Rune
“He’s a big lad, he’s a bonny lad, and he likes tuna fish… and they call him Runey Morton, and he has his own dish, dish, dish, dish, dish, dish, dish...”
Rune’s Car Song; Me and the kids... repeat till heartbroken.
Big, beautiful, handsome, funny and proud; a giant head he’d push through the triangle of your legs as you sat watching the telly and he came huffing in after demolishing his dinner. He’d have to really squeeze his head through and up; his ears sliding back to get through the gap, to perform this ritualistic thank you of snorting the bits of mashed food stuck round his nose, as you ragged his hairy jowls in laughing praise. The vulnerability of this daft performance never lost on me. His head stuck tight and staring up... simply making me happy.
‘Big for a boxer mind?!’
That would be the usual comments from the tourists stopping at our garden wall, leaning over to tentatively pat him if it was their first encounter, or laugh and praise him like an old friend if they were regulars. Rune standing like a shopkeeper; stretched to his full length on shaking back legs, supported by front paws on wide shoulders, taking all the praise on his big flat head as he stood against his counter… his long brown tail spinning with the attention, while up top all solid for the customers.
I miss you every day.
Strange the markers that fall upon life’s road and allow a beginning and an end to view things between. I’ve never had this before, never saw something brand new and at the start... and followed through until conclusion. I had him since an egg; his bucket head too floppy and heavy for his little frame; legs growing like a young calf’s… out of all proportion to his size.
Eleven years. The longest anyone’s ever stayed around. Only realising that now in the writing. No wonder then I guess this poignancy, when thought about like that; when seen from looking back... this marker on the trial. And a lesson learnt in the passing. That when it’s gone you miss the whole… and all the parts that made it. And all the things that you got mad about were also in the gift. Come back and chew the carpets, I don’t care that you’d never bring a ball back; lying with it between your paws to bound off whenever anyone got near. Come back and fart beside the fire... and I will walk you in the rain.
But I couldn’t let you howl like that again.
I’d have carried you upstairs to your basket every night for the rest of my life… no mean feat, and seemingly none too pleasant for you either judging by your rumbling, throaty growls. But I couldn’t let you howl like that again.
I knew my dog was gone, but the old senile fella that had taken his place, oblivious to everyone around him... could have still stayed here forever. But I couldn’t let you howl like that again.
And Reece and Janie came down.
I’d told them how you were… but it’s hard to believe in just words down a line.
But no mistake when they came…
No going ballistic now. No tail hammering off the kitchen radiator like someone striking it with a stick. No round and round in your tight little happy dance… no pushing up beside them and the up and down the stairs… barging into the bathroom if Janie dares to close the door… no eyes fixed on them solid. No none of this no more. Our Mr. Rune has gone.
This old fella doesn’t even flinch, splayed out by the chair where he’ll lie all day, interspersed with sideways lumbering towards the garden… back legs dragging to collapse mid piss… lost, pathetic and sad. Where’s the shopkeeper now?
So Reece and Janie said goodbye… and she ran her fingers down the soft velvet between your eyes for the last time… and held those big old paws, with their old scratched pads and broken claws… from all your days standing at your wall serving all your friends. And the night soon came when you howled and yelped at nothing that was there, and I couldn’t let this happen… and it was easy to decide.
.
And on the morning I dug a hole… and I remember the wet blackness of the deeper soil… and it was important that it was deep and wide so as not to be uncomfortable… and you just slept on by the chair.
And Lynda called Dave, which was a nice thing to do, after all the times he’d looked after you when he lived next door. And he brought Jazz down in her cat box, because you’d sometimes lie together when you stayed at his if you were both really tired and sick of chasing her… and I think she knew you never really meant it. And she looked at you as you slept and said something in cat that I didn’t understand… then walked away to the farthest corner and sat there watching.
And I knew that time was short and there would soon be someone at the door…
And I lay down in front of you and pushed my head up against yours… my beautiful old friend.
And I said, “Look at you, you daft old sod… look at you, look at you!”
And I knew you couldn’t stay here anymore… and heard Lynda talking at the door.
And it was kind of her to come to the house; yes she did seem kind and nice. And I asked her about things… and she explained those things to me. And I lay down with you again… and then you came back from where you’d been.
