In the same week that I started this project, my friend James stayed up all night delivering a litter of puppies. He hadn’t planned to be doing this, but he had reluctantly agreed to look after his mum’s dog during her pregnancy, to raise the newly born pups, and to sell them on when they were old enough. In a household with two young children, it was pretty much accepted that they would keep one. They chose the only girl and called her Bonnie.
I hadn’t planned to have a pet, either. But when I visited with my children, several humans and dogs looked up at me with wide eyes and I folded. ‘Okay’, I said. ‘We’ll take that one and he can be called Clyde’. I have only seen my daughter reach that level of happiness once before, when her little brother was born. Bonnie now lives with James and his family, and Clyde with me and mine, but they spend a great deal of time together and I am very grateful for my friend’s help. James and his wife Annabel have always been there to support me; Annabel used to look after Ruairidh one day a week, when he was still a baby.
Clyde has been unwell and has taken to his bed this morning. I walked too far with him the other day and he has since been lethargic and full of cold. I think he’s okay, but another lazy day will do him good. So, James and Bonnie will join me for a circle of the Moss while Clyde stays at home. But he wouldn’t have been allowed to join us anyway. He has already been on one of these walks with my mum, and allowing him a second go would be against the rules!
James has just dropped the kids at school and driven over here from Bishopbriggs. He brings Bonnie into the kitchen while I get ready, and suddenly Clyde is full of energy again. The two puppies are a handful. They are often quite rough with each other and while we are sure that it is all good natured, there seems to be a lot of biting and growling involved in their play. The size difference is getting much bigger now. Clyde looks twice the size of his little sister, who nevertheless gives as good as she gets. We leave Clyde behind and I feel guilty as he barks disapprovingly.
Last time I walked round the Moss with James, both our families joined us. As we shepherded our various children and animals round a muddy bog, I remember thinking how times have changed. I met James and Annabel in my first year of university, after I moved to Glasgow at the age of eighteen. For years, we spent much of our time at house parties, pubs and clubs. James and I made theatre shows together and have been on countless trips around Europe. While we still manage the occasional holiday with our friendship group, we mostly see each other with the children these days.
We have both left the city now, although James moved to Bishopbriggs several years before I finally let go of my urban lifestyle. James says that they left Glasgow and moved to Scotland, by which he means that their current home feels more rooted in the community, and connected to the landscape around the town. Bonnie and Clyde have now shifted our lifestyles even further away from regular drinking in the city’s bars, towards walks in the countryside and meals at each other’s homes. It means a lot that after all these years of births, deaths, marriages and divorces, we are all still close friends.
As we follow the pathways round the Moss, we meet a lot of other dog walkers. Bonnie is excited to explore an unfamiliar place and to meet new friends. She bounds up enthusiastically to all the other dogs and James has to keep her on the lead. James is also enjoying these encounters, and he chats away to everyone we meet. James is a pub quiz master and Humanist celebrant, so he is in the business of meeting people and asking them lots of questions. It takes us a long time to reach the boardwalk.
We sit on a bench and look out over the Moss. I spot the deer playing in the centre of the bog. Last week, James conducted a wedding ceremony on the Isle of Skye. He shows me the photos and says that the landscape here is very similar. I see what he means: the grasses and the heather are recognisable, although the stunning mountainous backdrop is quite different to our current view of the unassuming Campsies. I remember camping on Skye with James twenty years ago. I wonder how many miles we have walked together since then.
We follow the path through the birchwood, and James lets Bonnie off the lead. She bounces between the trees, running back and forth across the path. An elderly toy poodle, who I also met on my walk with Iona, is bothered by Bonnie’s boisterous play, so James puts her back on the lead for the last section of the walk. We complete our circuit and return to my kitchen, where we share a cup of coffee and a slice of chocolate log.
We chat about our plans for the weekend. On Saturday, James, Annabel and I will meet four other friends for our annual ‘urban family Christmas’. They have a babysitter arranged, and my parents have kindly offered to stay at my house for the weekend to child and dog sit while we are off having fun. We will meet for lunch in Glasgow and then we’ll see where the day takes us. Times like that are rare and precious, and I always look forward to them immensely. But they are the exception now to a different pace of life. Today, I am embracing these walks around Lenzie Moss with old and new friends, sharing food in our kitchens, and making plans for the children and the puppies. This is a new phase in my life, and I am thankful that James is still such a big part of it.
