Life isn’t worth living without my dogs, no really it isn’t but in the space of about seven months we have gone from a one dog household to what is beginning to feel like a rescue centre. To be fair to Dog Two, Pippy Puppy the Border Terrier (or Sunday name – Tiedcott Pipsqueak), was a planned addition to the family, however, the latest arrival was neither sort after or, particularly wanted (ahhh – I hear you cry). He is here though, in all of his shiny blackness and he needs our love for now, even if it only ends up being a temporary stop over.
So now we have a ‘Black Dog’ on many levels in our home including physically acquiring a real one. I mean, it isn’t like I don’t have enough to do but in fairness, ‘im indoors’ is now getting ‘imself outdoors’ and doing the walking.
Of course, until relatively recently, I wasn’t aware of the phenomenon of the ‘Black Dog’ and it’s relationship with depression and in fact, it has only been a thing since 2011. Apparently, it brings the symbolism of a sullen dog clinging on to someone’s back. I have also found this description:
The black dog is a supernatural, spectral or demonic entity originating from English folklore that has also been seen throughout Europe and the Americas. It is unusually large with glowing red or yellow eyes, is often connected with the Devil and is sometimes an omen of death.
Having lived with this ‘demonic’ black Labrador for about two weeks now, I can see the connection to the symbolic and real description of this ‘doggy’! To be honest, Paddy, that is the name of our canine lodger, isn’t the devil, although some days it feels that way, but he is actually the failure of an experiment which aimed to get someone who has mental health issues to take an interest in life and tackle their demons. ‘Let’s get them a dog so they will go out walking and feel like they have something to care for’, was the thought but it didn’t work. Oh the irony, the black dog increasing the black dog in someone’s life. The principle was good though, but trust my family to go against the grain.
I am mostly a glass half full kinda gal but as I reflect on the issue of depression, I realise that it has touched my family far too often. Back in the day, it wasn’t called depression. Mostly, in these parts, it was known as ‘they suffer with their nerves you know’. I think this was a catch all for Anxiety and Depression, but one thing I do know, is that I have found evidence of it going back to 1896 amongst our lot alone, that this was a thing. This is clearly not a new issue but we have hidden it by euphemisms mainly but also by throwing anyone who showed signs of not thinking like the rest of us into a dark prison or Workhouse.
I am not depressed at the moment, but I know that the psoriatic arthritis I have in my life can get me to a dark place fairly quickly if I don’t keep an eye on it. You know the sort of thing “I will never be free from this pain”, “I will feel exhausted for the rest of my life”, “Oh my goodness, even my jaw hurts today!” This can then spiral into “I am just not good enough for anything.” I don’t have the clinical depression that many have but experiences in my life, particularly over the past few years, have popped that Black Dog on my shoulders for short periods. I am just pleased it was the ‘Dachshund’ version of the condition and not the ‘Irish Wolfhound’ one.
Tomorrow, I am taking the real black dog to be assessed for the removal of the appendages which seem to be stopping him living reasonably alongside my very precious (or is that precocious?) Pipster. It’s a boy girl thing! Wouldn’t it be nice if you could also do something similar to the black dog which sits on your back – solve the issues with a scalpel. Sadly, it is much harder to do but I know that I much prefer the one walking at my heels (in my dreams he is!) than the one that needs carrying along the way.
