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Chapter One

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Out by Ten
by Anne E. Thompson

Chapter One

I didn’t begin to feel safe until I reached Norwich. As the train heaved towards the platform, with a great screeching of wheels and complaining of brakes, it was as if I had been holding my breath and finally, with a sigh, allowed myself to think that perhaps I had managed to escape after all. While we slowed, a conveyor-belt of painted faces peering in, I joined the general shuffling of the masses and edged towards the doors. People were staring at suitcases stored near the exit, ensuring no one stole them, mothers were gathering a plethora of plastic toys and sweeping sweet wrappers over the edge of the grey tables so they fell like confetti to the carpet below, men in crumpled suits with tired faces were clutching briefcases and over-night bags. We inched forwards, any bond formed during the journey through smiles or the fleeting meeting of eyes was now dissolved, we moved individually, each person isolated from the other passengers, until finally, with a giant step down from the carriage, we were free.

I moved cautiously, looking for security cameras. I chose two boys, one with chaotic hair and a blue coat, his friend wearing a beanie and carrying a backpack, and stayed as close to their backs as I could. Anyone watching would have thought we were together, student friends returning to Norfolk, off to find a taxi together. The yellow barriers were all left open, so I shoved my redundant ticket into a back pocket and walked in the footsteps of my unsuspecting buddies as we left the canopied platform, past the Starbucks and the single policeman staring aimlessly into space. It was the end of the morning commuting time, and a few people in business suits were still hurrying to work. There was a child wearing pink bunny ears chewing a breakfast donut, spilling crumbs as she ate. A man, walking while he read a text almost walked into two girls as they emerged from M&S carrying their tiny bag of food. Everyone was in their own isolated capsule, and I felt invisible as we headed towards the Victorian red brick wall of the main concourse. As we neared the ticket office, I peeled off, said a silent farewell to my pretend friends, and stood in line at the automatic ticket machine.

I knew the timetable by heart – weeks of planning and surreptitious trips to the library to use the computer ensured I was prepared, and when it was my turn, I bought a single ticket to Sheringham. A man was standing behind me, and although I knew he was probably simply waiting his turn, he made me nervous, and I tried to cover the screen, to hide where I was going, in case he remembered later and repeated the information. I heard him sigh when I pulled out money – I knew he was impatient, surprised that I wasn’t using a card, which was surely what the machine was designed to receive. But I couldn’t risk using cards, couldn’t risk being traced, so I ignored him, and smoothed out the crumpled notes as best I could, and fed them laboriously into the slit designed for paper money. The machine whirred. Coins clinked into the bottom section, followed by the orange ticket and matching receipt. I pushed back the plastic flap and retrieved my things, clutching them in my hand as I moved away. I glanced up at the departures board, checking the times splashed in orange letters matched the information in my head.

The public toilets had the same damp chemical stale air as all other public toilets in England. The same middle-aged women were washing their hands while checking their hair in the mirror, the ubiquitous harried mother was trying to stop her three-year-old touching every surface, and handle, and wall; while a teenager smeared eye-liner around the rim of her eyes. I crossed the wet floor, edged past the yellow plastic “cleaning in progress” warning placard, and locked myself into a cubicle. Which is when I actually, for a moment, properly relaxed.

People assume that being a prisoner is all about locks – being locked into a space by someone else and not being allowed to leave. But actually, the reverse is as heavy a burden. Unless you are free, the ability to lock yourself into a place is also denied. The prisoner is unable to lock a door, to shut out the world, to enclose themselves into a space that is truly private. They are always on view, watched, analysed – whether they are aware of it or not. I leant back against the door and closed my eyes, savouring the precious moment of being unobserved, hidden from the world. No one knew where I was, no one was watching, I was truly, wonderfully, alone. But only for a few minutes.

When I emerged, walking straight to the row of damp sinks, there was a woman with two daughters standing by the driers. They were Chinese – or some similar ethnicity – and while they shook drips from their hands and spoke in their sign-song chatter, I noticed how similar the two girls were. Separated by a couple of years, one was taller, but that was the only difference I could discern, they seemed identical. Both were laughing, their dark eyes dancing beneath thick fringes of black hair, wide lips drawn back to show their small straight teeth. They were pretty, with their slim bodies and smooth skin, and as they giggled and chatted, they drew the attention of the other women using the washroom. Two identical dolls. I wondered what it would be like, to grow up with someone so similar in appearance as to be almost interchangeable, to potentially, when the height differential lessened, have a physical substitute at hand. I smiled briefly, exploring in my mind the wonderful freedom of being able to ask another person to take my place, to never be missed, because someone else was fulfilling my obligation. It would, I felt, be the most wondrous thing ever.

But then, as the pair moved away from the purring drier and turned towards the exit, both swishing long black plaits down their slim-shouldered backs, I realised that to have a substitute, they must first be willing. To have someone take my place in life, would involve giving up their own, and that, I knew, would be an impossible ask. No one, I thought, would willingly give up their own happiness simply to fulfil the dreams of another. The girls left, and I moved to take their place, holding my hands under the warm flow of air until they were dry.

I kept an eye on the time, moving back to the platforms when my train was due to leave. I chose a seat near the front, thinking that when we reached Sheringham, I could be out and away before most other people had alighted, and that a ticket inspector, if there was one, would be watching the masses as they stepped from the train, and would barely focus on the first few passengers to hand him their tickets.

I found a seat near a window, and moved my bag next to me, closing my eyes so that people would think I was asleep and would choose somewhere else to sit. The train was rumbling in the way that only diesel trains are able, that gradual warming up hum, the sound of an over-stretched engine which is trying to find the gears. I opened my eyes when the train jolted into motion, and looked around the carriage.

The train was fairly empty, the only person who could see me was an elderly lady, who sat in the seats opposite. She had a fat shopping bag, with groceries spilling from the top, and a small brown handbag which she moved from her knee to the empty seat next to her. She smiled at me when I glanced towards her, and opened her mouth as if to speak, so I turned quickly back to the window, and watched as the city was replaced by fields and bushes and lines of trees that rushed past in an endless line of green and brown.

