For the Love of Dog...

I love my two dogs and they love me. I get the same excited waggy tailed welcome every single morning as I get up and let them out of the study, which is where they sleep. It’s a repeat performance when I get in from work, or when I have just popped down to the shops. The mention of ‘walkies’ sends them into an impressive dash around the kitchen, bouncing and barking. Special words such as ‘treats’ and ‘cheese’ (yes, yes I know I shouldn’t...), makes them sit instantaneously and sends the tail wagging into hyper drive. They are just content ‘to be’. I marvel at them. Archer and Poppy are supposed to be Miniature Schnauzers, but there is nothing miniature about Archer, and Poppy is, I think, a cross between a Westie and a Schnauzer, so we call her a Wowzer. She was born on 11th November, Remembrance, (Poppy) Day, hence her name.

My dogs are a source of consistency and happiness in my life, regardless of what else is going on. So when my youngest son went out to Afghanistan with 7th Armoured Brigade last year, (known as the Desert Rats), I relied heavily on my dogs to keep everything the same in my world; and probably more importantly to help keep me sane. As the rest of my world started to fray at the seams my two dogs were there, sitting by me, giving their support to me in an uncomplicated way.

When Ash called me from Afghanistan I used to tell him about the walks I went on with our dogs, trying to take him away from the sun and the dust and the bullets. Away from everything that symbolised the hellhole he was in. I talked about my walks in the woods and the way the dogs splashed in the small stream. I described the flowers which were in bud, the colour of the leaves on the trees and the smell of the cow parsley. I wanted to paint a picture, a memory he could store in his mind’s eye, for when he needed it. A breath from home. It could serve as a reminder of all that is peaceful and calm and lovely, a scene of happy dogs splashing in cool waters, without a care in the world.

And when one day Ash told me that the Danish soldiers he was serving with had rescued a puppy dog from certain death and had brought her back to the camp, I was happy. I laughed as he said that they had named her Rommel, commonly known as The Desert Fox back in the Second World War. This tiny puppy had lifted their spirits, even though she had chewed their shoes, and had stolen their rations and hadn’t quite got to grips with toilet training!

Every time he called he had a story about what she had been up to.  He recounted how one day the Danes had taken her out on patrol with them, and she had got left behind as they crossed a river, and how some Afghani children had found her and had brought her back to the soldiers at their Control Point. She was a constant source of entertainment and amusement during what was a very bleak time Out There, and for that I will always be grateful.

And Rommel is not the only dog in Afghanistan I should be grateful to. I read this week about a black Labrador called Treo and her handler Sergeant Dave Heyhoe. This dog had been trained to sniff out IEDs, bombs and weapons that had been hidden by the Taliban in Afghanistan. He was part of the 104 Military Working Dog Support Unit, Royal Army Veterinary Corps.

It transpires that this dog was awarded the canine equivalent of the Victoria Cross for his efforts and was responsible for saving the lives of many British soldiers during his many tours. Now retired he is enjoying a well earned rest with Sergeant Heyhoe, who has written a book called “It’s All About Treo: Life and War with the World’s Bravest Dog.”

Treo, Rommel, Archer and Poppy...what a team!  

Thank you!

Cathy x

Light a candle ...

It’s just a day, 7th October. But for me this date has taken on a significance all of its’ own. It is the 11th Anniversary of the start of the war in Afghanistan. Eleven years since NATO airstrikes first hit Kabul, and oddly it is exactly one year ago today that my youngest son came back from his tour in Afghanistan. It is a day when I can celebrate his 2011 safe return and yet mourn the date in 2001 when we saw the beginning of something dreadful. It is an odd and very peculiar feeling, happy and sad all at once, the good and the bad, the light and dark.

My baby boy came back safe in mind and body and for that I will be eternally grateful. I read back the pages of my diaries that I kept whilst he was in Afghanistan. I barely recognise the woman I was then. I was, of course a Mum of a Son who was fighting in a foreign land 3,554 miles away, for a cause that I didn’t really understand. It was a strange and scary time for me. I was doing a tour by default. It made me question everything. I re read my words and I realise that the questions I posed then are still relevant now and still, an entire year later, unresolved and unanswered.

Last year I was shocked at the cost of the war. At that point it was estimated at £258 billion but I recently read an article that put it at 1 trillion dollars, a figure that I am unable to get my head around, (and honestly I have no ideas how many zeros that is!). But it isn’t about the money, it’s about the loss of life and limbs and minds. It’s about the human cost. It’s about sons and daughters not coming home, about children being denied a parent. It’s about the heartache and the devastation and that doesn’t ever have a price tag.

I was angry last year, angry at the last government for sending them Out There and even more cross at the new government for keeping them there. But I am not a political animal. I am just a very proud mum of a serving soldier in the British Army and from where I sit it is all about the troops and their families. I care about them and care nothing for the politicians and their meaningless words. We are still Out There, we will continue to suffer losses and injuries. I want to be able to do something, even if it’s a little something to help, to show my support.

So when I went to Trafalgar Square in London today to attend the Stop the War Coalition ‘Naming the Dead’ rally it was the photos of the fallen that I saw and their names that I heard, not the political speak. British soldiers who had made the ultimate sacrifice, and the names of some of the thousands of Afghani civilians who were in the wrong place at the wrong time, being read out aloud together.  As I stood there and listened I heard some familiar names, names of those who were killed whilst Ash was on tour. They were the sons and daughter of families I had spoken to. Real people, real families; not just numbers and statistics.

Somebody’s special somebody. People to whom I can relate, because when we said our goodbyes as they went off to start their tour, we never knew if we would see them again, we never knew what a knock at the door would mean, we were helpless and all we had was hope and love...

I was momentarily distracted from the ceremony as my gaze wandered across Trafalgar Square where I saw an entire family of pearly kings and queens resplendent in their costumes. They were coming out of a church, and I smiled as I watched them, just a small smile as I remembered that the Pearly motto was “One never knows.”

And the irony did not escape me as I remembered that cold afternoon in March last year when I kissed my soldier son goodbye and realised that it was probably just as well that I didn’t know what the future held...