Neo’s story is probably one of the hardest to write. Not only did he have one of the roughest starts in life, he was let down time and time again by adopters. Let’s face it, he isn’t the easiest of dogs but if you knew what he had gone through to get to where he is today, you could forgive him his ‘quirks’. Luckily for him, I decided after the third unsuccessful home never again and he has been safe with me ever since.

His rescuer thought Neo was dead when she found him. Maggots crawling out of a blood-soaked backside and a dog so frozen in fear, it was difficult to think otherwise. A piece of string had been wrapped around his neck for so long, it still leaves a scar to this day. Humans had broken his pelvis and hacked off most of his tail then left him to die. His rescuer, the amazing Aurelia told me it took a month before he trusted her touch. He was a broken dog. Nevertheless, I took the faith she put in me as a behaviour consultant and fostered him. He was only 2 years old.

I found a home for Neo pretty quickly. A TV producer had been in touch with me about helping with a new ‘dog’ series and after reading Neo’s story, she brought her Mum, a child psychologist, to meet him. All seemed perfect and Neo left for Wales and a country life. Six months later he was back, she couldn’t cope with him. Her vet had suggested he should be put to sleep because he had nipped a jogger. Thank God I nixed that but the dog that returned was even more withdrawn than before and it took me several months to get him back to a dog you could touch without him shrinking in fear again. Two attempts at rehoming later and despite Tony’s misgivings, I decided he wasn’t going anywhere. He was staying put.

It’s easy to say that a dog like Neo who will bark at most people he meets and has bitten a few (always behind the knee for those animal behaviourists) should be put down but for me, it would be unacceptable. He isn’t an aggressive dog but will strike when he feels under threat, always when the person is walking away or has their back to him. Yet he has no pattern in his distrust, he adores Steven with his Yorkshire accent and hob-toed work boots, he loves the diminutive Susan, he followed Pop everywhere even though he had an unsteady gait and more recently has decided that Denis the gardener is a really cool bloke. He once bit one of my best friends quite badly but since then has seen her as one of his inner circle of ‘fuss-me’s’. He is a complicated personality but one who will give you everything he has once he trusts you.

Six years on and in France and he is loving life. No muzzle for a start (I couldn’t take the risk in London) and acres of land to run free. There are still side effects from his injuries which will stay with him forever but nothing we can’t handle. Neo’s story is cautionary one. For all animal lovers, the desire to give a damaged soul what we think it needs can end up hurting the one we think we can help. Neo needs order and discipline in his life, being part of a pack means he follows rules and in return he has the comfort of knowing he is safe from harm. To see him race around the gardens with the other dogs and lie in the sun without looking behind him is the best feeling in the world.

We are moving again. For the next few weeks the woofers and I will be tucked away in the main house whilst the builders move into our home to give it a much needed makeover. Every part of the design has been chosen by me and I can’t wait to see the outcome. Finally I will be able to take a shower in an actual shower instead of an ancient blue bathtub and the wall between the kitchen and lounge is coming down to make an open living space. Thankfully there isn’t much to pack up as most of my stuff is still boxed in the garage and apart from the sofas, there isn’t much furniture to move.

The renovations have come at the perfect time. Over the last week the temperature has started to drop and I have no heating in the house apart from a couple of fan heaters which I move from room to room. I hate getting out of my fur-filled bed in the morning, the dogs know how to keep their Mum warm and cosy and having a shower surrounded by bright blue tiling doesn’t exactly make one feel sunny first thing. Running from the bathroom into the bedroom to get dressed has become part of my fitness routine which the dogs find very amusing. I never get tired of the view from the sitting room though, coffee overlooking the garden is the best way of lifting the mood.

Having only moved from London three months ago (seems like so much longer), the woofers have surprised me with their laid-backed attitude to being shifted again. It will be a bit of an adventure as they aren’t normally allowed in the main house, adding 9 dogs to the resident 2 would be too much dog for anyone to deal with. We are moving to the ground floor and into what will eventually be the family room. There is a bathroom but it’s not blue you will be pleased to read. Camping out for two weeks in a warm room doesn’t sound too bad.

