Read by Joanna Lumley

How do I love you
My little brown dog
So sweetly asleep in my hand
I love you like springtime and dew on the grass
And honey and bluebells and angels that pass
My dear little, soft little lamb

How do I love you
My wild brown pup
So wicked and wayward and bold
I love you with laughter and fury and fear
I’ve called till I’m hoarse, but still you don’t hear
Why will you not do as you’re told?

How do I love you
My clever brown dog
So much in charge of my day
I love you with wonder and awe and respect
You watch every move and you never forget
You know every step of the way

How do I love you
My wise old dog
So courageously facing the end
I love you with sadness and joy and regret
But the gleam in your eye says there’s life for us yet
My beloved, my funny old friend

How do I love you
My brown spirit dog
I still hear your foot on the stair
I’ll love you forever, you’re part of my soul
Till the sun melts the sky and the moon turns to gold
I know you will always be there.

Read by Lucy Jackson

Strange that I miss you still.
How long is it?
No matter for time heals nothing.

Read by Lucy Jackson

Alone on a beach with the sun behind me
Bent double looking for shells
I saw the shadow of a dog at my side
And felt a soft touch on the back of my hand.
She was the routine African stray,
Beige-brown and watchful
Young . . . and I’d have said, not long since whelped.
Hullo girl . . . who are you?
The question passed between us.
She smiled . . . yes, dogs do smile and
Winked her eyes in the bright sunshine.
We walked together, she close at my heels
Stopping when I stopped, waiting quietly
When I stooped for a shell.
We sat on the sand and watched the waves.
Glancing shyly sideways at one another
Afraid to love too much.
I must not feed her nor make a fuss.
That wouldn’t be fair.
She would give her heart in an instant
Only for me to break it.
We sat in silence a little apart
She, modest, touching and anxious.
Both of us careful not to intrude.
“Right, it’s time,” I said standing up
Briskly flicking my hands, shaking off the sand.
“You must go home now . . . there’s a good girl . . . go home.”
To my surprise, she turned away at once
And headed up the beach making for the bush path.
For someone who longed to belong
This was perhaps one of many similar encounters.
She too well knew the moment for signing off.
“Thank you for coming,” I called.
“Thank you … so … much.
I … do … love … you.”
But she didn’t turn round.
“God speed … please God,” I said.
And I walked back along the beach
Guilty, bereft … missing her shadow
And her gentle presence.

Read by Lucy Jackson

I see no point in a walk without a dog.
Like a play with no plot, music without song.
Yet I want no lofty thoughts to pierce the fog
Of my mind’s muddle as I trudge along.
I like to be amused and look around
And feel the constant irritation of a dog
It saves the need for projects more profound.
“Leave it you fool – I’ll never lift that log
For you to chase. Come here for heaven’s sake.
He’s bigger than you. Don’t tug, sit down, now lie.”
This is enough. No words of love or fate.
No gasping at the beauty of the sky.
For we are friends – between us there’s no vanity.
And therein rests my joy, my peace, my sanity.

Read by Lucy Jackson

My dogs’ lives and mine are inextricably entwined.
They set the rhythm for each waking day and hang like wraiths in my dreams.
They are the continuum, the ostinato beat . . .
The steady pulse of a lifetime on which all else is based.
I do not overstate the case.
No image of the past is as vivid as the dogs.
They remain mint fresh, indelibly etched on a billow of receding memories.
In their time they have reflected and shaped a phase . . .
An era making it unforgettably their own.
It seems they have been my clearest reality, their influence undoubtedly profound.
I often ask how this can be.

There are wise old words about the ancient bond between man and dog . . .
The guard, hunter, companion, playmate, child . . .
The easy friendship and generous response to our deep need to love and be loved
Without question or remorse . . .
The instinctive understanding and ready forgiveness for ‘that which we leave undone’.
More than all I love their bright optimism and engaging sense of fun . . .
The laughter . . . the exasperation . . . the time wasting . . .
And the sheer comfort of an ‘animal’ presence to warm both hands and heart.

We can trace in their lives the shape of our own and find reassurance
In the dignity with which they accept inevitable change.
When their brief life passes our bitter tears rise from some fathomless deep
Rarely touched by the business of daily living.
We are reminded of the demons they have kept so long at bay
In that strange place of inner darkness which signifies our own mortality.
I understand all this . . . yet there is something more.

Is it because, though so close, they are also separate and different
Following their own mysterious path and always at the last, fetching for themselves.
Behind the shining eyes there lurks an unknown spirit . . . vibrant, free and inaccessible.
Is this what draws me to them?
Are they the last link with a pagan place . . .
Undimmed by human consideration and the jargon of modern living . . .
The kingdom of Pan, perhaps?
I am held like a child at the window striving to hear the music.
Do I feel its beat?
Is this the pulse that drives my life?
For sometimes when I listen well,
I too can hear the pipes of Pan and capture the wild song of the mermaids …