Mum’s Story

Hello again dear anipals and welcome to Nutty’s Blog. Today I am being a little different as I am handing over (for one day only!) to Mum because she has a lovely story she would like to share with you all.

Even though I am a dog and speak only dachshund, Mum understands that I can connect with her energies and vibrations and this can be helped by the tone of voice. Therefore whether anyone thinks us weird or not I am proud to say that Mum tells me stories all the time; whispers them into my wee floppy ears she does and I don’t mind telling you it relaxes me completely and I am soon nodding off on her shoulder.

It’s a dog’s life indeed…

Till next time,

Love & leggies, Nutty x


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The Lady Who Was Not Afraid to Die

Once upon a time there was an old lady and as she grew older her three grandchildren (for children can be rather outspoken) would ask her whether she was afraid to die.

Instead of being shocked or angry, the wise old lady winked and pulled the children close. ‘Why would I be afraid,’ she asked with her twinkly eyes shining bright as they always did when she was starting to enjoy herself.

Thomas, the four-year-old, thought for a while ‘Well coz you are so old Gran,’ he finally said with his thumb jammed in the corner of his mouth.

‘That I am lad,’ Gran agreed ‘and does being old mean you have to be afraid?’

Thomas thought about that one. ‘No,’ he said slowly so that Gran understood he’d given her question some serious thought ‘no you don’t,’ he ended with finality.

Gran nodded and Thomas leaned in for a Gran-hug, giggling as she tickled him just the way he liked.

‘You Lynn,’ Gran drew her only granddaughter into the debate although thirteen-year-old Lynn was doing her best to sidle out of the room having deemed the question to be rude ‘do you think I should be afraid because I am old.’

‘You’re not old Gran,’ Lynn tried.

‘I am,’ Gran asserted ‘I’m 83. I had your Mum late in life and she had you late too. I am definitely old. Why there are some Great-Grans younger than me!’ Gran chortled at this although none of the children knew why it was funny.

‘OK you’re old,’ eleven-year-old Terry agreed ‘but I think dying is scary whatever age you are.’

‘I’m going to be scared to die when I’m old,’ Thomas asserted.

Gran laughed her high, tinkly laugh. ‘Nonsense,’ she said ‘and I’ll tell you why.’

‘Why?’ the three children couldn’t resist asking and once again the magnetic power of Gran’s stories brought them under her spell.

‘When you get to be 83 –‘Gran began

‘Like you,’ Thomas clarified.

‘Like me,’ Gran agreed. ‘Now if you are lucky enough to get to be as old as I am now then you won’t be afraid to die any more than I am – and I’ll tell you why,’ she rushed on seeing Thomas’ mouth open and one of his never-ending questions about to pop out ‘because I have more of my family on the other side than I do on this side.’

‘Side of what Gran?’

‘Side of life. This side – here, that side –‘

‘Dead,’ Thomas stated.

‘If you like, yes.’

‘You have more people dead than alive,’ Lynn said slowly s the realisation hit her.

‘Of course,’ Gran laughed ‘I have my Mum, my Dad, a sister and two brothers, dozens of uncles, aunts, cousins – oh and of course my own grandparents – two sets of them.’

‘And Papa,’ added Terry, remembering the grandfather his Gran loved so much.

‘And Papa,’ Gran smiled softly and her twinkly blue eyes grew watery.

‘When you die it will be a party!’ Thomas whooped ‘paaaartaaaaaay!’

‘Ssh Tom don’t say that,’ Lynn was shocked.

‘The child is quite right,’ Gran agreed with Thomas and ruffled his hair making it even messier than it already was ‘there will be a party – a homecoming party – on the other side.’

‘Paaaaaaartaaaaay!’ Thomas screamed again jumping up and down like a spring lamb.

Gran patted her hair. ‘Oh yes I am looking forward to that paaaaaartaaaaay!’ the children looked at one another in stunned disbelief – as much as Gran’s fairly accurate rendition of the word party as much as the content of what she was saying.

‘You’re not sad then – to be old I mean?’ asked Terry.

‘Not a bit of it son.’

‘Will you miss us?’ asked Lynn.

‘Of course I will,’ Gran smiled ‘but you see I have had a lot more years missing them and it would make me so happy to see them all again.’