“Excuse me.”

I looked across the aisle. The elderly woman had removed her coat and headscarf, and was leaning towards me, waiting. I nodded, sighing inwardly. Old ladies seem to enjoy talking to young women; I tried to appear discouraging.

“I wonder if you would be very kind and watch my things for me,” she was saying, her face creased into a smile, her eyes trusting. “I need to use the ladies’ room, and I was wondering if you could watch my bags while I’m gone? So no one touches them?”

I stared at her, took in her blue-grey hair, the kind eyes behind the wire-rimmed glasses. We were strangers, two people who happened to choose the same carriage to sit in, but apparently, that was the only criteria necessary for her to trust me. Or perhaps it was because I was female, and there was some unwritten code which meant that she could trust me, someone who shared her gender, that I as a woman would ensure her bags were safe. Maybe in her era, young people were more honest.

I opened my mouth, not sure how to respond, wanting to warn her, to protect her from the dangers of trusting strangers; then closed it and nodded.

“Thank you so much dear. I shan’t be long.”

I watched as she stood, she waited a moment to find her balance as the train swayed, then walked towards the doors at the end of the carriage. They clicked shut behind her departing back.

I looked across the aisle. There was her coat: brown, not new, neatly folded, topped by the square of her red headscarf. On the seat next to them was her handbag – her handbag – presumably containing her purse, possibly her house key, probably stuffed with old receipts, and a tissue and a pen, maybe even a phone. I thought for a long moment about that phone, savouring the possibility of it, the ease of owning it, making anonymous calls, connecting to the internet. My mind wandered back through the handbag, pausing for a moment on the purse, imagining the coins and notes, each in their designated place, counted after each purchase. And a credit card, which may well give contactless payment which if I was careful, if I used it sparingly, would last for a few groceries. I toyed with the idea, ran possibilities around my head, considered the morality of perhaps taking just some of the money, thinking that need probably justified deed, and my need was certainly greater than hers; my poverty was lurking just around the corner, my next few meals were far from certain. Plus, I thought, I was already a thief, I couldn’t deny the label, there was no way to pretend that I was anything else. And I was no Robin Hood figure, the only person to benefit from my illegal acts was myself, there was no justification, therefore this tiny, almost offered-on-a-platter act, was just a tiny part of the whole, barely significant.

But then I pulled back my thoughts, reigned in the tantalising exploration of possibilities, and reminded myself of who I was, who I hoped to become. No, I might indeed be a thief, I might take those things I had no right to, but I wasn’t a petty criminal. I had not yet stooped low enough to steal from elderly ladies on trains. I would not let circumstance mould me into a creature I would loathe.

I turned back to the window, watching trees like hunchbacked old men guarding the road, and muddy fields full of pigs with slices of upturned barrels to sleep in, and roads that raced beside us before curling away into towns and villages and places we could never reach, glimpses of rivers and boats and occasional docks, all blurring into an indiscernible haze. I strained forwards, trying to see the roads, wondering which were the ones that we had driven along, a lifetime ago. But it was too hard to see them, they all looked the same. My eyes closed, and I slept.


Thanks for reading.
The book is available from Amazon, as a paperback or kindle book. I hope you will buy a copy to share with your friends.

*****
Please share.
anneethompson.com
*****

Keeping Up Appearances

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One of my Christmas gifts was a ‘voucher’ made by Husband. It promised an ‘all expenses paid’ trip to Bluewater, which I feel was not fully thought-through. I saw potential for some fun.

I generally dislike shopping (understatement) and life has been busy, so I kept the voucher on my desk but never used it. However, this week, I eventually decided to take advantage of it, and we set off. Husband was a little shocked by the lack of specificity in the voucher, and I was smiling.

I needed new jeans. Jeans are a staple of my wardrobe, and they tend to reflect my hatred of shopping, because fashion is reflected in jeans. Have you noticed? Many clothes are timeless, but jeans change constantly.

Jeans seem to change every season. They flare, become tight, grow huge again, slim to fit the leg but flare over a boot, return to hug the flesh. The waistband hugs your middle, then drops to below your belly (everyone my age has a belly) then sneaks up again to hide the bulge, then rises to almost reach your chest. The zipper changes to buttons, then everyone realise how stupid this is (we all have moments of rushing to the loo!) and the zipper returns.

As someone with very little interest in clothes, I find this challenging. I want clothes that I can grab in the morning and wear all day, and I want to know what I am getting. My jeans need to be comfortable, washable, and tuck into wellies. They need to cope with mud, and being brushed clean (though the person who recently told me he was using his hairbrush to brush the mud off his trousers was perhaps unaware of the wild hairstyle he had acquired). I really do not need them to change to show how fashionable I am (because I am not!) Nor do I need them to be expensive.

I did, in my forties, flirt briefly with expensive clothes and bags with designer names. It was very unsatisfying. There really is no correlation between jeans that are expensive and how long they last—nor, I think—in how good they look or feel. I now buy my jeans at Next. They always have a range of sizes and colours and they are not overly expensive yet they usually last for a few years. (Some of the cheaper jeans tend to tear after a while, plus I dislike buying clothes that might have been made by slaves, and Next seem to have a reputable slavery policy.)

I can tell you that this year, it is possible to buy jeans with a waistband that holds in your tummy but isn’t up round your armpits, in a variety of shades (but not, thankfully, white—that was a bad fashion). They range in tightness but it is possible to find some that are neither completely flesh-hugging nor flapping in the wind. But they are short. Last time I bought jeans, they reached my shoes. This year, all jeans seem to show a little sock (I always buy ‘regular’ length, as ‘long’ need rolling up or I trip over). This will take some getting used to, as I am not especially keen on seeing ankles, and I dislike having to take the time to match my socks. But we will cope.

