed himself. I had hoped that he would teach Cap to do it himself but whilst he helps himself to the food in the bowl Cap just stands by it and opens his scarlet red mouth and goes "Feed me!" When I had him in the house he woke me every morning at 4.15 with the dawn chorus crowing "I'm awake!!" He probably woke my neighbours too.

Here they are just making friends in the shade tunnel. They really do chat to each other, making funny little squawking noises and sit side by side on the branch like a couple of old Victorian matriarchs in their black mourning clothes. Cap is in the foreground.

 I'm still volunteering at the Wiltshire Wild Life Hospital. A lot of the hedgehogs have been released back in the wild now and people who had found them in their gardens come back and claim them. Those that people bring in have their names written on the box and it does look as if Fiona or John or Felicity could be the hedgehogs. "Good morning Fiona" I say as I pick one up and put it in the holding box. I think the other volunteers wonder and probably exchange glances. Some of them when you come to clean them out are tidy creatures. The hedgehogs - not the volunteers. Though I'm not saying the volunteers aren't tidy.Others when you open the box look as if they're living in a hotel room that the Rolling Stones have recently vacated - spilt ashtrays, half eaten food everywhere, things ripped up, bedding strewn all over the place, food bowls tipped upside down.....

Pixie is feeling a little lost without Beezle but has still offered up an interesting fact.

An Indian Moon moth only lives for a week.

so Beezle did very well living for nearly 832 weeks.

 The last of the tree peony flowers

 As Sensei (Zen) Beezle and Nietzsche would say And those that were seen dancing were thought of as insane by those who could not hear the music.

Mercies

by Don Paterson

She might have had months left of her dog-years,

but to be who? She'd grown light as a nest

and spent the whole day under her long ears

listening to the bad radio in her breast.

On the steel bench, knowing what was taking shape

she tried and tried to stand, as if to sign

that she was still of use, and should escape

our selection. So I turned her face to mine,

and seeing only love there - which, for all

the wolf in her, she knew as well as we did-

she lay back down and let the needle enter.

And love was surely what her eyes conceded

as her stare grew hard, and one bright aerial

quit making its report back to the centre,

entirely spider

Here is Pocket (quarter Bengal) basking in the warm weather that has put us all in various comatose states enjoying that much needed Vit.D. I love the little green leaf, the same colour and shape as his eyes that has fallen by his side on the decking.

The young rooks are fledging, with some pushed out of their nests too soon by boisterous siblings that flex their wings and take up too much room. These youngsters end up on the ground, too young to fly and prey to the red kites and foxes that patrol the area and rather sadly abandoned by their parents. I found him (or her) hiding in the long grass and she was very complicit and didn't mind being picked up, sitting peacefully on my arm as I sorted out accommodation for her. I wasn't going to give her a name because somehow giving her a name would make us more attached but she's ended up being referred to as Widget.

To start with I hand fed her but now she's learnt to feed herself and she's very funny to watch if she is trying out new foods, jumping up and down on the spot if it's something she hasn't seen before like rice. Cheese is always a good favourite with corvids it seems. She's now in the shade poly learning to fly which she is accomplishing very well. When her baby fluffy feathers go I'll leave the door open for her to fly back to her family.

Meanwhile the runners in the garden can all feed themselves and barely being able to fly more than a few inches off the ground, content themselves with running and swimming in the paddling pool.  Some of the pigeon's nest that has been made up the chimney fell down the other day into the hearth and to my delight it was full of white horse hair from Harry the horse.

It's been picnic weather and here is Pixienic joining us in the Nature reserve for a slap up picnic, some of which she enjoyed herself when our backs were turned.

I have been reading Mary Oliver's essays Upstream and came across one on a spider she observed in her house. She is such a beautiful writer and her description of the spider laying her egg sacs, fussing, patting and circling them, sometimes lying with her face near them - then their subsequent hatching as the shy. male spider watches from the edge of the slightly chaotic web, is so engaging that I have changed my attitude to spiders. This is quite a feat to change a lifetime fear - through literature.
When I had finished reading it I passed a huge Huntsman spider clinging onto the wall by the cupboard under the stairs. I would normally have shuddered, wondered how to get rid of it and scuttle myself up the stairs to get away from it. Instead I looked at it closely and marvelled at it and no longer felt afraid.

As Beezle and Anais Nin would say " It is a sign of great insecurity to be hostile to the unfamiliar."

Pixie's interesting fact is that wolf spiders can run at speeds of up to 2 ft per second.
aaah - I'm not sure I'm completely over my fear.

Below is a poem I wrote when the children were young and I realised I mustn't pass on my fear of spiders. I think I didn't succeed very well.

Entirely Spider

It broods in the folds

of the nightdress-

huge, as if it wears an overcoat

-as dark as dreams.

I shudder and sleep in the other room

There is nothing sadder than

being single and having

to deal with a large bug.

Later, when life becomes

too short to dust

and I have found other fears

I keep good company with one.

Through the borrowed view

of the bedpost

I watch her dance attendance

repair and tidy her beautiful web

nibbling at her trussed hors d’oeuvre

saving herself for the Big One

her Mr Right whom she devours

after a night of spinning passion

her just dessert.

Curled like a cat

she fills the corner

her egg sac casting a vast shadow

across the ceiling

she ceases to scurry

instead she watches and waits

her web slack with time

and misuse.

Now, as winter approaches she is ready

for her long descent.

She clings to her clever thread

my daughters screaming as she wearily

passes them

I cajole and re-assure

I place her in the palm to prove a point

and now, close up

She seems much smaller than I thought.