Once a week Shrewsday readers are treated to a blast from the past. This is a repost from the last day of an Autumn holiday. In which Macaulay the dog has a close shave.
The 446-year old man with the quill pen said: Parting is such sweet sorrow.
Actually he had a teenage love-lorn lass say it.
It took a bulging suitcase and an argument about whether or not to bring the pitiful amount of washing liquid back home, to make me turn round to those words and think mightily about whether parting is really sweet.
For parting is a sorrow, for she who packs and co-ordinates a family out of their holiday home.
It means early rising, motivational techniques beyond the dreams of Charles Handy, a democratic sharing and re-sharing of the timetable and its limitations, not to mention negotiations about what should come and what should stay.
The dog took one look at the military commander in full delegatory mode and took himself, leadless, off to the car. He wouldn’t get out, no matter how we coaxed him. You’re not leaving me behind, he emanated.
His reluctance wasn’t altogether unwarranted. We did have a close shave yesterday when Felix, Maddie and I pottered off with him to the shell shop to spend holiday money from Granny.
I tied him up outside the shop and then went in with the kids to supervise the money burning a hole in my children’s pockets.
Felix had been eyeing a slightly alarming air-powered rocket launcher all week.
I poked my head outside the shop to see the dog waiting, with that query floating just above his head: Are you totally sure this is all under control?
Head back in, I focussed on Maddie. Jewellery is her current preoccupation.
I was getting jumpy by the time we opened the door to leave, wishing Mr Shell Shop Owner well until next Spring.
And as I walked back towards the dog, towing the kids, I became aware I was walking in on something.
A lovely Polish girl and her partner were crouched by Macaulay with an almost proprietorial air. Even I wouldn’t be that close, and I own him. I don’t drape myself over him because I know he smells like a barnyard.
The couple must have had an appalling cold, because they seemed not to be able to smell anything at all.
I walked purposefully up to Mac and untied him, and immediately the poor girl was covered in confusion. She muttered something along the lines of, Sorry, He is your dog, is he ? Sorry…
She seemed embarrassed: and I realised that a large ribald group of builders from the quayside development opposite were laughing wickedly.
I did my best to put her at her ease, but our peep-cheeked friends opposite were not making it easy for her.
I did not ask; I just walked, Mary-Poppins style, away. But it looked for all the world as if the builders had been selling my dog to the lovely Polish lass.
Consequently, this morning the dog holed himself up in the car and he wouldn’t have moved if Harry The Dirty Dog himself had appeared and asked him out for a matey little walk.
Felix stood by his bedroom door, in a moment of stasis: and said, “It’s been nice to have a change…” As all of us hurtled about, he had finished his chores, and set about firing up his Ian Fleming-style rocket launcher.
He constructed it right by the front door, so it could be fired along the hall into the sea-view lounge. It boasted it could shoot forwards, con brio, 50 feet. I hoped fervently it could not.
We all stepped across the rocket launcher every time we went out to the car with anything, and we all stepped across the rocket launcher every time we came back in to collect something new.
Meanwhile, in another corner of the house, Maddie had finished her chores and was writing a thank-you note to the housekeeper. I do not jest when I say I live with Snow White.
Getting the dog out of the car to take him for a walk was a challenge. Not blurry likely, his body language chuntered.
But leads can be attached and pulley systems constructed, and we prized him out and headed out for one last turn of that great golden beach.
It was lowish tide, and we walked to the mouth of the harbour and then along the line of surf. The dog attempted to eat some foam. He never learns.
The moment came when we were at the end of the waves, and I must turn my back on the waves and walk towards my winter.
And finally, I understood. As long as one is in the presence of the thing one loves, one feels plaintive: but elated to be there. It’s a bittersweet mix of adoration, and the knowledge this thing will not be yours forever.
It appears Juliet was right.
News from the blogger’s collective: Bicycle Dave has been catching up with an old friend here; a beautiful review of Joan Didion’s book Blue Nights from Jenny Badman’s Whipsmart; and snow has arrived at Aquatom Mansions- read about it here.