I also bought, in case you are interested,  a top, some pyjamas (which I will wear as a tee-shirt) a pair of running shoes and some white trainers that Husband told me are currently fashionable (but I’m not sure if I will bond with them—they are very white).

We had coffee, as promised by the voucher, and returned to the car. We were in Bluewater for about an hour, which is about my limit for shopping. It was rather fun, so I might request a similar voucher next Christmas—though I bet it is more specific on what will be paid for!

Hope you have some comfortable clothes to wear. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Thank you for reading.
anneethompson.com
*****

PS. We have four ducklings on the pond, and they have now survived, without me interfering for two weeks, which is a record! Brown duck is proving to be a very good mother (most unlike a duck).

Instow with Meg

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Thursday 4th April

After a quick burst in the garden, I put Meg back into her crate and we went for a run. We’re very near an entrance to the disused railway line, so we joined all the other joggers, bikers, and dog-walkers, and ran away from town, level with the coast. It’s a lovely place to run. While Husband showered, I decided to cool down by walking in the opposite direction with Meg. I kept her on the ‘lead of shame’* (the slip-lead with a nose noose, which is loose when she walks beside me but turns her head if she tries to pull, giving me complete control. She hates it, but it keeps us both safe). I tried jogging with her, and it was fine, so I might take her with us tomorrow.

All went well until we came to a short tunnel. Meg had walked under a couple of bridges, but she absolutely refused to walk through the tunnel. She put on the brakes about 10 feet from the entrance, and refused to move. I tried to reassure her, stroked her, tried walking away and then approaching it again—no luck. A family walked past, and I asked if their dog went through the tunnel. They assured me it did, and suggested we walk with them. I tagged along behind them—same result. We were not going through the tunnel. I decided to come back another time, with Husband, and see whether if I go in first, she will follow me.

Another walker stopped to ask whether Meg is a Malinois. This seems to happen a lot. She’s not as tall as a Malinois, but while she’s going through her leggy stage she does look similar. The man was walking his own dog, and asked if he could give Meg a treat. She sat very politely while he fed her, but his own poor dog was most unhappy!

We decided to attempt a cafe with Meg. John’s Cafe often has dogs, and they have their own entrance, away from the grocery part of the shop. Husband secured a table and then let us in. I had a large chew with me, and hoped she would settle under the table and gnaw the chew while we had breakfast. Meg was wearing the lead of shame, so walking through the café was fine, and I put her in the corner. She was very antsy, trying to see what was happening in the café, so I switched places (not the seat—I remained on the seat and she remained on the floor! But I sat in the corner, and she sat under the table where she could see everything). After a few minutes she settled, and gnawed the chew while watching as other customers came and went. Other than replying when another dog barked, she was very good. Another first.

I messaged Sue, who leads the puppy class, to ask for advice re. the tunnel. She said not to attempt to call Meg through off the lead, as she might freak and run away. Nor should I force her through, as it would just make the fear permanent. Instead, I should make it into a game, approaching the tunnel with a treat, then turning and moving away from it, repeating until we were in the tunnel. We did this—Husband stood near the entrance with a treat, we ran up to ‘find Husband’, took the treat then turned and retreated. Gradually Husband stood nearer and nearer the tunnel, until he was inside, then moved further back. We managed to enter the tunnel, with Meg on the lead but moving on her own volition. Then we walked the rest of the way, to the other side. On the return trip, she hesitated at the entrance, we showed her a treat, and she walked through. Another success.

Success!


Friday

We tried taking Meg on the run this morning. It was definitely more effort, and we had to stop every time a bike or another dog was in range. But I’m hoping that in the future this will be a thing, and part of her daily exercise can naturally overlap with mine.

After a shower, we went to John’s Cafe again for brunch. They seem to only serve very large portions of food, so it’s not possible to have a single croissant and coffee. I brought home the extra croissant. It’s a shame, because our country seems to be getting gradually fatter/less healthy, which is bad for all of us. (And it’s not easy to limit what we eat when we have delicious food put in front of us—better to be only served a sensible portion, in my view.) Meg was mostly good, and lay under the table with a chew. She did find it necessary to bark when other dogs arrived, which was annoying. However, she coped with being in a cafe, with lots of people arriving and leaving, and young children swinging their legs and making a noise—so mostly I was pleased with her.

Walking along the street is still a challenge, as she reacts to every car that passes us. I can easily restrain her with the lead of shame, but it will be good when she stops reacting. There was a fun moment when I stopped to look at the beach, and she jumped up to see over the wall too. Mostly, she is a nice dog. David has re-named her ‘Nutmeg’. I am hoping this is because she is dark brown.

Thanks for reading. Have a lovely week, and take care.
Love, Anne x

Thanks for reading.
anneethompson.com
*****

The lead of shame is a lead recommended by my puppy class teacher. It’s made by Gencon, and available from Amazon. The nose loop stops her pulling hard, so even though she is stronger than me, I can safely walk her next to roads. (As naughty Meg has learnt how to wriggle out of it when it’s loose, I also attach another lead to her harness, just in case.)

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Gencon-Headcollar-Lead-Black-Handed/dp/B00T6IEAZ8/ref=sr_1_5?crid=32MM1PVGPBZAM&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.6TXmzMwiAG3dLjefzyoPjEiKKgio1kPf5yps26825oHeAOzOh0GGNXbXdkxNlYngJGpYQTXQZcYk-H3nhvlx5edT6-7z2LSJs-UuAs_qO711HcxdC5h3VTSwUq0rNluEEZDlLOU-ud9Yi2pXN_j87fm2UkrrBCUIHa6OjUpAXtFnKsN4WHNt-bz8q6rSmh5e7CwU4s8ijTL2pXE61aT94HneAgOTlWLeB34nqeaN-Ce81xVYUEEX3Il8fTbI_ykStQwk53NgXsJyDAVOBIA2SqEL7hJQ7R1bDB3yuLa9zDk.V3ednoE5IXBi5OK7tN_E30_mbEBOG8VCmJUuywZMfEQ&dib_tag=se&keywords=gencon+figure+of+8+dog+lead+anti+pull&qid=1713186052&sprefix=gencon%2Caps%2C81&sr=8-5

Trip to Instow, Devon

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Instow is the most dog-friendly town in the country. We visited several years ago, when Kia was alive. Kia was true to her GSD nature, and was deeply suspicious of all other dogs, so we spent the entire holiday with a low grumble of disapproval in the background. Despite all the other dodgy dogs, Kia loved the beach, and always cried when we drove home at the end of the holiday. Meg however, is different (this could be a stand-alone sentence: Meg is different!) We therefore decided we would take her to Instow, and see whether she liked it.