Since it doesn’t take more than half a day to move my meagre belongings and with the garden heading towards hibernation, I need ways to keep busy. My accountant will fall of his chair tomorrow morning when he finds my tax returns in his inbox – before Christmas is unheard of. I still try and get over to L’Horte as often as possible to check on the old house and take Arry for a swim, a bracing dip is only for the tough at heart. As the seasons change, the house seems to fade a little more each visit. The ivy has started to crawl through the upstairs windows and grass has covered gravelled pathways. I took Denis the gardener over there on Friday, even he saw the beauty in the old stone walls and neglected landscape. As the work begins on renovating Rouffiac, it’s sad to see L’Horte slowly slip into the past. I’m determined to bring as much of there to here though, trees and various flowers have been dug up and replanted and hopefully, the tractors will soon be rehoused in the old chicken shed. I’m really looking forward to the radiators reappearing in my new home too…..

“Great buildings that move the spirit have always been rare. In every case they are unique, poetic, products of the heart” (Arthur Erickson)

Mo Chridhe. She was named by her sponsor, the Gaelic term meaning ‘my sweetheart’ which to be honest is somewhat wasted on her. Mo has the mouth of an East End guttersnipe despite being born in Romania. She can swear pretty much in any language and takes offence to any remarks about her disability. She can chase a tennis ball at speeds matching Louis Hamilton’s F1 car and will stand up to bullies with the same enthusiasm as a MMA fighter.

Mo was found as a puppy by a busy intersection in Romania. She had no use of her back legs, I found out later on that this was most likely the cause of distemper, but had the will to survive. Looking back, it was this ‘so what’ personality that captured my heart and ultimately made me decide to adopt her. I had no idea about the challenges of having a disabled dog and without the support of the incredible Gail Milligan, I’m not sure I would have been able to cope with her needs. Gail was also instrumental in finding Tim Dale who custom made the ‘carts’ for both Mo and Coco. Like so many naive first time disabled owners, I thought I could find a specialist who could ‘fix’ her. I think I watched one too many TV programmes but suffice to say, I would never have put Mo through the pain and isolation of surgery just so I could feel virtuous. Any vet would tell you that she is in perfect health and that’s enough for me.

The most distressing thing about having a dog like Mo (and Coco) is that you cannot ‘make them better’ yet at the same time you have to realise that they don’t see disability or themselves being any different from others. My dogs didn’t see her disability either, that’s the thing about dogs – they don’t. They might find a pair of wheels attached to the backside of a new butt sniff a little odd but on the whole, a dog is a dog. Oddly enough, the only time Mo ever backed off from a dog is when she met one wearing a cone (the sort of post-neuter ones), she never could figure that impairment out. Luckily for me, Mo and Coco had a wonderful dog walker whose dogs took both under their care and no doubt taught Mo most of her swear words.

Mo doesn’t suffer fools but will show a deep and often, very affectionate, trust in those she considers part of her family. She loves to play rough with the other members of the pack and has a soft spot for our Coco, her decided partner. Now that she has the space to roam at Rouffiac she spends as much of the day outside, butt naked in her wheels giving a few verbals at the gate and ignoring any attempt by her mistress to bring her ‘to heel’. You can’t help but love this little rebel, her attitude towards her disability is a testament to our dogs’ abilities to accept things for what they are and to live life with what you have.

Simi could be described as a glass almost full kind of girl. She is the only one of my rescues of which I have almost no history, I once described her, jokingly I might add, as a young Eastern European gal who hitched a ride to the U.K. with an older guy. In fact, if it wasn’t for a phone call on a freezing February day and the corresponding social media plea for help, I would never have thought about Romanian rescue dogs and how one Facebook post would change my life forever.

