A river runs through it all. For more than sixteen years we walked with Leica by the river more often than not. Days at the beach, camping trips and other adventures too, ferry trips to England or home to Scotland, but always home, here, down by the river. She learned, tentatively at first, to swim in the pools between dams here. She cooled herself, standing quietly in the shallows on hotter days and lapping at the flowing water. On wilder days with the river in torrent, she knew to stay away. When high tides backed the river up to a stillness, she would watch as the fish twitched and leaped to catch flies. She stood, rooted, as the heron flapped lazily past travelling from perch to perch. On the farther bank below the castle the tarmac pathway offered endless opportunities to meet and greet other walkers and their companions. Paddy Gill and “Poppy”, Rosalyn and “Pepsi”, Pat Scott and “Sam”. Others whose names we never knew but whose company we shared year after year. Thirteen years almost she spent with her sister here, and for a time after Flash died we stayed away from the river, only returning after a few months when she had KiKi to keep her company. The routine changed a little as KiKi grew to know her surroundings and we all adapted to losing Flash. The river moved on as did we. A flood last year devastated the river banks, leaving boulders strewn across the pasture, pulling  trees into the river and bringing down the old bridge that connected the riverside with the public footpath. The disturbed ground made it difficult for Leica to walk here, so again we adjusted our routine, returning infrequently and trying to keep to areas where she could walk safely. Early this week, she followed us around the river again, at heel while Django and KiKi chased their respective toys. A course of steroids over the last few weeks had helped her regain some muscle tone in her hindquarters and she seemed happy to pad along in the evening sunshine.
The remainder of the evening passed, Leica slept on the couch and the fire was lit. Just around midnight she stirred from her sleep and dutifully walked out for her late night sniff and toilet stop in the gardens, steadier on her feet than she had been for days. Coming home, she headed upstairs to lie on the bed.
A few minutes later we heard her jump to the floor, we found her there at the head of the stairs, clearly uncomfortable and in distress. Her swollen stomach left us in no doubt, she had, as Flash before her, suffered a major stomach torsion. Our regular vet’s emergency number rang out without an answer. A different vet 20 miles away answered and we set off as quickly as we could. Carrying Leica in to the surgery the vet’s expression only told us what we already knew. In tremendous distress, and her gums pale, it was clear that the torsion was cutting off her blood supply and that there was no likelihood of recovery. With a section of her foreleg shaved, an injection to end her suffering was the only option. As the pain eased, I felt her breathing and her heartbeat slow, and in those last few unimaginable minutes she lay in my arms as precious as she had been all those years ago when, as a pup, she had to be held as she drifted into sleep.
In a few days, we will all go back to the river. Leica’s ashes will drift from the ruined bridge, down through the pools, and out to the Lough.

Leica: November 2001 – May 2018.
Flash: November 2001 – July 2014.