The journey here was brilliant. Unlike when she was a puppy, and threw up on a 5 minute car ride, Meg travelled perfectly. (Whether this is due to my training, and constantly being taken in the car or simply because she’s older, is impossible to say, but I have had so few successes with my training so far, that I am claiming it.)

I learnt a lesson from a holiday in France, when our children were young, many years ago. We drove, and the baby was fine all the way on the long drive to the South, but the following day, when we tried to put him in the car to go into town, he had an absolute loop-out. Forcing a determined baby, with arching back and flailing arms, into a car seat is no easy feat. I think trying to force a reluctant GSD into a crate would be impossible, so I was keen to break the journey. We therefore stopped a couple of times, and Meg walked a few loops of the dirty Services’ car park, and had some water, before being put back into the crate. Meg was wonderful (I don’t often write that!) She even managed to sit outside a Costa while I drank a nasty coffee.

The house in Instow is in a quiet road, a short walk from the beach. It’s perfect for families with dogs (I believe everything in Instow is perfect for a family with a dog). There are hardwood floors, and an enclosed garden, and hoses outside both doors. The sofas are in one area, with a large rug, and we are trying to teach Meg that she is only allowed on the hardwood floors. At home she’s pretty good with keeping to certain areas—here not so much. I suspect it will be a battle all week, but we will persist…and then accept a compromise.

We took Meg on the beach. It’s a small stretch of dirty sand along the estuary, with a million people walking, and every person has a dog. Honestly, never come to Instow if you don’t like dogs, they are everywhere. Most were well behaved, and stayed with their owners, a few ran off to interfere with other people, but all seemed friendly. Meg has so far been okay with other dogs—I suspect this is thanks to puppy classes, where she has learnt to practise working with me whilst ignoring all the other dogs working with their owners.

As we walked over the sand dune, onto the main beach, a small black dog ran towards us. I grabbed a stick, and Meg’s focus was entirely on the stick. She ignored the small yappy thing at our feet, and walked with me towards the sea. Brilliant. She loved the beach (only the dry bits, she doesn’t do wet feet, and not even a flock of water birds tempted her into the sea). We had a lovely walk, the air was fresh, the seagulls circled above us, the dog bounced happily beside us. Then we tried to put her back on the lead to leave, and all went to pot. No way was Meg coming near enough to be caught. When I called her, she stood about 3 feet away, and stared at me. If I approached, she skipped back a step. Bribes (both food and toys) were useless. Very frustrating. We wasted 10 minutes trying to trick her into a situation where we could grab her, and I vowed never to let her run free ever again. We eventually caught her, and returned to the house.

Not coming close enough to be caught.

We left her in her crate while we ate in the Instow Arms. The food was okay—not such a good menu as I remember from previously. We could have taken Meg (I think you take dogs everywhere here) but I was still cross from the beach naughtiness, and needed a break.

After dinner we watched telly for a while (3 Body Problem on Netflix—it’s a bit tense but very clever). Meg has never seen television before, and she was deeply suspicious. She barked at it a few times, and then sat next to me (I like to think she was guarding me, but I suspect it was the other way round). She wasn’t a fan. Before bedtime we strolled along the beach. We kept Meg on a long lead, and she seemed quite happy. No other dogs this time, and the lights from Appledore twinkled through the night on the other side of the estuary. All was peaceful.

I hope you have a nice day too. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Looking at the view.
anneethompson.com
*****

Meg’s Diary continued…

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20/2/2024
Today was a complete nightmare with Meg. Whatever I tried to do, she tried to disrupt. She kept jumping at me, pushing through doors ahead of me, chewed bits of furniture and barked at the chickens whenever I took her in the garden. To make it worse, it’s still rainy, so every time we went outside, we brought lots of wet mud back inside with us. There is a limit to how many times I can wipe the floor.

I did attempt to do some lead-training. Several times in fact. Each time, Meg tried to bite the lead as I put it on, then kept biting it while I tried to walk. If we went outside, she lurched towards everything. Standing still does not work (I have been advised that whenever she pulls, I should simply remain completely still, until she notices and stops). Meg is constantly interested in absolutely everything.

So, we manage to walk 2 steps together, she then lurches towards the gate because she heard a car in the lane. I stand still. Meg continues to pull towards the gate for several minutes, then notices I am not moving. Does she return to me, ready to walk obediently by my side? Like heck she does! No, she then decides a leaf is the next great excitement in the world, so lurches towards that instead. Then she spies a twig on the ground, lurches for it and grabs it before I can stop her. Small interval while I try to remove the twig she is hurriedly chewing and swallowing. I try to make her sit, she spins in circles, spots a stone, heaves us both towards it. I give up, and none too gently return her to her crate in the kitchen. An hour later, when the urge to throttle her has subsided, we try again. Re-read from the start of the paragraph. This lasted all day.

In the evening we were scheduled to go to puppy classes (the nice friendly one in the horse barn). I was so frazzled, so near tears, I messaged to say I didn’t have enough patience to attend and be dragged around the barn by my dog. I received lots of nice messages in reply, and the excellent advice from the teacher to have a glass of wine. This helped.

