The Burning Bed : Bunny-Goggles

I don't want to be here anymore. Wales, I mean. If I didn't want to be here anymore in the suicide, killing myself, taking my own life sort of way, I wouldn't say it publicly. It is a very private matter. This is why a lot of people succeed. I used to say I never felt suicidal, but have had a few occasions when because all you feel is pain that option seems most attractive, because it represents the end of pain. It's just the method and the ability to 'go through with it' with steadfast conviction that is the problem. Blimey, all that planning. I would have to plan, as that's the way I am. I suppose some people just do it but that's not me. I'd have to write letters make sure all my affairs are in order and see that the kids are okay. I would have talked myself out of it by the time I got round to it. The only times I had any real compulsion was during a particular Prozac-prescribed experience. The desire to cut my wrists seemed wildly out of my control in my head. I pictured myself doing the deed, yet normally bloody wrists would not have been my choice - far too messy. Another time was when my anxiety was at such a piercingly high level I felt like jumping out of the window. Otherwise I have occasionally wished myself dead, as I suspect many have, but on the whole, if the compulsion is absent I will wait my turn.

This sort of depressing talk brings me to the chapter in my book about Uncle David (who died on Christmas day). I have included my cousin John. He used to say the anxiety was the worse and his many suicide attempts were to escape the hell of it. He had a good angel on one shoulder and the evil on another. They would talk to him quite frequently which unfortunately landed him in a psychiatric establishment often. When he jumped off the 50 foot bridge, and out of a high window once or twice the medics would patch him up and send him away until the next time. I will need to speak to his Mum to count up the times he tried. He stabbed himself once, and overdosed on a number of occasions. At 3am one morning he told me he wanted to walk in the sea. Other methods were indirect but he was on a drink and drug-fuelled inglorious path of self-destruction. Uncle David said he didn't think he would make it to 30. He didn't. He died 3 years ago of a Heroin overdose administered by a friend because his body was so broken he couldn't manage to inject himself. The distraught friend has served his time for manslaughter despite pleas from family and friends. John could be very persuasive.

I write of these sad things because at the moment I feel a bit sad and reflective: Probably because I am not busy enough. But then February through to March has been a sad time for me for the last 10 years now. My late husband died on 6^th March 2003 and was in the hospice for 4 weeks before. It always makes me think of those gone who were close.

Pete - March 2003

Dad - October 2007

John - October 2009

Dave -December 2012

Miss you x

So on a lighter note; although I am ready to get back to my little home in Hastings, we have been out and about a bit. We had a trip to Phwelli, had fish and chips and a very chilly walk on the beach.

Phwelli

We had a drive to Snowdonia – just to have a look – not really the place for dog walking. From a distance I thought there was still snow on the mountains but on closer inspection the mountain streams had frozen-white as they flowed down.

For our last week in Wales I have been banned from taking Alfie out for a walk on my own. The reason is quite simple - he has been naughty, thrice more.

Once:

We walked down the stone steps to the beach and of course Alfie was happy up the cliff like a demented goat.

I decided to let him stay off the lead through the gate and up the glade as he usually just ran up it to check out the undergrowth over the wooden bridge. After the trek along the beach and with the tricky bolt on the gate, I needed to rest on the seat at the bottom of the glade. Alfie took the track up the bank but I wasn't concerned as there is a barbed wire fence round the sheep field. He disappeared so I trudged up the glade into the clearing over the bridge and I could see him. But I saw he was not on the right side of the fence and the sheep were behind him. Now wildly panicking I called him to come back down and walked down the glade again. I had to get to the top of the bank and see where he was. As I suspected, the fence was damaged and an old wooden gate had been erected, which was easy for Alfie to spring over, particularly with his bunny- goggles on.

