Category: Memories

In his later years, Timothy ate once a day around 6pm, and the last couple of years, ¼ at breakfast time and ¾ at 4pm.  He had dry biscuits mixed with a serving of meat, often specially bought and prepared (shredded beef, chopped and boiled chicken, lamb or fried minced pork, chicken hearts boiled in stock etc – usually we kept a variety in the freezer so that there was a different meat each week).

We’d take his dinner and bowl with us on a daytrip – so he could stick to normal meal times even when we were out.

He forced our hand really: once when he was very young we went to Brighton and realised on arriving at Victoria station on the way home that it was past dinnertime, and we were still over an hour from home – with no food.  We bought a box of Bakers Complete from Sainsbury’s and made a “bowl” for him.  He ate a normal sized dinner on the shopping parade floor, and we headed home.  When we got home, he waited by his bowl for his ACTUAL dinner.  We gave it to him, and he ate it!

We learned that he expected his dinner in his own bowl, and nothing else counted.  So we made sure to live by that expectation ever since.

I was impressed and proud beyond words when Timothy took his “giving no fucks” attitude to a whole new level in January 2018 when we went to see Emma’s few-months-old baby.  Tim was sitting on my lap, Annette beside me, with the kid on her lap.  The kid started to stroke Tim and he didn’t budge.  We knew he’d never snap or tell the kid to go away, but the kid started to pull his fur – getting a fist full of fur, pulling as hard as it could, lifting Timothy’s skin up a bit.

He didn’t react at all.  Not bothered.  I’m she he knew that he could trust me to sort it out if it got out of hand.  We were impressed that he didn’t even complain – even though we knew he wouldn’t actually snap.

On the rare occasion when there was a vicious dog or something threatening, I would “helicopter” Timothy out of danger by lifting him up.  He always wore a harness, and after a close shave when he was once on an extendible lead, I never used one like it again.  I only used his leather lead, or the Royal British Legion “poppy” one.

I think there were only 3-4 helicopter incidents, but I remember that after them, Timothy’s heart was RACING and he was very grateful for having been rescued.  He knew I’d done it for him, and he’d lick my face for a few minutes in thanks.

When he was very young and needed “a carry” he’d ask for one only after walking for a long way, or after passing a big dog.  Every time after we’d passed a big dog.

When he was younger – maybe until he was 9-10, as we walked past a bigger dog, Timothy would prefer to be on the other side of me from the dog – but if not, he’d walk past and just ignore it.  He never really wanted to sniff another dog or say “hello”.  Hilariously though, after we passed another dog (and after it was out of the danger zone) he’d turn around and BARK at it – knowing that I had his back if anything kicked off.  It rarely did.

After he became an old man, he no longer gave any fucks, and just ignored all other dogs.  Perhaps he trusted that I’d keep rough dogs away, or knew I’d rescue him if it kicked off.  He’d rarely even glance at another dog.

SOMETIMES he wanted to say “hello” – most recently only two days before he died when we were on the street behind our house and the lady from two doors down was passing on the other side of the road: Timothy actually skipped forward (but had no intention of actually crossing the road).  The was the last time he saw the neighbour and her dogs.

While in his bag he wasn’t that fussed about sniffing much around him – even if I hung him close to something  Walking was for sniffing, being carried was to be savoured and watching only.

When we’d get off a train and leave the station with him in his bag, if we’d already been out a while, I always imagined a bit of a slump in his shoulders when he realised we STILL weren’t home.  he always had a bit more perk to him when we got out at Ruislip Manor station though.  until a couple of months ago, he’d ask to be let out so he could walk down Victoria Road and home.

Towards the end he’d only ask at the junction of Hatherleigh and Ashburton Roads.  Even at his most exhausted, he always wanted to walk the last 3-4 houses, check HIS wall and lamppost, and go through the front door on his own.

When Timothy was actually in his bag, he could take in everything around him – watching everything as we passed by.  He’d often turn his head as if directing me where we should be going.  He loved that bag – possibly because he could see all kinds of new things from it, but I like to think he knew that he couldn’t walk far enough to see those things without the bag – so the alternative would be staying at home.

I don’t think he MINDED being alone for a bit, but given the choice, he’d always prefer to have everyone together, and the bag allowed that.

If he wanted to gt out (either because he was feeling up to some more walking, there was food around, or we’re almost home and he wanted to walk, sniff and mark the street home), he’d fidget with his front feed.  He never tried to climb out, ever, but fidgeting with his front feed was his sign to me that if I put his bag down to the ground, he’d get out and walk.

When we were out on a long day out, for the last 2-3 years we’d have his bag with us.  When we thought he was getting tired or bored, we’d put the bag down flat on the floor (standing it up) beside him, roll up his lead, then pick him up, tucking in his tail and put him bottom-first with his front feet to follow.

One of the best things in the world was seeing his subtle tail-wag as he realised that he was getting into the bag: as it went down on the floor, he’d let out a little gleeful wag which meant we were right to thing it was time for the bag again.

Timothy was an expert in using pillows and chin-rests.  Except when laying with his back against the arm of the sofa, on the bare leather, he’d always have a pillow or chinrest.

Often he’d fashion the pillow himself from the blanket he was using.  Sometimes we understood and could help him, others he’d dig and turn, get out of puff and pick up bits of blanket corner.

In his office bed, especially after lunch, or if it was cold, he’d sit in his bed, then walk to behind my legs and try to “climb up” my legs.  It was is way of asking for a tuck. I’d open the tartan hooded-gilet and wrap it around him in his bed.  He’d fall down as the coat went around him to show which side he wanted the “pillow” (which I’d make by folding the dood, or he’d sometimes lean on Henry the penguin).

If he wasn’t happy, he would stay sitting up, and I’d have to represent the coat to try again. About once a week he’d settle for a minute, sigh, then get up and climb up my leg again for another go.

Especially as he got older, he’d be particular about which sofa or chair he sat on while we watched TV in the evenings. Often he’d have the whole three-seater sofa to himself: his bed on one seat, a fleece or wool blanket on another, and the bare leather at the end.

He’d move between the spots during the evening.  When HE decided it was bedtime (around 21:30) he’d ask to go out, and then when he came back in he’d expect his 1/3 Bonio to be placed on the blanked.  He might nudge it a but, but almost without fail ate it.

In his last few months he’d expect a Mini Markie as well – definitely as well and not instead, even though he’d usually leave the Bonio.

In his last fortnight we moved to a Mini Markie and a Tasty Bite “Chewy Slice”.  He’d not had any Bonio for a couple of weeks – those he did eat were from the sofa around dinnertime if I was cooking something that he wasn’t interested in.

We never talked about “walkies” or “going for a walk”, but instead said “put your coat on”, “get ready – are you READY?!”, or “All aboard!” – Timothy knew that meant we were going out.

When younger he’d get excited, when older he might snort, but always got up and stretched, ready to be compliant with getting into his harness.

If we were going somewhere without him, he’d always be good about it, and sometimes be almost “naughtily good” and climb up to the bay window without being asked. That was his acknowledgement that “I know you’re going out and I’m staying here, that’s OK”.