After days like this, I feel complete despair, and wonder if I will ever be able to walk with Meg, and whether she would be happier in a different home. I hate failing, and I like to think that I am rather gifted with animals. But Meg defeats me, and I am aware that lots of things I have done has made her behaviour worse. I think that expecting a working GSD to be a pet was a mistake, and if I could go back in time, I would choose a regular GSD. But I didn’t, so now I must decide what to do. What is best for all of us?

If nothing else, Meg is good for my prayer life. Praying is pretty much all I can do sometimes, because she seems determined to not be trained. I am aware that I need to keep all this in proportion too—no one has died, no one has been diagnosed with cancer or lost their job or home. It’s just a puppy, being difficult.

21/2/2024

Today it was like living with a different puppy. I will write it down quickly, before she turns back into a demon! From when I first let her out of the cage, Meg was lovely. She came for a snuggle (didn’t jump up) and then followed me round the kitchen while I made coffee.

When I was dressed, I drove her back down to the park. Although the police-dog-trainer said I was making her worse by doing this, I found her behaviour was better, and she was definitely less sensitive to cars, so I decided to ignore him (mostly). I did choose a seat further from the road, just in case the proximity was too confrontational, and I did fasten her lead to the seat because she is now too strong for me if she decides to take off. But we sat there, in the pouring rain, and I fed her breakfast to her. She sat, looking at me, while she was fed, and cars whizzed past a few hundred yards away, and people walked past us, and she ignored them all. Mostly. (We nearly had one nasty incident with a woman in a smart white coat who wanted to stroke her, but I managed to warn about bouncing muddy paws in time.) It was very wet, and Meg was more bothered by the rain than eating breakfast, so we walked back to the car, through the car park, which involved avoiding a few people and not chasing a couple of cars, and it was okay. Every time Meg pulled, I either stopped, or walked in a different direction, and she sort of went along with it. (This is the level of discipline I manage to achieve.)

I then drove to an area of common, where there are several miles of woodland. I used to walk Kia here, and I have avoided it because the car park is near a busy road, but I decided to risk it, planning to put her straight back in the car if she started to lurch towards cars. It was fine. The road is far enough away, so a few squeaks on a toy kept her attention with me, and we walked into the woods. The woods are riddled with footpaths, and it’s very easy to get lost (I once walked for two hours longer than planned after getting lost with a friend and her dog). I was careful to stay on the main footpaths, and only to turn left. I still managed to almost lose my way, but realised in time and we arrived back at the car after about 40 minutes. I kept Meg on a long lead, stopping if she pulled hard. Apart from pulling towards other dogs a couple of times, she was great, and we had a lovely walk. Returned home covered in mud.

Trying to smile whilst struggling with crazy puppy…

Later, taking a break from work, I gave her a ball while I had a cup of tea. I sat at the table because I couldn’t face her leaping on me in a low chair, and she snuggled up against my legs. I became aware she was trying to put the ball on my knee, so I extended a hand below the table and a rather spitty damp ball was shoved into it. I rolled it across the kitchen floor, she leapt after it, and brought it back. What a sweet puppy! In another break, I tried upturning two dog bowls, and hiding food under one. I made Meg sit, then shuffled the bowls and asked her to choose one. She sniffed both, leapt on the one with food and chased it round trying to tip it over. I then halved the amount of food, and tried again. She is able to find the smallest crumb of food under a bowl. Then (after maybe 5 times) she started to leap on me, so we ended the game and I went back to work.

I will let you know how training Meg progresses. It’s certainly not boring! I hope you have stamina for the things you’re struggling with in life. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Life

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Hello, and how has your week been? Life usually has lots of good things and difficult things–and as long as I remember to notice the good things, I can cope with the difficult stuff. At the moment, I am noticing lots of good things.

The main thing I’m thankful for is my health. I have now had the results from the heart and liver scan (actually, they seemed to check just about every internal organ!) and all is good. No iron deposits were seen, so I can start having venesections and that should prevent any future trouble. I also had my most recent blood test at the hospital where they’ll do the venesections, and it was a very good experience. Unlike the nurses who often take blood or put in a tube (usually related to scans for the brain tumour) this nurse quickly found a vein and didn’t leave my arm looking like I had been in a fight. The hospital space is also very nice, with big comfy chairs to relax in (ready to stop wimpy people like me fainting!) and staff who were really kind, and very reassuring. I came away feeling confident that venesections are something that will soon become ‘normal’ and I felt so grateful for the medics and feeling safe in a hospital (when I know that in some countries, this would not be my experience). I sneaked a photo to show you— not sure if taking photos is allowed in hospitals so don’t tell anyone. I don’t yet know when the venesections will start, but I am ready!

Nice clean and comfy space.
Feeling grateful.

It’s also Spring, and that is a wonderful time of year. I love all the colour, the warmer weather, the busyness of insects waking up and birds nesting and lambs in the fields. Goose decided to sit on her nest (the better one she made, with hay stolen from the chickens–not the rather pathetic 6 sticks thrown on the ground affair that she started with!) I had collected her eggs as she laid them (just 8) as I was hoping she wouldn’t go broody, but she did. I left her with one egg, and have given her a couple of fertile chicken eggs from my old black hen (because she might die soon and she lays lovely big brown eggs). I have also found a few random duck eggs abandoned on the bank, so I have given her those. She seems to accept anything, so we’ll see what hatches. (It won’t be her own egg, as that’s infertile.) Probably she’ll step on the hatchlings and squash them, because she’s very clumsy, but we’ll see.

Feeling broody.
A Buff Orpington who grew to goose-size!

Maverick, the cockerel, is being a pain. He’s obviously full of Springtime hormones and has started to attack people when they go in the garden. I pick him up and carry him around, but other people are less happy doing that, so he has to stay locked up when we have visitors. The thing is, he’s so beautiful, and at night he snuggles onto the nest with Goose (who he thinks is his mother) which is so cute, and I don’t think I can get rid of him. I’m hoping he will calm down again after Spring.

