Casper, the friendly dog

Like many young kids, when my oldest son was two he was terrified of dogs. He used to run away if one ever went near him, and if a dog barked at him, he cried for hours. There was only way to cure him of his phobia: we had to get a puppy.

So we ended up with an eleven week old bouncy golden Labrador who my son decided to call Casper, after the friendly ghost. From then on, boy and dog were inseparable. We went through months of boisterous slobbering and gruelling puppy training, and then just when we thought we were really getting somewhere, we hit The Chewy Stage.

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Oh boy, was that fun. Nothing was immune to this dog’s teeth. Someone really should have told me never to buy a Labrador when you’re moving into a new house, as our dear young puppy systematically and thoroughly munched his way through the shiny brand-new kitchen of my dreams. Every single cupboard was ruined, all the lino on the floor was eaten and he even had a go at chewing the aluminium hob. We tried everything…rewards, scolding, pleading, ranting…even chilli sauce, which we heard was a completely foolproof method of stopping a puppy from munching everything in sight. But alas…it appeared we had the first Lab in the history of the world who had a thing for extra-hot chilli. Despite being liberally painted over my kitchen cabinets, this appeared to further stimulate his voracious appetite, and he munched even more wood, not less. The bright red sauce stained the pristine white cabinets too...major bummer.

Then one morning we woke up to a loud splintering sound. He had literally chewed his way through the kitchen door. I was in despair and totally at the end of my tether. I didn’t care how much my son loved his dog. That wretched animal had completely destroyed a £20,000 designer kitchen. It had to go.

Fast forward 11 years and that beautiful young puppy is sleeping peacefully at my feet this evening. He is old, blind, deaf and he has end-stage cancer. Despite their best efforts to save him, the vets have said there is nothing more they can do. The cancer has spread to his brain and he can no longer breathe. Tomorrow we have to do what is right for him and say goodbye. It is time.

No-one could have asked for a more faithful and loyal companion all these years. Words cannot express how much we will miss him.

Kitchens are replaceable, but a dog’s love is forever.

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It’s Remembrance Sunday, a day to pause and reflect on those who fought for our freedom. Although this is not a photographic post, I hope you’ll indulge me a little whilst I too remember those nearest and dearest to me.

My side of the family is a military family. Most of my cousins are in the British Army or Royal Air Force, as were their fathers and fathers’ fathers before them. Every generation of our family has lost someone who died fighting for their country, and I have heard many brave stories of relatives I have never met who were heroes of their time.

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My father in a officially commissioned portrait during WWII

My parents too fought in WWII. My mother was a spotter for the gunners who shot down German aircraft. She described her years in the WRAF (Women's Royal Air Force) as the best years of her life. The camaraderie, the fighting spirit, and the belief in survival against all odds…these were the making of her. Of course she said she had a wild time too…at one point she apparently dated six young men at once, although ultimately she only had eyes for my father who was a handsome young RAF officer. He wasn’t a pilot, he was a communications officer, and he travelled on many a bombing mission because of his expertise in Morse Code. In later years he would often try to teach Morse to me. Silly teenager that I was, I wasn’t that interested (boys and school taking up most of my time) but in retrospect, I wish I had learned the language.

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Dad, in Africa, indulging in a drink or two

Towards the end of the Second World War, my father was stationed in Africa. His plane was bombed and he was in the water for two days, clinging to a piece of wood to stay afloat. He was eventually picked up by another ship which was subsequently also bombed, and again he was in the water for another day and night before he was rescued. When he returned to England he was found to be suffering from diabetes. The doctors concluded that it was the shock of staying in the water for so long that caused his body to stop processing insulin. Yes he had survived an incredible ordeal, but the price was high, and it was to be paid in daily instalments for the rest of his life.

Shortly after his rescue, the War ended. In the post-war celebrations, everyone was ecstatic to be alive. There were celebrations, incredible street parties and a spirit of renewed hope the likes of which have not been repeated since. The War had not only re-written much of the World map, it had irrevocably changed the lives of every man, woman and child who experienced it. Realising that life was simply too short, my parents decided to get married and then proceeded to live happily ever after.

Not just today, but every day, I remember my parents with love and admiration. I look at their photographs and I remember the lessons they taught me, I remember their determination and their courage, and I remember to never, ever give up. No matter how bad life seems, there is always hope.

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My Dad on the left, Mum in the centre, her brother on the right

The above title is “hope” in Morse code.