Ruth Templeton

My Dog

It is small, cold and metal. There are some rust spots decorating the smooth side – proof of wear and fun and games. You can still read the words and the numbers clearly, a way home for the wearer in case they got too excited chasing seagulls on the beach.
This isn’t the only one he had, he lost plenty throughout his 12 years and 1 month with us. They would come unscrewed or work their way off the little metal ring after too much running, jumping, swimming, playing and chasing picnic’ers in the park.

It is black on one side and fits in the palm of my hand, not that he ever did. He was small once, a tiny bundle of fur and slobber – giving out as much love as he could to anyone and everyone – he had no prejudice. I almost think he thought he was some sort of celebrity – waving and smiling to his legions of fans wherever we went. In fairness, when he was a puppy a woman driving along just stopped in the middle of the road to come and squish him, so I can’t blame him really.

He grew and grew that first year, bigger than I expected or told my boyfriend he would get – now husband, and yes our dog was at our wedding.
Now I have this small metal reminder of what a massive part of our life and family he was. It is attached to a material loop, proof of ownership and being part of our little pack. It smells of summer, grass, salt and that unmistakable pong of “DOG’. My dog.