My other news is that my dissertation has been submitted. I now wait 8 weeks for the mark, and that’s it, my MA is complete. I have started to read about cognitive linguistics, which is really interesting, and hope to write a proposal about death for a PhD. (I think the evidence in the Old Testament shows that death of an individual is a good thing, and was always part of God’s design — otherwise a ‘tree of life’ would never have been a thing. Losing someone else to death is definitely bad, and taking a life is bad, but dying oneself is, I think, good. Otherwise when God killed innocent people–like King David’s baby son–he was acting badly, which is not the nature of God.)

There has, of course, been a fair amount of nasty things too. Friends dying, sad funerals, bad news, family being unhappy, and housework — always there is housework, which is very irritating.

Hoping your week has a balance of good things to help you cope with the rubbish that happens. Thanks for reading. Take care.
Love, Anne x

Haemochromatosis

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I recently discovered I have haemochromatosis. I’d never heard of it before (and I still frequently get the syllables in the wrong order and call it ‘haemotomachrosis!) Anyway, it’s an inherited condition, not especially rare (I think) when your blood cells carry too much iron. The opposite of anaemia I guess. Mostly it doesn’t really matter that you have too much iron, but over time the body stores the access iron in unhelpful places, like the pancreas and liver, which causes problems. If you look online at the type of problems it can cause, the list is grim—so if you’re diagnosed with the condition, I recommend not looking.

I am not thrilled to have the condition. I feel that I had my ‘thing’ when I had the brain tumour, and I’m still coping with the after affects of the craniotomy, so having another thing just seems unfair. But life is often unfair, and as we get older I guess there will be more and more ‘things’ to cope with, and in the grand scheme of things, a benign brain tumour and a condition that loads iron, are not terrible.

When I heard that genetic haemochromatosis (GH) was in the family, I dutifully went to my GP and asked for a blood test. They don’t, in the UK, test for the gene unless your ferritin levels are high, so first of all they test for that. Ferritin is a protein, and if the iron stores are high, there will be lots of the protein (I am assuming they can’t ‘see’ iron, so they test for indicators instead). Anyway, when they found high ferritin levels, they then did another blood test, looking for the gene (HFE—for Hereditary FE—Fe is the symbol for iron) . I wasn’t too chuffed by this, as I dislike giving blood, and feel slightly wobbly when I have to have a blood test, so I felt they could have just jumped straight to the second stage. However, for someone who dislikes blood tests, everything was about to get worse.

The treatment for GH, when caught early enough, is simply to remove the excess iron. Unfortunately, this isn’t done with miniscule magnets, it’s done the old fashioned way—they remove blood. It’s called a ‘venesection’ (not a vampire, nor leeches—but the principle is the same). I find the idea of this very grim. Very grim indeed.

My GP referred me to a haematologist, who I met last week, and she informed me that they will scan various organs to check there’s no damage, but my levels are in the hundreds, not the thousands, so it’s extremely unlikely I will have a problem. I will then have weekly venesections until my iron levels are down to about 50, and then every 3 months after that (I assume forever). She sounded very cheerful while telling me this. I did my best to sound cheerful in response, but between you and me, I am absolutely dreading it. I have always wimped out of giving blood to a blood bank, and now I have to do it every week! How vile. (I believe the blood can be used, so am hoping it won’t be wasted.)

I think I will have a venesection every week for about 10 weeks. 10 weeks! I just nodded in a sensible manner when she said that, but inside I felt sick. Now, I know that it’s not really a big deal, and other people have much worse things to cope with. And I know that after a couple of ‘drainings’, I will be completely comfortable with venesections, and view it as a chance to read a book or chat to someone new. But currently I am very unhappy about the situation, and waiting makes it so much worse.

I will let you know how I get on. If you know any vampires, give them my number…You can now refer to me as Iron Woman.

Hoping you cope well with any unpleasant things in your life this week. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

anneethompson.com
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A Normal Week

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Hello, and how are you? Have you had a good week? Mine was very mixed–which I guess is normal (and as I get older, I am aware that ‘normal’ is very precious!)

My main emphasis has been my M.A. dissertation, which is so nearly finished and ready to submit, but not quite. I have a feeling the ‘not quite‘ stage might last a very long time. I am currently proofreading, and checking things like spellings and references. Every time I discuss the work of another scholar, I have to write a footnote, so my claims can be checked. The first footnote has to have their name, and all the information of the book/paper/article, plus the page number. Subsequent footnotes can just have the author’s name and the page number. My problem is that over the months, I have edited my work and various citations have moved around my document, so the first footnote (with all the picky details) is now near the end, and a later footnote (with no details) is near the beginning. I therefore need to check that the relevant information is attached to the correct place, and this takes much longer than you would think. However, despite interruptions from the puppy and Husband and life, I feel as if I am almost there. Hopefully it will be submitted this week. I will then have completed my course, which seems to have whizzed past in a flash. I would love to continue, and maybe study for a PhD, but we’ll have to see if anyone will take me on (I am pretty old now).

The week has also been dominated by medical appointments–both taking my mum for checks, and sorting my own. Medical appointments are always a hassle, and in my experience they are often cancelled at the last minute–especially MRIs for some strange reason. I was supposed to be having my routine MRI to check the brain tumour hasn’t grown back (no reason to assume it has, but they like to check regularly, just in case). But then, after I had worked out train times and arranged for Husband to look after the animals, it was cancelled. Apparently the machine has broken. This has happened in the past (last time I was actually on the train when they called to cancel). Are MRI machines particularly fragile? Do they break often? (Or, slightly cynical view, do they bump non-urgent cases to make space for urgent ones and prefer to give an excuse that cannot be argued with? I would prefer they were honest if this is the case–I would happily forgo my session in the crash-rattle-tube if someone needs it more.) I also had a blood test cancelled, which was slightly stressful as I truly hate having blood tests, and I was actually on the way when they called to say they couldn’t find the paperwork so not to come until next week. These things happen.