Simi and her beau, Ash, came into our lives over seven years ago. Both were Romanian street dogs whose plight had been highlighted on social media as it was around Valentine’s Day. Pola ( now Simi) and an older collie type Hero (I called him Ash as I already had a dog named Hero) were found together in the freezing temperatures of a Romanian winter. Ash had been shot and burnt and carried a limp probably from being hit by a car. At around 10 years old, he had obviously fought for his status on the street ( a rip in one ear I would suggest would be like a street tattoo) but it was his devotion to a younger scruffy female that gained media attention. I had renamed the duo in my typical style of literary or other famous peeps, in their case characters from the wonderful Sherrilyn Kenyon books (Simi is a dragon tattoo who takes care of her master, Ash otherwise known to the world as Acheron for those who know mythology). Who could adopt two such devoted creatures? Well, me of course. Actually us as despite my early reservations with Ash’s aggressiveness towards other male dogs, Tony fought his corner. Ash lost his battle with cancer 4 years later and his ashes lie with Tony now.

The first day Simi arrived, she went upstairs and flopped onto a bed. A glass almost full kinda gal. For all the rescue dogs we fostered and adopted since, she is certainly one of the easiest. Her list of requirements is pretty short; sun, food, a bit of a run occasionally, belly rub when she feels like it, food, sun. In another life, she could be a cat except she would hunt herself down. She once jumped out of our second floor bedroom window when she saw one on the lawn, our neighbour amusingly said they thought they’d seen a vampire. Simi is the mistress of taking life as it comes and will rarely be moved from a spot which she has designated as her own. Taking roundabouts in a motorhome en route to the new home in France meant the co-pilot (Irene) having to hold onto the cushions so that Simi didn’t unseat herself.

Simi is much adored by all, canine or human, she is the ultimate hippy dog bar her mohican hairstyle (no matter how much you clip it, it just grows back). She has the ability to blend into her surroundings to the point where you panic because you can’t find her only to find she is sniffing something a metre away from you. I once asked the late great Keith Butt about her possible wolf genes, highly likely but with about 10 other breeds thrown in. Unlike so many rescue dogs, Simi rarely demands attention. She is happiest when she can do whatever she likes, this includes not getting out of bed until at least 10 a.m but knows exactly when it is feeding time and will tell you so. These days, her girth is a little wider than those days roaming the Romanian streets but the curves look good on her. Moving her to the rural wilderness of France did worry me as she could easily wander off but so far, it has been the best thing for her. She loves the freedom yet always remains close to me and home. My bed is still her favourite place and she is as lazy as ever. And it is thanks to their rescuer that both dogs had a chance at finding a forever home and to those charities who gave support. Our dogs would never had had the chance of a new life if it wasn’t for some incredible people and organisations including The Oldies Club, K9 Angels, Friends of Animals in Need, Tessa Swan, Nanu Madelina and above all, Aurelia. Her commitment to rescuing Romanian dogs is inspiring but her voice against the abuse should be recognised too. Without her, Simi (and her Ash) would be a forgotten statistic so I say thank you for giving us this wonderful, loving, hairy, devil-may-care kinda gal. And I know she would say thank you too if she could be bothered to get out of bed….

One of the best things about moving to this spot on the globe is the beauty of the morning run. Arry, Alice and I head for the dirt track that leads up through the vines into the woodland above where the view never fails to disappoint. The reds and golds of Autumn spread across the landscape below but it is the peace that gets to me. Apart from the occasional tractor humming through vineyards, the only sounds come from me puffing and the dogs’ collars jingling as we weave our way up and down hills. Despite the physical torture I put my body through, I love this time where you can forget about the world and its troubles for an hour or so.

Even though I rarely watch the news these days, there’s only so much Covid one can take, it was difficult this week to deliberately avoid the US election. Tony never let me watch any important Liverpool games as he said they always lost when I did so I decided to take the same approach towards the Biden/Trump saga. Oddly enough, I felt very agitated by my decision as though the outcome would affect me personally but I stuck to my rule so you can all thank me later. As my sister said, I wish Pop could have been here.