Kate Shrewsday 
many occasions are that way.
after all one is only sad to leave because one had a ‘good time’
I always say going away is exciting, but nothing beats finally coming back home
There is a certain relief to having one’s things about one, Sidey 🙂
I heaved a big sigh at the end of this. Lovely.
Even reposting it made me want to get in the car and drive straight down there…
Yes. Lovely.
🙂 Thanks, EB.
And if you’d finished your shopping at the Shell Shop five or ten minutes later, do you think you would have had to buy Macaulay back from the Polish couple?
Without a shadow of a doubt, Denise. The nightmare scenario was that they would have already borne him away…
Self-catering is the perfect holiday for a family – with or without dog (we’ve done both). But…. that final morning…….
Why does dirty washing take up SO much more room than clean clothes? How do we manage to fit it all in? It’s a miracle…..
It is one of the great unseen areas of physics, Nuvofelt, I absolutely agree.
Lovely, Kate.
Thanks, Penny 🙂
Dear Kate,
Juliet was. Young or old, we all now that sweet sorrow of saying good-bye.
Peace.
Sad, really. I love the place and would adore to be there every morning to greet the day with 3000 words…
For me parting is a “sweet sorrow” only if I’m heading home. Any other parting from a person or place I love is just a sorrow. But who am I to mince words with the bard?
Sweet sorrow, it’s a very particular animal, isn’t it, PT? Homecoming provides the sweetness for you; just as that beautiful passage in Wind In The Willows has Mole coming home. Sweet indeed.
What I love about this piece is how you reveal the disparate personalities of your children and dog in the few things they choose to do. I feel like I know them all. And, of course, you reminded me of my dear-departed dog again. She always used to get in the car and refuse to get out.
Such a definite gesture from one so small and with four legs, Andra 😀 And so endearing.
Ah, lovely, I’m glad you reposted this one today. Your children never fail to surprise me with the things they say and do – and poor Macaulay, lucky Macaulay (and probably a good thing, you came out of the shop when you did).
I think it is, Ruth. I am in no doubt the builders would have got some money towards a few pints and the dog would have learnt to understand Polish.
If Mccaulay decides he needs to roll in some good West Coast Canada beach smellies send him to me, Kate I realize we’d face air pollution charges, but the Airlines probably need a new problem.
😀 We will bear your invitation in mind with the gravitas it deserves, Amy. It shows bravery above and beyond the call of duty.
Loved the post . . . though I might have launched Felix’s Rocket Launcher somewhere outside the busy traffic pattern. 😆
Tomorrow, Tigger goes to the VET. It will be an ordeal for the three of us. His 6th sense will put him on guard, like Macauley, and he will refuse to get INTO the car.
Oh, good luck to Tigger…we have to indulge in undercover subterfuge on these occasions, blocking the cat flap, cunningly disguising the cat box and so on: and we still end up with the cat spread eagled across the entrance to the box, a foot on each lintel, a living embodiment of refusal. Hell hath no fury like a cat on its way to the vets.
You’ve described the scene as it unfolded here this morning perfectly. We have to quietly close off all the escape routes before attempting to round him up . . . or he disappears under the bed with no hope of our retrieving him in a timely fashion.
It’s the only time using treats as lures does NOT work.
He survived the ordeal and is now sleeping it off . . . but I wish I could share the HOWLS, and YOWLS and CRIES OF PROTEST he emitted at the Vet’s Office.
Anyone who heard them would have assumed (with good reason, based solely on the audio track) that he was fighting for his life . . . instead of just having his teeth, ears, and heart checked by an incredibly kind Vet. What a drama queen!
Him and every other cat on this planet, Nancy 😀 You did make me laugh….
Now you have me wondwering about the whole meaning of the word “home” hmmm
It can change, can’t it, Mibs? Worth a look at a rather wonderful blogger, Barbara, who only writes very occasionally but is full of wisdom. Try this on what home is: http://thesolaceofloweredexpectations.wordpress.com/2011/10/24/home-there-are-some-places-like-it/