Some fun news is the Goose is definitely female, and has started to lay eggs. She made a pretty pathetic nest by pulling a few sticks into a heap, and laid an egg on top. This has improved over the week, and she has now stolen all the hay from the chicken’s box and made quite a decent nest. I don’t have a gander, so the eggs will be infertile, but she seems happy enough. I started to take the eggs as she laid them, but then one day I lost her. When I searched the garden, I found a new, not very professional, nest hidden behind the oak tree, with Goose sitting on 3 eggs. I had to pick her up and put her back in her cage, before the fox found her. I have now left her with one of her eggs and a chicken egg (which might be fertile). I think the goose eggs will make nice rich cakes. We scrambled one, and the yolk was very large. One egg is about the size of 3 chicken eggs, with a very tough shell.

My only other news is that I have bought a new coat. I hate shopping, but it has been so wet, and it always pours with rain when we go to the woods. There is a woman who I sometimes see in the distance, who has a very long flowing coat that reaches her wellies, and I have been coveting it. Today we went to a garden centre that has lots of equestrian stuff, and there were long, flowing coats for horse-riders. I do not ride, but I rather fancy looking like I do, so I bought one. It’s wonderfully practical, with a hood and pockets and reflective stripes for wearing in the dark. I shall swoosh around the woods looking like I have lost my horse, with mad dog in tow. Perfect.

Hope you have a good week, with not too much horrid stuff and a few little treats, so you can feel that life is ‘normal.’ I also hope it rains (it probably won’t rain for months now, and I won’t be able to test my coat).
Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

anneethompson.com
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The Police-Dog Trainer

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Yesterday we went to see the man who trained police dog handlers, and now helps people like me. It was an interesting experience. We arrived in a quiet country lane, and he asked me to walk Meg up and down so he could watch what we had done. I prayed that a car wouldn’t pass (and kill us both as she lurched towards it) and set off, feeling nervous. I had fresh turkey in my pocket, and made sure that Meg knew it was there. As we walked, I praised her while she was walking with me, as I’ve been instructed to do, and fed her snippets of turkey. When she pulled, I told her no, telling her: ‘With me!’ (the words I use to keep her on track). We turned after a few metres and returned to the man.

I could see in his eyes that I hadn’t done well, so smiled and asked him to tell me what I needed to change. (Husband told me that while I was walking, the trainer and his partner had watched, making comments about how lovely Meg is, and how like one of their previous dogs, and what a great animal she was. I didn’t know this until afterwards.)

The trainer said I was completely muddling Meg, and she wanted to please me but she didn’t have the first clue what I wanted! He said the constant praise/feeding while we walked made me a food-machine, not a leader, and she didn’t associate the praise with walking well, nor the corrections with pulling. He said I was producing white-noise, and all Meg knew was that when we walk, I talk a lot!

He asked why Meg was wearing a collar and a harness, with the lead attached to both. I explained that she’s too strong for me, and it enables me to control her with both arms. I didn’t say it was what I had been instructed to use at puppy classes, because I didn’t want to waste the lesson with a long diatribe against other trainers. He asked permission to switch the harness for a slip-lead.

A slip-lead is a canvas lead, with a ring, that slips easily both ways making a noose that tightens and releases. I explained that Meg currently has a lovely disposition, and I didn’t want to use pain as a training method in case it encouraged aggressive behaviour. He explained that he also would never use pain, that the fashion in the 80’s of using electric-shock collars, and choker-chains was terrible, and he considered them wrong. He actively disliked owners who train with pain. However, he said a slip-lead was a brief corrective discomfort that released as soon as the dog was in position, and it let her know where to walk. He then showed me.

The trainer took Meg, and walked down the lane. He didn’t speak. Meg walked quietly next to him, and I wondered whether he had hypnotised her. Then she got antsy, and jumped at him. The trainer didn’t react, he waited, completely still, until she was calm, then walked again, and Meg walked with him. A couple of times she started to pull, and he gave a brief tug, Meg self-corrected and the walk continued. They walked calmly down the lane and back again. For the first time, I witnessed Meg being the dog I wanted and the feeling of relief and hope was palpable. Husband and I stared at each other, and laughed. How was this even possible?

The trainer returned, and explained that he hadn’t talked at Meg, because she’s a dog, and dogs don’t talk when they walk together. Nor do they like being touched when outside, and by offering physical affection, I was forcing her to cope with an unnatural behaviour. He also pointed out that after being corrected, Meg had shaken (like she was wet) and he said that was her ‘resetting’ herself, ready to walk how he wanted. He assured me that Meg is a ‘classy bit of kit’ and I just need to learn how to handle her.

The lesson then moved to a small field. He told me to release Meg, which made me very nervous (there was a horse in the next field, and I didn’t know how close the road came). He assured me that Meg is a pack animal, she would be fine, I simply need to behave like the alpha-dog in the pack. We walked away from Meg, and she followed, never going too far. I was taught how to call her, moving my hands to in front of me when she arrived, and then feeding her treats while she sat. I then decide when the sitting would end (not her) by touching her face and ‘walking through her’ when it was time to move. I should not tell her to ‘wait’, instead she must learn that when told to sit, she stays in position until released. She did this for him (recognised his authority) but not for me (recognised I am flakey).

He explained a few facts about working GSD, and why I have been having such problems, and how to solve them. While he spoke Meg went and barked at the horse, and then came and dug a hole at our feet. He said to ignore her, it didn’t matter, and periodically we moved across the field, never calling her, knowing that she would follow because she wanted to be with the pack.