With all of the above, I don’t think I have ever been fitter in body and mind. I have to thank the garden for most of it, it has done wonders for my once stressed out brain and I have muscles in places that have never seen them before. Now that the majority of the rubbish has been cleared and a sort of design put in place, it is almost time to leave the plants and trees to do their winter thing. There are still a few bits to be dug up from L’Horte and replanted here but my energy now has to focus on the internal renovations, mainly painting the bedrooms. My initial enthusiasm over choosing the right colours to fit the theme of each room has waned somewhat with the endless rolling of undercoat paint. Layer upon layer has been applied to rid the walls of the awful blush rose tint and my arms are aching. I would like to add that trying to balance pots of white sludge whilst straddling a ladder does not calm the mind. Watching paint dry (literally) has to be one of the most boring parts of renovating and I’m already missing being covered in dirt. I shall have to think of a garden project that will occupy both myself and the dogs over the next few months, perhaps start digging the pool? I’m sure Arry can help with this, he has already designed a few possible watering holes around the lawns……

“Of all the paths you take in life, make sure a few of them are dirt.” (John Muir)

Technically, according to Yogi, he is not a dog he’s a bear. One may be forgiven for thinking any different, after all he does look like a terrier type but only a bear could have the depth of thought and empathy that he does. Norfolk is also pretty much wilderness country so only bears could really survive up there.

Yogi is one of only three in the pack that I actually bought as a puppy. It would be easy to say that he was a sort of rebound purchase after I lost my beloved Jordi Cavalier so suddenly but in truth, I had hankered after a Norfolk bear for a while. At the time, Yogi is 10 now, Norfolks were still relatively rare in London as breeders were hard to come by and difficult to please (the term ‘Spanish inquisition’ was often used to describe them as it was so hard to get a puppy). However, I had trained a few of them and one in particular called Raleigh had captured my heart. It was thanks to his owner, Anne, that I found a wonderful breeder who invited me up to Northampton to see her pups. At this stage, I should point out that Tony had already experienced my “I’m just going to have a look” comment so he was ready for the inevitable arrival of bear fur. I bought a bear cub.

From the day he arrived, we knew there was something a bit special about our bear. Yogi loves humans but especially his humans and wears his heart on his paw. When Tony was ill, Yogi rarely left his bedside, he just lay there with the saddest look on his face. My first thought after Tony died in my arms was as to where the emergency crew had put Yogi, we needed each other. Finding him all alone in the bedroom, I remember scooping him up and just hugging him as he wrapped every part of his body around me. The whole experience has had a lasting effect on our little bear, he is still terrified of losing his loved ones. Whenever Callum goes away, he mopes for days and if I leave him for any length of time I need to hug a bear afterwards. Oddly enough, he never cries when anyone goes, he just waits quietly at the door. I took him over to L’Horte today and he immediately went and sat by the kitchen door even though it is now boarded up, for him it was such a happy place.

Yogi loves gardening, I think it is something that reminds him of days spent with Tony pootling around the front garden or watching him mow the lawn. He is quite happy to just sit and watch whilst one goes about the business of pruning, planting or plowing. I’m sure he has many ideas of how things could be improved but thankfully, in this case, he keeps his thoughts to himself. He is also quite the swimmer and could be mistaken for an otter as he glides effortlessly through the river at L’Horte. Some of his favourite moments I’m sure would be down at the water with the kids.

Since coming to France, I think Yogi has found his calling – the local epicerie. The short walk around the corner to get bread or croissants is the highlight of his day. It is here that he gets to chat up all the locals especially the ladies who always stop and talk to him whilst I’m in the shop. There is something about Yogi that draws people to him, perhaps it is his empathetic nature that attracts a human soul or maybe his cute eyebrows. He is a bear who cares and gives amazing hugs which to him, are what life is all about. Except food, food is probably more important…….

Curled up on the couch this morning, sipping coffee and cuddling canines, I watched the first leaves fall from the trees as the sun pushed the rising mist away. It occurred to me that this time last year, I would have looked out of the window and seen grey rain clouds instead of the promise of another sunny day. Although last week ended in confinement here and me turning 54, the warm weather has helped lift my mood. I spent most of yesterday building a 3 bay compost bin out of an old chicken house (I really am turning into a ‘Barbara Goode’ these days) and was ridiculously pleased with my creation. Considering how much of the compost was eaten by the dogs in the process, it’s a wonder none of them threw up last night.