The gate on the bank

He wasn't after the sheep, it was the bunnies. I implemented plan B. No answer. I had to sort it out myself. Alfie was in the middle of the field (the sheep had scuttled to the other end) with something in his mouth. I thought it was a bird but on closer inspection was a decaying sheep's leg. I quickly looked around for three legged sheep grabbed Alfie and ran back to the fence, thinking if Alfie was going to be shot they'd have to shoot me as well. Of course he would not jump back over the old wooden gate, he turns to heavy unmoveable stone when doesn't want to do something. I was feeling pretty ill by now but you get the strength from somewhere. I checked to see if there were any other way out, thinking at least he is on a lead. The only way out was under the fence as the posts were loose. However this meant we had to make our way down the bank through a mass of bramble, which I did tugging Alfie reluctantly behind me. On the verge of collapse I pictured plan B unaware of my, yes I know, self-inflicted plight, which could have been much worse, happily reading yet another bloody book on his kindle – mobile conveniently discharged. On my return I showered, soothing my scratched-to-buggery legs and went to bed. Alfie stayed in the garden for a while and it was decreed that he would not be allowed down the glade without a lead from now on.

Twice:

Alfie looked at me with those puppy dog eyes, which he knows gets what he wants. It was getting late in the afternoon but I let him persuade me to take him for a quick run in the paddock. Ha! He did the obligatory sniffing on the cliff's edge in the undergrowth and then chose his moment. He dashed over the paddock towards the lane where the bunnies roam free in the field and hedgerows. He kept going and going and went I know not where. It became dark and I panicked – plan B was reluctantly called. I was ordered to leave him and wait for his return but I searched up and down the lane calling and calling, mind racing. A bark in the dark, on the other side of the fence, over the stream. A shout, a grab, a pull a yank, a scream to jump over the barbed wire fence as only Alfie can. He sprang. Shite shite shite, but back safe.

Alfie in action

Thrice:

We took the paddock route to the beach, entering through the small wooden gate and down the concrete steps past the stream that flows into the sea. To avoid any more shenanigans I decided that time not to go up the glade through the five bar gate, so turned round and headed back to the steps. I find it hard-going with my damned heavy legs up the steps so Alfie is quite a bit ahead of me and usually he will wait for my instructions which he knows is to go through the small gate into the paddock. However, by now he is halfway down the muddy path which leads to the long winding lane from the main road to the farmhouse. His glance towards me was brief but I caught that look in his eyes that says 'the rabbits are this way and I'm gonna get them.' I see his bottom wiggle round the small broken kissing gate at the end of the path and go into the paddock to call him back. My whistle is not whistling, it phuts. I realise I have to trudge in his direction as I know where he is heading. He's got those bloody bunny-goggles on and we know what that means. I do not wish to implement plan B or we are in big Trouble. He is in the hedgerow of course, sniffing, panting and wiggling. Then he is gone. One bunny rushes across the lane but no Alfie. I guess he has headed further up the hedgerow. I enter the fields via a five bar field gate and realise thankfully it is a public footpath but where my dog should be on the end of the lead; he is not. Then I spot him, over the other side of the luckily empty-of-sheep field in another hedgerow. I call and walk as fast as I can towards him but boy those bunny-goggles are pretty strong and off he goes through the next field. I follow him through where the marshy water-logged ground sucks my wellied feet down and this almost comical scene is not making me laugh. I am almost beside myself with a rising fear and I see newspaper headlines 'woman shot as she dives on dog to protect him in farmer's field.' Because I knew I would in the heat off the moment. Dog lovers do silly things like that. There would be heated discussions on Jeremy Vine on radio 2 and Loose Women where some would say I deserved it and others would say they would do the same and how sad I gave up my life for my dog. He was eventually knackered by the time he got to the next field and gave up the chase, except for one last lunge towards the hedgerow; he was on his lead by then. I noticed an ancient stone monument in the next field and a signpost so at least I wasn't trespassing at that point: Panic over.

The upshot is there wouldn't be a next time as I'm banned from walking Alfie on my own in Wales forever.

We had a couple more trips to the beach up the road arranged by hubby who was by now firmly in charge of Alfie.

We walked together to the stone monument which turned out to be an ancient burial ground. Alfie, begrudgingly, on his lead.

The monument, plan B and Alfie

Anyhow the time went by and here I am after packing and a six hour drive, unpacking and a few days of cleaning and shopping, cosy and safe in my little home back in Hastings. We have our lovely king-size memory foam mattress bed. Hubby has his Sky TV, I have my bedroom TV, and Alfie has his bedroom and oh the woods where he can wear his bunny-googles every day. Home sweet home....