Bog Myrtle & Peat

My neighbour’s collie fell to coughing in the spring, and we thought she had an allergy to pollen. She was a nice dog, and she bore the name “Fly”. I would call her “Fly in the Sky” when she came to sit near me.

Fly was let to rest for a while, and other dogs were used to gather sheep for clipping in July. But the cough worsened, and I was out to visit one morning when blood appeared on her lip. She might’ve chewed something sharp and cut her gum, but then she began to spit blood in dark clots like bramble jam. Not long afterwards, there was vomit which came up black as old molasses, and her fine white breast was clagged with the mess of it. We scratched our heads and Fly wagged her tail to reassure us. 

That same evening, I took my bicycle back across the river to the neighbour’s yard and found pats of blood beside the kennels. His wife said they’d gone to the vet, and later I learned that Fly had been growing a tumour in her stomach all summer. The thing had ripened nicely, then it burst like a plum. Sedatives were used to confirm the diagnosis, and Fly never woke up. 

It came as a terrible shock because it seemed to happen so quickly. But the situation had been unfolding for some time, and it’s surprisingly easy to be caught off guard at the end of a long summer. Now the wind has swung round to an autumn angle, and a cold draft runs moaning through the house to mark the end of a season which has been fading for weeks. The same draft comes here every year, and I should know better than to jump when it slams the door.