Dwti Draig

As I look around the house at the moment, I really despair. There is clutter everywhere, and by clutter I mean truck stuff. My conservatory is full of wood and tools. My hallway has large pieces of wood. My bedroom has a bag full of my clothes ready to go. The bed in the small spare bedroom is full of stuff such as coats plus a king sized mattress still in the packaging. The bigger spare room has all the truck cushions, plus even more wood. My attic is full of boxes of stuff from the motorhome that all needs to find a new home in the truck.

None of this stuff can be moved yet as Lyn is still working every hour on getting the truck ready. Dwti is still full of his tools, which need emptying out when he is finished and then needs a good clean before trying to find new homes for everything. At the moment I can’t envisage where everything will “live”.

One box box of stuff sadly won’t need to be transferred to Dwti. It is our box of dog stuff. We lost our beautiful long haired German Shepherd dog a few weeks ago at the age of 10, and this has truly broken our hearts.

Gelly came to us in 2014, when we took our unsuspecting youngest son to West Wales to choose the dog he had so desperately nagged for. In the end, however, Gelly most clearly chose us. We were surrounded by many soft, squirming tiny little puppies; sheer balls of fluff. When I bent over to pick one up, he clearly nestled into the crook of my arm as if that was where he belonged. He gave a big sigh, and fell asleep. He was home.

His home was wherever we were for the next 10 years. He turned from a tiny ball of fluff that couldn’t control his own ears into a majestic beast of a dog; a king with a goofy grin. He was always happy. He loved snoozing in front of the fire. He loved going on walks. He loved meeting friends, old and new; in fact, taking him out on a walk was like walking with a rock star on a lead. Everybody loved him, he attracted attention wherever he went. He took the love and gave it back. He loved to protect us, making sure he slept in front of whatever empty bedroom was the first line to defend. He had the loudest snore and the softest belly, ripe for tickles. He loved to run with Lyn, until his body let him down. He started with the local Park Run, where he had to go to the back of the crowd away from the start as he howled with excitement waiting to take off. He used to drag Lyn for the first mile, trot happily alongside him for the second, then have to be dragged or the final third. He even built up to running a half marathon.

He was absolutely in his element when he came away with us in the motorhome. He could tell when we started to fill it, and a trip was imminent. He got more and more excited, pacing around and getting in our way, before making a bid for freedom and racing into the cab. He sat between us in the cab, like a proud child. I could almost hear us asking “are we there yet?” His happy place was definitely in Pembrey Country Park, where we often used to overnight on weekends. He used to chill outside the van, just watching the world go by, happy to wait until his next walk in the forest, run on the beach, or dip in the sea. The motorhome wasn’t big inside, and he took up most of the room! If he was in the kitchen area there was no room for anyone else; we all had to do the “kitchen shuffle” to get past each other.

We had such plans for him travelling with us in Dwti. He could manage the steps into the hab and was happy laying inside watching Lyn work his magic. Lyn was investigating ramps to get him up into the cab so he could take up his rightful place between us.

Alas it was not to be. 2024 saw his rapid decline healthwise, and he struggled on until late June, when he took his last snores and breaths on the lawn, surrounded by his distraught family.

I know so many people travel with dogs and understand the devastation we feel. Other dog owners “get it”. It’s a club we know we have to join, but dread. Our pain is the price we pay for years of unconditional love and friendship. A month on and we are no further along in the grief subsiding. He was not “just a dog” he was an integral much loved part of the family, and we will never get over losing him. I still can’t talk about him without crying. The house feels empty, although I am sure I still hear him shuffling his way into the bedroom every morning. There are still dog treats on my bedside table from our nightly ritual.

We may start our journey in Dwti soon, but there will be part of us missing. He’ll be waiting for us to return, buried in our garden, protecting the house like he always did.