And you raised your head and looked at me… and your eyes knew everything. And it lasted just a moment… and will stay with me forever. And I saw Runey Boy for the last time, and he was big and proud and strong as ever, and he said that it was all okay… but that all he felt was tired… and he really had to go.
And you lay your head back down…………………………………… and I had to ask her if you’d gone. And she was kind and sad… and she was crying too.
And so I hope you’re never cold… and that the big quilt keeps you warm.
And it’s just different round here now.
And I miss you every day xxxx.
Come In Number Seven...
So I was thinking of that thing David said on the trail with Reece, when Reece asked him if he was happy and he went into one about Happiness and how people feel they will be happy once they have everything in place...but that life is not like that...that life is change and the key in his opinion was to accept change. So I got this analogy in my head of having this rowing boat on the pond and trying to get everything just where you wanted it; like metaphors for all the things in your life. Bits here and bits there, but of course they are all floating around on the water and not staying still and you’re frantically rowing around, in and out of them, trying to keep them in place and getting more and more agitated...and there are bits of them drifting off and of course you’re crashing into others in rowing boats all trying to do the same with their bits and pieces (of course none of their bits you give a bugger about, so it’s okay if you just row over them) and on, and on and on it goes. And maybe a storm blows up, or maybe it just stays pretty calm, but even then the things you want to get just right are forever just gently washing around and your time is spent in degrees of rowing, some manic some just patrolling, making sure everything stays where you put it because that is the design you want and that is when you will be happy...when you get everything just so. And sometimes you are almost, almost there...but never quite…and then, at whatever point (but come it must) some bloke on the bank calls out your number...because your time is up, and the things are just left drifting and floating off to become whatever...and all of a sudden none of it is really that important anymore. And you row back in, past all the others still having their turn, still rowing around in circles trying to keep all their bits of flotsam and jetsam in place, in the shape they like...and maybe you notice the trees and flowers and nature on the bank side as you row back in towards the dark boathouse, and perhaps it passes your mind that maybe you should have enjoyed all that stuff a bit more, or even made for the other side to see what was there, or just powered round the pond like a half-wit enjoying the liberating thrill of it all and the scariness of just letting all the shit you’d brought with you just float
away and do its own thing and see what happened, instead of trying to control it...in such a fruitless task...and on a sea that never really listened anyway, but which will still be there long after you are gone.
And as you beach back up to the jetty and that bloke stretches out his hand to help you out, he maybe says something like, ‘Did you enjoy that?’ and you glance back for a moment; at all the stuff you left behind...and realise that your turn is really over...and you just think… ‘Fuck!
I didn’t even need a boat...’
After Words
My son Reece, the mighty A4PS.com (or Art for Pete’s Sake in case you were wondering) was talking about attaching short descriptions to his paintings to provide some context… so this is me nicking his idea:
Pandora’s Casket, the actual story, was written after watching Deal or No Deal during an idle, drunken, afternoon… and thinking Man! This game needs livening up… what would happen if the reward was raised so players were prepared to sacrifice something more than just imaginary money… and then, as happens when you conk out after a curry, dreaming about it in some Dystopian near future. And I suppose watching Gas Land, about fracking, didn’t really help either; being able to light your tap water on fire and all that… I kid you not! And knocked my original idea of… Noel’s Family Pet Cremation Quiz off the top slot. Although I still think that one’s got legs… and might still try and pitch it to Edmonds.
The Thrill Is Gone is about an alcoholic returning to his crutch/lover after one hundred days away. And Rune is something I wrote years ago to say goodbye to a beautiful old friend.
And finally Come In Number Seven was inspired by meeting the amazing David on the Camino de Santiago last year. As Reece and I plodded past his shack with our ridiculously overburdened backpacks… abandoning cooking stoves, underpants and other none essentials as we went… and then took time out to rest and watch this remarkable man feed and nuture the passing pilgrims. And if I’ve ever been in the presence of the real deal… he was it. Although should you ever consider walking a Camino please put more thought into it than we did… as Reece’s solution as to what we would eat along the way did lose something in translation… ‘We can just hunt squirrels and stuff!’
Anywhoo… that’s me… so Muchas Gracias for taking the time to read these ramblings… and all the best to you and yours.
Neil Stuart Morton
And here’s one I made earlier!
Clown Wolf
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