The Cherry Tree Memorial - How A Group of Gun Dogs Taught Us About Loyalty, Loss and HopeWhy was I standing by a freshly dug hole in the park, surrounded by a small group of my friends and their dogs? The answer lay in the cherry sapling nearby, its thin bare twigs reaching towards the sky like fingers grasping for hope. The air in the park that morning was heavy with the smell of soil and sadness. If given time, nature could work her mysterious miracles. Season after season, year after year, the beauty of the pink blossom would come to the tree’s barrenness. All it would take is time. But I had no time. ‘Go on Pete, say some words.’Words can feel futile when standing by a hole in the ground. But words often are all that’s left to express how we feel. It’s in moments like these, the sacred is close if we would stop and notice. These are the moments when the very essence of our limited time here on earth seems so precious. We can feel them heavy like velvet, but barbed with the pain of loss. I glanced at the surrounding faces, looking to me to speak words which might have seeds of hope within them. Words that, too, given time, might make some sense of the loss and confusion we all felt. For among us, our good friend, time had ended. For all of us, one day, time will end too.So I began. Shelagh would have loved this. All of us, and all our dogs together...A Pack of Friends: The Dog Walkers' Daily RitualTwenty years have passed since I was standing with a group of dog walkers around a hole in the park. The council that morning dug the hole to make room for the cherry tree that was about to be planted. The earth from the hole piled high next to us all. A pack of dogs laid down in twos and threes or sat next to their owners.For over three years, every day, same time, same paths of the park, we had walked together. I was the only man in the group. Gentle teasing and cheeky banter oiled smooth daily strolls with our dogs. The pack comprised only gun dogs - Labradors, Spaniels and Golden Retrievers, mine included. Not a pheasant in sight, to scurry or aim for. The odd squirrel would dare a run from cover now and then. The only thing we would shoot would be the breeze.Shelagh: The Heart of the GroupIn her early sixties, Shelagh’s short grey hair was as spiky as her wit. Her curious, enthusiastic character overflowed like the Angel Falls, rushing over us with wonder at the ever-changing natural world, her black lab always at her heels. Sarah wouldn’t leave her side, save for a swim in the brook, returning like a slick oiled otter.When Spring came to the park, the trails of pink and white blossoms would hang like leftover Christmas baubles. Our dogs would romp through the petal rain with unbridled abandonment, aware of only the present moment as dogs teach us that vital truth about living. What joy to live unconcerned with what anyone thinks, only to be lost in a moment's beauty. That was Shelagh. Shelagh was full of the joy of life and living, and forever making it overflow with laughter. The joker and storyteller of the dog walkers. Tales of her mishaps, the wry observation of one of us, her humour never with malice, just fun.Shelagh was forthright and direct, more like a Terrier than a gundog. It would cut through the small talk on our walks. She stood no nonsense, and we loved her all the more for it. As a self appointed organiser of our group, she brought coffee and cake for us and the dogs to celebrate the bandstand opening. She always included everyone in everything.When Laughter Fades: Shelagh's Battle with CancerShelagh’s once spritely walks around the park slowed as her back ‘played her up.’ As time marched on, Shelagh’s effervescent vitality faded from spring to winter.They had found cancer in her spine. Shelagh was a fighter. She had guts. Shelagh bravely never hid the truth from anybody. Her determination to fight was as unrelenting as her sinister enemy within.One day, she didn’t turn up. And, as the days passed on, Shelagh and Sarah the lab never walked with us and our dogs again. I wish I had known the day when it was the last time we would have walked together. I’d have taken more time to notice the moments, to listen with more attention, to see the eternal in the temporal. I suppose we should treat each moment as the last, as someday it will be. The last thank you, the last kiss, the last, ‘I love you.’ But we don’t. We imagine life will continue on. We missed Shelagh’s vitality, vigour and vim for brightening even the darkest and dankest of dog walking days. The park was much the same. The cherry trees bloomed in spring. But something then on was always missing.I kept in touch with Shelagh and visited her. Taking my dog, we’d chat. She kept optimistic, and hopeful, waiting for the days when she could join us again. Wanting to know the latest news, and what the trees in the park looked like.The dogs would play, and we would chat. She was renowned for her love ...