Once again we are all entering lockdown although being in a village of around 300 people, it does feel very unlike South London. The difference here is that you have to fill in an ‘attestation’ every time you leave the house, even if it’s just to walk to the epicerie a minute’s walk away. Basically it’s a form you print off the French government website to say who you are, where you live, where you are going and when. Needless to say, Mumo and I have a number of them ready and waiting which seems like an awful waste of paper to me but that’s the way it is. I’m not sure how many officials will be jumping out of the vines whilst Arry, Alice and I are doing our twice weekly runs but I’ve stuffed one into my hoodie just in case. If my tiny contribution means at least some of the family can visit for Christmas, I’m all for it.

I finally ordered the annual Christmas cards this week and I even managed to successfully get the mandatory ‘all dogs posing together sort of’ photo. Getting 9 dogs to sit still is a task unto itself but trying to get them together in one place (namely the sofa) and all face the camera at the same time requires the patience of a saint. Neo hates the camera and Simi hates being told where to place her bottom. Mo and Coco think the stay command means move and at least two of the others will turn the opposite way when I say ‘cheese’. Still, I achieved the near impossible even if Arry’s ears take up most of the frame.

To finish, I would just like to say a huge thank you to all of you who donated to Pancreatic Cancer UK as a birthday ‘present’. I was incredibly touched by the generosity of your donations especially in a time of such uncertainty. I love you all.

“Everyone must take time to sit still and watch the leaves turn” (Elizabeth Lawrence)

Over lunch the other day, my Mum asked me if dogs could tell the time. Now, I’m not going to go into a long-winded explanation of the dogs’ mind but it did occur to me how much of my life up until France was determined by the clock. The alarm was set for 06.45 every day except Sundays and the routine of walking the dogs, cleaning the house and going to work rarely changed. Whilst I loved my work, I can understand now why I needed to break away from everything I had become too familiar with. I still wake up at pretty much the same time every morning albeit a couple of hours later but the morning light coming through my bedroom window dictates this rather than a clock. I often forget what day it is. The only exceptions to my lazy awakenings are the days when Arry, Alice and I join my neighbour for a thigh-burning run through the local woodlands. Days drift into one another, the hours marked by the local church bells which ring every hour or vaguely near the hour. I think it depends on whether or not the bell-ringer is wearing a watch. Between bedroom painting and the garden restoration, I have never been busier and before I know it, the sun is going down and there is a welcome glass of the local red waiting for me. They say those who retire never sit still, I can believe it. For someone who thrived on routine, life without it is so much better.

Busying oneself with brush and spade however does not however mean one should put off necessary things like paperwork. I finally got a WiFi box this week although the joy of having internet access has been dimmed slightly by the need to sort out that which I have put off because of the lack of it. My passport needs renewing, this is not only obviously necessary for identifying oneself but is also needed for my residence permit application. Then there is the dreaded UK tax returns, hours upon hours of spreadsheets and numbers. Box filling is taking much longer than it ought to because the weather has been so good, digging holes and planting various shrubs purloined from L’Horte tends to take precedence.

My 54th birthday is coming up, Halloween for those who might have forgotten ahem. I don’t know what is in store as far as celebrating such an occasion – I don’t think Rouffiac goes all out for Halloween like London does but I’m looking forward to Callum coming home for a week or so. A passing thought occurred to me this morning that he has only been gone for six weeks but it seems longer. Birthdays aside, Tony hasn’t been very far from my mind. He was only 56 when he died which, when you are nearing such an age, seems far too young. I don’t know how one is supposed to feel when nearing one’s mid-fifties but I have never felt more alive than I do now. I just hope I remember what day it is then…..

“How we spend our days, is, of course, how we spend our lives”. (Annie Dillard)