Dearest Alice, R.I.P.

I think it's a week since I last wrote an entry into this blog, and I was thinking that this weekend I'd be writing a very long, even by my usual standards, chapter recounting all that has happened. We had a lovely trip to Ireland, enjoying once again the hospitality of John and Catherine Burke in Baltinglass, for Fairyhouse Sale, whence we returned with three lovely yearling fillies who have already settled in here and made friends with each other, and who we hope will be able to be fine representatives of the yard in years to come. And yesterday Jack's long and distinguished racing career came to an end as he bowed out with honour with a fine round of jumping in the beginners' chase at Stratford. There is plenty to say on both of those topics, but I'm afraid it will have to wait.

Tragically, one event currently overshadows everything else in this small part of the world. Yesterday Alice died. She has been notorious for her ramblings, but in recent months they had been more obvious, and early in the summer we decided to instal a wire across the stable gateway which, in tandem with a collar which she would wear, would make her disinclined to venture out. To my eternal regret, putting off until tomorrow that which doesn't have to be done today has, once again, proved to be a major mistake, and it is now too late.

Many people who read this blog will have met Alice, and I am sure will attest that to know her was to love her (unless you were one of the few strangers whose ankles she nipped). More people still, I am sure, will never have met her but will have been aware of her colossal presence in this stable. She was only a small dog, but blessed with the personality of a giant. I would have said that Alice was my dog, but in truth she was our dog, and she was also nobody's dog. Stan is Emma's dog. If Emma is away, Stan could pass for my dog, but when Emma is here, there is no doubt that Stan is Emma's dog and only Emma's dog, and he definitely isn't his own dog. Alice was my dog, but she was also Emma's dog. And she was also so many people's dog, except for the fact that nobody owned her but herself. One doesn't own cats, rather one is fortunate that a cat choses to call one's house home and to allow one to believe that one is blessed with some sort of possession. Alice was the same, because she was truly her own boss, and she was my boss too. She owned us and, now that she has gone, I feel as if I've been hit for six.

Eleven years ago I watched a tiny Alice come out of her mother, and yesterday I held her stocky corpse in my arms and buried her in the garden outside the back door. In the intervening period she has been the most solid and constant presence in my life. Even though I know it is impossible, I keep expecting to see her come trotting up the yard, deciding whether to pretend that I was the most important thing in her world or to pretend that she was unaware of my existence. I know that everyone says that their dog is the best dog in the world, but the difference between me and everyone else is that when I said that, I was right (although possibly Don Cantillon was also right when he said the same about the recently deceased Skip, whose successor Chip promises to be a chip off the old block). I don't know if I'll ever have a successor for Alice; just now I find it hard to think that I will, because some shoes are too big even to think about trying to have them filled. But if I do, and however many more I have, I know that I'll never have another dog as good as Alice.