In a nutshell (you can decide for yourself whether you agree) this is what he said:

Working GSD (and I suspect other ‘working’ breeds) are closer to natural animals than pets, and should be treated accordingly. Therefore it’s important to understand something about how packs of dogs function, and to communicate in ways they understand. Chatting to Meg is apparently wrong (I have always chatted to my dogs, I feel it’s important they know I’m going to the shop!) as this becomes ‘white noise’ so they get used to tuning me out. (Pretty sure husbands do this too.) All eye-contact and greetings and petting should convey the message that I am the alpha dog, and not Meg. So in the morning, she should return to her crate after toileting, and then I should ignore her until I am ready to ‘notice’ her and fuss her. Having alone-time is important, as it will encourage her to want to please me when she’s with me.

He commented that lots of people my age struggle with a new puppy, because it’s much harder to behave like a pack animal when there aren’t children in the house! When Kia was a puppy, 17 years ago, I had children who needed taking to school and clubs, and I was working part-time, my life was generally busier; so the puppy had to fit in. She didn’t have as much attention, she was used to me giving a command: ‘Everyone get in the car!’ and the whole pack obeyed—so being part of that was natural. I didn’t have to assert my authority, because when I shouted that it was dinner time, or we should leave, or it was time for school, the puppy watched the whole pack respond. However, Meg has become the centre of my world, I plan my day around her exercise and training, and she has responded accordingly. She has learnt some ‘tricks’ but does not expect to change her behaviour. This needs to stop. It’s not simply a matter of training her to walk on the lead, I need to be the boss.

He gave me some homework. When Meg behaves badly (biting the lead, jumping at me, pulling) I should simply stop, stand still, avoid eye-contact and ignore her. When she stops, and looks at me, I then resume what I am doing—she has to learn she is not important. If she’s being completely stupid, and won’t stop tugging at the lead or jumping, then I stop trying to train her, and put her back into the crate. I do not allow any behaviour I do not want, because repeating things makes them normal.

I have to stop putting her into situations where she will fail (like the park, or near traffic) and teach her to walk on the lead. When she can reliably walk on the lead properly, I then introduce different situations that I want her to ignore. So, when she can walk on the lead in the garden, we then walk on the lead in an empty car park. And then in a quiet road. And then in the park, and then the High Street, and so on.

I need to do the same with her recall (so when I shout ‘Come!’ she comes, immediately, and sits in front of me until I release her). I can work on her ability to wait, by gradually increasing the amount of time I leave her—from literally 2 seconds (so not even turning properly away) to being able to walk out of the room and come back 10 minutes later. Again, first somewhere boring, then when she has solidly learnt it, repeating the same behaviour somewhere more difficult. He made it look and sound very easy. We left feeling very positive, and full of hope. I am prepared to work at this, but I need to know I will eventually succeed, and for the first time I began to feel less depressed about the whole situation.

Hope all is going well in your world. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

anneethompson.com
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Meg’s Diary: 22 Weeks (5 months)

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I am beginning to despair of ever being able to walk Meg on the lead. The last couple of times I have tried, when a car has passed, she has fixed on it and then been completely deaf to any attempts to break her focus, ending in a full-body lurch towards the traffic, which hurts me and nearly gets us all killed. It is deeply disappointing. We have contacted a man who has trained police dogs and therefore must be familiar with working GSD. Am hoping he can help, otherwise I really don’t know what to do. I am in despair.

If I evaluate what we have achieved, the picture isn’t completely gloomy (it just feels like it is when you have nearly been dragged under a lorry). I will do a quick recap of what Meg has learnt since November:

Being calm—she will now sit and chew a toy next to me when I want to read. When I cook, she brings a toy and ‘dances’ with me, and then sits somewhere close, watching while I work.

Being alone—Meg is great with this, and is always willing to go into her crate. I try not to leave her for too long during the day, but in the evening she goes in about 6pm, and other than a couple of toilet trips, she is fine to be ignored until morning.

House-training—this has been excellent since the first day, and we have had very few accidents in the house.

Car travel—I have taken her out most days, and she hasn’t been sick for a while. She is very good about walking up the ramp into her crate, and settles down while we drive.

Biting—after a few weeks, Meg understood that biting us was wrong, and when she’s excited she will now collect a toy and chew that while playing with us. She never snaps her teeth at me now, and even when she has caught escapee ducks, she has been very gentle.

Animals—Meg still barks at the poultry, and the cats, and chases them if she can. But she has never appeared vicious towards them, and will happily stay in the same room as Milly, my cat. (When she jumps up to the work surface, Milly slaps her face!)

Walking on the lead—in the house and garden, if zero distractions, Meg understands that she should walk near me and not pull. She can do this for several minutes. The teeniest distraction, and she forgets I exist. She is stronger than me, and hurts me when she pulls, and potentially could pull me into traffic.

Looking at me—she is getting better at this. I have been feeding her in the park every day, and she will look at me while she is fed, though I can see she is feeling tense. She can cope with mobility scooters going past, and children, and shopping trolleys. Other dogs and traffic are a real challenge. She’s very friendly to passers-by, and wants to greet everyone, so I think she has a lovely nature.

Sitting/waiting—this is excellent. I can ask her to sit in the hall, and she will usually still be there a minute later (as long as there are no distractions).

Lying down—she can do this to command.

BUT, the not being able to walk her on the lead is a huge problem, especially as she needs more exercise. Last weekend we met friends for lunch. We drove for an hour, and Meg was fine in her crate in the boot (wasn’t sick). But when I exercised her on the village green I nearly had my arm pulled off, and there was no way we could have taken her into the pub because she would have barked at the other dogs. She was fine left in the car (we checked her regularly, and she just slept, wasn’t frightened) but I want a dog I can take places.

Soo, lots of progress. But mostly I feel like I am failing. I really hope this man can help, otherwise I don’t know where we go from here. Not sure I can cope with a dog I cannot walk.

Hope you find the help you need this week. Take care.
Love, Anne x

Meg in the Car

anneethompson.com
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Meg is fairly good with not going into certain rooms . . . but sometimes her ‘naughty ball’ rolls over the threshold by mistake!
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