My dog is depressed

My dog Doc is depressed. He has taken himself to his bed and refuses to partake in the small world around him. I once saw an interview with Carrie Fisher who, after Star Wars, suffered depression; she said that the clincher was a bubble bath in shape of Princess Liea; you unscrewed the head and poured liquid out of the neck. This was too much and she retired to her bed, where she hid under the blankets and lost herself in a book. Doc does have a book “A tale of a dog” which I once read to him on a train just to annoy the lap-top type next to us, but alas Doc is unable to read. Doc’s malaise will pass; he has suffered no such horror as seeing his own head unscrewed.

A week ago he was in pensive mood as he watched the humans gather various belongings stuff them into bags and dump them into the hall, he sniffed, he paced and occasionally made high pitched winey sounds. The pensive mood was justified and once in the car, with four adults, one child and two other dogs, Doc became frantic with excitement. He danced about on my thighs, stuffed his nose out of the car window, allowed his ears to flap in the breeze, sniffed with such extreme intensity as to emit small sprays of dog wet and repeatedly stood on my bladder.

Illustrated by andyartisand 

Unleashed he burst into the bungalow, skidded across the laminated flooring, tore through the garden, ran wildly though the grass and in the dramatic downpour of hurricane Bertha’s left over’s he barked the bark of an adventurer. Having collected a considerable amount of grass between his toes he set forth like an explorer, tail erect, nose to the floor and each room was scrutinized. Certain areas were considered worthy of his mark and he cocked his leg here and there while the humans cleaned the mark away. Having established his surroundings, scattered grass throughout our lodgings and made known his presence to all of Cornwall, he then sought to ascertain the canine social order.  

Harry* a dog in turmoil, wanted to be his friend and yet was afraid of close contact, he growled, he snarled, he snapped, made tremendous displays of white fangs and his mistress brought forth the muzzle. Lucy a glossy black beauty of fifteen watched Doc’s lamb like dance of invitation with nothing short of regal amusement. She bestowed an honorary wag of her magnificent tail and walked away in her high heeled fashion to seek the most comfortable seat in the household; meanwhile Doc sought spoils from beneath the dining table.

That night, each night, he slept like a furry baby, his tubby belly softly rising, his nose sniffing astral smells his woof subdued and dreamlike.

By day he clambered rocks, sniffed flowers, walked villages, saw cows, sheep and horses, slipped in seaweed, dug in the sand, paddled in rock pools and with fore-paws low, bum high and tail a blur, invited the other holidaying dogs to play and many responded.

Now he has returned to our little world, where there are no other dogs. If he could take alcohol he would drink gin, he would cry and talk of the old days, of the wild times, he would sing maudlin songs and slump over with a half chewed bone.

I do believe Doc thought he had found a new life and I believe he will recover as the memories fade.

* Harry was rescued, he was badly treated as a pup and when we first met him he was downright scary, what the in laws have done with Harry is remarkable and he is a happy dog.