May The Wee Scruffy Dog of Indeterminate Heritage Be With You
Some Sundays when I used to phone my mum, we would have nothing much to talk about. Not because anything bad was happening, but because nothing particularly dramatic had happened at all. In those phone calls, there would be a lot of “Oh uh-huh” and “Yes, fine” in our conversation, but it was entirely comfortable. Because when you call someone at the same time every week to tell them what you're up to, it's not long before you realize that there's a flow to life where - if you're really really lucky - some weeks you're just plodding along.
I thought about that this week when I sat down to write this Note - which of course is the replacement for the phone calls I used to have with my late mother - because I had one of those weeks where I figured I had nothing particularly to write.
Sure, it’s May 4th and therefore International Star Wars Day, but I’m no real aficionado and don’t have much to write about the movies other than, “Gee isn't Harrison Ford handsome?” I did have a story client for a while who was one of the producers of the first Star Wars, but I can't tell you his stuff because that story belongs to him. What I can tell you though, is that it takes a lot of planks of wood hidden under sand to let a wee whistley robot be able to effortlessly wheel through a desert.
“Jeez,” I said to Arthur, who was lying in his dog basket, legs in the air like he just don’t care, “What do you write about when there’s nothing much of significance to report?” Immediately, he sat up, hopeful that whatever I said to him might somehow mean, ‘Do you want a snack?’
For a wee, gingery dog of dubious heritage, Arthur has the appetite of a wildebeest. Fortunately his legs are too short to allow him to climb anywhere, or he would eat us out of house and home.
Instead of giving him a snack, I gave him a scratch behind his Yoda-like ears. And it was then I remembered that May 4th is his gotcha day.
Not for us. Arthur didn’t become a Tweddle till May 11th, but on May 4th, the (unfairly maligned) Dog Catcher caught a wee, gingery dog who was undernourished, covered in fleas, and living on the streets of LA , eating from trash cans and doing what he could not to be caught.
Landing at East Valley Shelter on May 4th, the staff named the wee gingery dog, Arf2D2, because he arrived on International Star Wars Day.
Sad, bedraggled, exhausted, and terrified, he was not a pretty sight, so when we wandered into the shelter on May 10th looking to adopt a dog, he certainly wasn’t the first on my list.
Lachlan however, noticed him cowering at the corner of a cage and announced, “That one!” Even as a 10-year-old, Lachlan knew his mind and would not be dissuaded by any of the other happier, friendlier dogs.
He wanted to take Arf2D2 home straight away, but was gutted to learn that his dog of choice was not available for adoption till the next day. Shelter policy at that time was that strays brought in had to stay a week, to give their original owner a chance to reclaim them.
Seeing the sorrow in Lachlan’s face, the Shelter man said that he suspected no one would be coming for Arf2D2, and if we turned up early the following day, there was a very good chance he could be ours.
I don’t think Lachlan slept much at all that night. He woke Mark and I up at 6, and then again at 8, even though we explained to him that the shelter didn’t open until 11. There was a great deal of pacing and reassurance before we left the house at 10.30 so we could be at the shelter for the door opening.
Arf2D2 was pretty much the first adoption that day. Lachlan was not hanging about. By midday, the wee, sorry-looking, gingery dog was a Tweddle.
As neither Mark or Lachlan had much experience with dogs, it was up to me to carry our wee, terrified flea-bitten treasure to the car. With the dog cuddled up and shivering in my lap, I asked Lachlan why he so wanted this particular dog, and he replied, “The dog is so sad, and if we left him there, he would die.”
And now here we are, 7 years later. Our once terrified, absolutely silent little curled-up hound, is now an opinionated barkey wee bundle of attitude. No longer Arf2D2, he is resolutely Arthur. He is so connected to his name that even if someone is talking about some other guy called Arthur, even on TV, he will assume they mean him.
He is ridiculously proud of the little tartan bow tie on his collar, and is a little more silver than gingery, but we reckon he’s like the Benjamin Button of dogs in that he was a sad old soul when we got him and now he is a waggy-tailed wonder, and playful as a pup when there’s the chance of a snack.
Though he came to the house as Lachlan's dog, Arthur has resolutely decided he is mine. He has become my wee four-legged shadow. Wherever I am, he is never more than 6 foot away.
It used to absolutely drive me crazy because I had agreed that Lachlan could get a dog, not that I would have a constant canine companion who follows me everywhere. But the truth is, I've gotten used to it. In fact, if I turn around and he's not somewhere out the corner of my eye, I wonder what's wrong.
Over the years, we have all changed. My once podgy-cheeked 10-year-old who laid awake, worried about a strange little mongrel in the corner of a cage, is now 6 feet tall and often has to tell Arthur to “chill” when he’s just home from school, and Arthur is running excited circles round his big manly feet.
The once completely silent Arthur now barks at the postman. And at the Amazon delivery guy. And at anyone who has the audacity to knock on the front door. The mutt who once lay curled up in a little ball in the corner of a cage, now is frequently to be found stretched out in the sun in the backyard, the only sign of movement, his Yoda like ears on high alert listening for the approach of the postman, or the Amazon delivery guy, or anyone with the audacity to visit.
Sometimes these changes have been abrupt and startling. Mostly though, the biggest changes seem to have been gradual, nestling in the weeks of “Oh uh-huh” and “Yes, fine,” so they're barely noticeable at all. Until one day you find yourself thinking about seemingly insignificant phone calls you had years ago with your mother, and realising they totally were significant all along.
I remember asking my Star Wars guy if the meaning of “The Force” was love. I can't tell you what he answered because that really is his story.
But I can tell you that it takes a lot of wooden planks buried in the sand to make a little wheely robot look like it can effortlessly make its way through the desert.
Xo
PS: Every time you click on the wee heart emoji on this post to like it, Arthur will bark less vigorously at the postman. That’s a complete and total lie obviously, but it doesn’t half perk up my algorithm.
P. P. S: If you’re feeling the world is a bit dodgy and you’re out of whack with it, come and join me and Mr Tweddle this Thursday at Fish and Bear. First time is free, gratis, and a gift from us so you can try it out. After that, it’s $10. xo
And because I am totally showing off - look, I have a book for sale. Written when I had two fully functioning arms - though no better grasp of punctuation.
Volume 2 is available now: US, UK, Can, Aus
Audiobook link https://amzn.to/3Dh0MVP
If you do buy a copy, please leave a review on the site as it helps people know that I write in proper sentences… erm sometimes xo
These wanderings from Tweddle Towers Brighton up my Sunday - easy distracted.
Can you remember the sound of your mother’s voice? I ask because I got quite upset when I realised I couldn’t recall my mum’s dulcet tones. It was her habit to sit in her chair next to the pale blue Dansette record player to entertain herself, and the neighbours, playing her own favourite selections. When I tell you these included Sidney Devine you might have some sympathy for the neighbours.
Told you I was easily distracted.
Enjoy the day. 🥳🎶😎 🐾🐾