What’s important? What’s your priority? Funny how the little things in life can take on too much importance, can niggle us, affect our whole waking day.
We sometimes fail to realise what is truly important in our lives. I was certainly affected by working long hours and to use that well worn phrase couldn’t see the wood for the trees. But maybe this true story will illustrate what I mean.
Saturday came. I like to indulge in that luxurious Saturdayish feel: Saturday papers, cafe latte, the memory of Friday’s Jazz night, the gorgeous sight of my 6 month old collie, Meg – one ear up, one ear down sitting on my yet to be mown lawn. Yes, Meggie, ever ready for walkies.
The sun and saturated colours of red collar, black-blue and white fur beckoned me. Where shall we go Meg? It had been raining heavily so fields were out. The road it is then Meg.
Through the village we walk in the direction of Mill Lane where there is a weir, a broken mill and echoes of two centuries ago. Farm hands’ cottages quaintly chic, Victorian greenhouses, hollyhocks and the sound of Meg’s claws clip clopping along the road.
Over Sheepdyke Bridge, through the Farm, the chunky yellow walkers’ arrow pointing the way to the channelling of water into a powerful current. I drank in the Lake-District smells and noticed my collie dog front paws up on the brick bridge wall peering curiously at the tumbling water.
Would the water run faster the other side of the bridge? Let’s look Meg. A spring up: a spring too energetic, too loving of life, too exuberant. Gone. It happened in its own time – a slow motion dawning of horror as I realised that my dog, our family dog had thrown herself over the bridge. Surely the force of the waterfall would knock her unconscious.
And it would be then that she’d drown. She’d be washed up downstream to be hauled out by a Foston fishernan wishing fervently that he hadn’t bothered to go fishing that day. He’d notice that one side of her face is Hebridean sheep black. Her ears would be flattened mole-like against a pointy head. Tiny, insignificant. Gone.
I fought against this scenario in my head. ‘Meg. Meg!’ I ran up to the bridge and down to the path again and again but no sign of life.
A woman, who I later learnt was called Linda, came out of her river straddling cottage. She had a 4 centimetre wide flattened length of rope. Was it strength I needed? Was it better eyesight? Was it someone else to reassure me, to console me?
The sight of Linda was goad enough for me to scramble down the slimy bank, crashing through ancient tree roots. The water noise almost stopped all my senses. The water yelled why didn’t you keep her on a lead? Why are you so unimaginably stupid? If Meg had barked or whimpered I wouldn’t have heard. Only the noise in my head berating me.
The stones were shiny and wet but so were Meg’s eyes! Yes, there she was four paws planted cat like on a strip of stone next to the torrent. Her brown eyes caught the light as they looked up at me. Black and white fur was curiously camouflaged against the foam and water.
She was alive! I shouted at Linda who’d brought the rope. ‘She’s there!’ But Linda had command of the situation and instructed me to loop the rope through Meg’s collar – she took one end and I took the other.
Together we hauled the soaking dog on to the bank from the icy water. I had my pup back. I had my Saturday back. Relief torrented through me and nothing, nothing in the world mattered … except the top quality bottle of wine I knew I must get for Linda!
Written by Joan Hudson
Photography by Dominic Eve
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