‘’Specially Papa,’ Thomas agreed wisely.

‘Especially Papa.’

‘Ok then,’ Thomas summed up ‘I think it will be best if we are all happy when you die Gran then you won’t need to be sad leaving us when you are going to meet the other ones – on the side – in life – who are dead – I mean-‘

‘I understand perfectly,’ Gran laughed as if she was delighted with the whole world and everyone in it ‘now who’s for some juice and cake?’

‘Paaaaaaaartaaaaaay!’ cried Thomas.


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Aunty Hec’s Treasure

Dear Nutty

Even though I am not an anipal I hope you will find it within the depth of your kind little daxie heart to help a human. As you know I have recently lost my beautiful little rabbit, Treasure. Treasure was indeed a treasure in so many ways and I know you will understand when I say there was a special bond between us. I know too Nutty that unlike many humans who really ought to know better, you would never make fun of a loving bond between human and any kind of anipal.

I miss wee Treasure so much Nutty and when I see his empty cage and there is only space in what was once our night-time routine together, it all makes me very sad indeed and I wonder if you have any wise advice for me and for others who have also lost a dear anipal friend.

Aunty Hec

Dear Aunty Hec

Although I did not know Treasure for the loving little creature he was, I can feel the love you have for him in the sad words of your letter. Yes you are right there are many grieving humans every day who mourn the loss of a dear anipal but, fearing being laughed at and not taken seriously, they tend not to allow their grief due process, bottling it up inside until it makes them more sad or even ill. This is an awful situation for any human to be in.

We anipals do not have this pawblem because we simply do what comes naturally without worrying what the rest of the world may think. Of course Aunty Hec I understand that humanity is not as evolved as anipals, at least in this sphere, so I suggest some bereavement counselling. No shaking of the head now. Animal bereavement counsellors do exist and you will probably find one closer than you think.

It has always been my belief (which I share with the anipal community in general) is that when we die (horrible word Aunty Hec, coz we don’t actually die we just leave our bodies behind; same as humans) we travel to a wonderful place called RAINBOW BRIDGE which is a heaven especially created by DOG for anipals and it is here you will find all types of anipals big and small all waiting for those we loved before to come and join us.

Little Treasure is at the Bridge right now Aunty Hec, running free and in pawfect health, kicking his legs and munching on the scrummiest greens with plenty of friends to play with. Don’t worry now because he will stay there quite happily until you too are called and you will come together again at RAINBOW BRIDGE.

Any human furriends who read my bloggy and who may also be suffering the loss of a dear anipal this message is for you too. Loyal in death as we were in life, any anipal who loved you will be patiently waiting at the Bridge so when it is your time to pass over you need never fear – just reach out your hand and the furry paw you loved in life will place itself in your palm again and you and your beloved companion will cross over the RAINBOW BRIDGE, together again but furever this time.

DOG blessings.

Till next time.

Love & leggies, Nutty x

Aunty Hec's Treasure 2 Aunty Hec's Treasure RIP Treasure (waiting at the Bridge)



No Exit

Dear anipals – the following story was written by my human Papa (in Scotland papa is grandfather) who passed OTRB long before I was born but has had such an influence on the lives of his family and my Mum (his daughter) especially that I understand he is an important part of my doggy life too.

Papa dabbled in short story writing when he was a young man and this is one of the two stories which have survived him.  Papa’s first story, The Killer, was published on my blog a few days ago. We hope you enjoyed it and will read No Exit in honour of my lovely Papa. Mum says Papa wrote this story with his own Dad (my Mum’s Papa) in mind as in his younger days he earned his living as a prizefighter.

Love & leggies, Nutty x

No Exit

He came out of his corner knowing he could beat this man easily.  He had fought many fights, both in and out of the ring, he had the quiet confidence that comes with experience and knew he could put his opponent away in the first, and this kid who faced him with a confident smirk knew this too.  But he also knew something else – that he dare not.

It was the old story of a fairly good professional boxer just past the right age for the ring and now just had the breaks to get to the top.

Oh he was good enough to give the fans their money’ worth or to change the other fellow’s opinion in a bar brawl but just not championship material, and he knew it.  He also knew he hadn’t many more fights left in the ring, it just took a couple of more shows like that one last month when he had to throw in the towel because he couldn’t land his knockout punch and his legs couldn’t go the distance.  That was always the first sign when a boxer couldn’t go the distance.

He carried the kid through the first round wiping the smirk off his face by a few good solids to the mouth just to keep the fans happy and to show the kid he could put him away anytime he liked.

At the end of the third round his manager leaned over the ropes and said ‘What the hell are you playing at?  Look at that fellow’s face.’  He looked.  It was badly battered from his continuous jabs to the nose and mouth and one of his eyes had started to close.  ‘What are you playing at?’ he repeated.

‘He’s too damned cocky,’ said Malloy ‘anyway I’m not supposed to go down until the sixth and I got to make it look good so mind your own business.’

‘Don’t get smart with me brother,’ the manager sad ‘if you don’t’ dive my neck is out too and I like my face the way it is and not the way it will be if you slug this bum by mistake.  You know as well as I do that the Syndicate don’t take excuses.’

The bell went for the fourth and he danced out to meet his now wary opponent who was no longer smirking.  Jim, his manager, was right of course thought Malloy.  The Syndicate, the biggest bookmaking racket in town, had spread plenty on this kid to win and they were paying him more than he earned in five fights to dive to this kid.  He knew what would happen to him if he won, accident or otherwise, but he just didn’t like this blue-eyed boy to be so sure about it.

What was he being so high and mighty about?  He’d dive in the sixth as arranged and maybe even do a couple more fights for them if the money was good then he would quit the racket for good; he’d never make champ now anyway.

The kid came out fast in the sixth and he made out he was handing out a lot of punishment although the older man took most of it on his arms and gloves, but he got careless and the kid saw a chance and belted him way down low in his belly.  He dropped to his knees.  This was no dive, this was for real.  The kid had hurt him but it was a foul blow.  In the front of the mist of pain there was the red mist of anger.  It was bad enough to take a dive to this green punk but for the kid to think he could actually put him away foul or no, this was too much.

He rose and tore into the kid, battering him all over the ring.  He loved it, the crowd loved it, this was a flash of the old Mike Malloy.  Right to the body, right to the mouth then that wicked left hook to the already cut eye.  The kid staggered across the ring with no idea where the punches were coming from.  Mallow was in to win again, not just to be a stepping stone to this man’s way to the top.

The kid was down.  4 – 5 – 6 – he looked over at his own corner and saw his manager’s ashen face, then he remembered – 8 – 9 – the kid was groggy but he was rising.  How stupid can you get?  Now Malloy had to get a man who was out on his feet to put him down for the count before the bell and he reckoned the round was about halfway through by now.  He went into a clinch ‘that was just to show you how it’s done kid,’ he said ‘now make it look good and put me away.’  The battered lips opened and the one good eye glared at him hatefully.  ‘I’ll put you away all right Malloy don’t you worry about that,’ the kid snarled.

The referee broke the clinch and Mike swung a lazy right that wouldn’t have knocked out a fly, just for show and then he watched in stupefaction as the kid grinned at him, keeled over and lay quite still.

Mallow stared at the kid and felt the sweat break out cold all over his body.  The kid was shamming, anyone could see that.  3 – 4- -5 – he ran over to the referee and frantically tried to appeal to him but the ref either couldn’t hear him for the cheers and howls from the delighted fans or he didn’t want to hear.  Of course, Mike thought that’s it, he was in on it too and now he is as scared as I am.  Mike backed away in horror 8 – 9 – 10 out!

They dragged the kid out of the ring and Mallow went back to his now empty corner.  No manager, no seconds, nothing.  But if he hurried he could het changed and out while there were still plenty of people pushing through the exits, but quick as he was the stadium was quite deserted when he came back through and headed for one of the three exits.  Only the ring lights were left on, the rest of the stadium was in darkness and out of the shadows a man stepped up to block his way to the exit and something flashed in his hand.  Mallow backed away glancing at the second exit, only to see exactly the same thing.  He ran back to the centre of the stadium and round the outside of the ring till he could see the third and last exit and his heart sank as he saw yet another man walking down the aisle towards him.

He did the only thing that was left for him to do.  He jumped into the ring and felt naked beneath the big arc lights.  His clothes were soaked with sweat and the fear was a solid thing building up inside him.  As he peered into the surrounding gloom screaming and shouting ‘Come on then and get me.  I’ll show you how it feels to get in the ring and face Big Mike Malloy.  Come on.  Come on.’  His hysterical voice echoes in the empty darkness but his only reply was the pad-pad-pad of soft soled shoes coming nearer and nearer.


In Loving Memory and of Happiness Never Forgotten

Alexander McCallum (1934 – 2011)

The Killer

 Dear anipals – the following story was written by my human Papa (in Scotland papa is grandfather) who passed OTRB long before I was born but has had such an influence on the lives of his family and my Mum (his daughter) especially that I understand he is an important part of my doggy life too.

Papa dabbled in short story writing when he was a young man and this is one of the two stories which have survived him. We hope you enjoy it.

Love & leggies, Nutty x

The Killer

They were coming for him.  I could hear their heavy hob-nailed boots crunching on the gravel drive that leads up to the farm.  Yes they were coming and although they hadn’t said so, I knew they were going to kill him.  Going to kill Joe, my friend, and I couldn’t stop them…

Oh yes I had tried, tried to reason, to plead, to threaten the men who were coming for him but they just shook their heads at me and pushed me firmly aside.  ‘We don’t want to hurt you Johnny,’ they said ‘but we’ll have to if you don’t turn him in.’  But even in the face of their threats, I still wouldn’t give Joe away because I felt sure  he would never have given me away if the position had been reversed.

‘Don’t you understand Johnny,’ they said ‘he’s a killer and we know his kind will go on killing and killing.  We know this because we have experienced it before and we will find him, no matter where he is hiding.  We must find him, and find him soon before he kills again.’  They stalked angrily away but confidently sure they would find him without my help.  With them it was just a matter of time.

I first met Joe 3 years ago on a cold winter night.  He was hungry and alone, staggering with exhaustion up the path to the barn where he could at least sleep warm in the straw.  We took him in and fed him.  We looked after him and in a few weeks his strength returned to him, his chest filled out and his face grew more rounded instead of the gaunt, hungry look it once had.  He was powerful was Joe, and he certainly repaid us by the way he worked on the farm.  He didn’t want wages, just his food and his keep and he was happy.  We thought he would just stay for a little while to show his gratitude to us but he stayed for 3 years and in that time had become one of the family and now they were coming for him…

I could hear them turn away from the house and come towards the barn where we were hiding.  It hadn’t taken them long to find him or maybe they had seen me come into the barn – oh what a fool I’d been to come here.  Me who had been too loyal to my friend to give him away and done just that by coming here.  But I had to bring him food so what else can I do?  But it was too late to do anything now.  I had failed him as I am sure he would never have failed me.  As I looked towards him and signed for him to be quiet I whispered ‘Sorry Joe’ but he never uttered a sound.  I saw the big barn doors open and the two big men came in, bigger than me or Joe and they had rifles in their hands.  It took all my willpower not to cry out.

‘Johnny,’ the taller of the two shouted.  I signaled to Joe and we both lay quiet in the straw.  ‘Come on Johnny.  We know you’re in there.’  There was a pause then he said ‘We want to tell you we are sorry.’  I looked down from the top of the bales I was lying on.  ‘Do you really mean that Abe?’ I called ‘you’re not going to shoot Joe now?’

‘No.  We’re not going to shoot him now or ever,’ bit Abe said jerking his thumb at the other man with him ‘Bill caught the killer in the act.  Got him right between the eyes with old Betsy here and that was that.  We just stopped in to say we’re sorry before we head into the village to tell the folks to call off the search.  We saw you come in here with a sack of grub so while we are away get Joe out of that straw up there and both of you bring the sheep from the west meadow into the pens for shearing.  A man can’t do it alone, not without a sheepdog like Joe, especially a little man like you who is only 10 years old eh?’

They laughed as they walked away, the crunching of their boots on gravel faded away.  I felt very happy, not only was Joe safe but I could boast to my friends in the village that one of my big brothers shot the sheep killer.


In Loving Memory and of Love Never Forgotten

Alexander McCallum (1934 – 2011)