The tail-end of summer
Matt Limb OBE and his canine companions savour the changing seasons.
The dogs don’t care that today is Monday, or even if it’s September, or that the forecast says we’ve had the last of the summer’s good weather. They really don’t care and don’t need a calendar to tell them what season it is; they can smell it in the hedge. A shift in the wind. The grass underfoot.
Their world isn’t shaped like mine with inboxes, emails, messages, deadlines and headlines, but by the ground, the air and above all, the here and the now.
But watching them – one nearly 12, another barely out of puppyhood at just a year old and the third somewhere in between – is like watching time in motion.
The eldest doesn’t rush anymore. She pauses, considers, makes her own pace and refuses to be hurried, but don’t ever say to her she is old.
The youngest, by contrast, is the whirlwind, ears flapping, legs too long for fast corners, his world is still full of possibilities, exploring, learning and mischief.
Then we have the middle fellow, the steady one, not only by age but also by his very nature, calm, patient, watchful – he is almost the bridge between youthful chaos and the quiet steadiness of age.
Dogs have seen me through seasons in every sense. They’ve watched the frost and snow settle in January and they’ve snoozed on the cool tiles during the warmth of high summer. Now, as another September quietly unfolds, they remind me to keep pace with what’s real. The cornfields are gone along with much of the stubble, the county fairs are fast fading into memory and the chatter of village cricket has gone a little quiet.
Even the Wimbledon fortnight feels a distant echo now. But the dogs don’t miss any of it; they’ve never needed a scoreboard, marquee or line judge. But I do notice, as they nose through the undergrowth, that the light is different now. The sun is lower, softer. It feels less hurried, as you can feel the last days of the summer sun.
Seasonal changes
Back home, things begin to slow in their own quiet way. Village greens are almost empty by early evening. The pub has a faint smell of wood smoke now, like someone’s lit the first log fire of the season a little too early. It’s not cold, not quite, but you wouldn’t sit out for long without your favourite jumper. You’d probably order a pint of best bitter now, not a chilled lager.
These are changes you only notice if you live through them, you can’t just visit them. But the dogs know.
They’re not interested in the price of firewood and fuel, or who’s finally bought the old cottage near the old church. But they know something has shifted, there is a tone in the air, a hush on the hedgerows.
We set out each day as we always do, down past the copse, but no squirrels today, and round by the cricket pitch. The pavilion looks shut up now and the scoreboard blank. But its smells linger – mown grass with, maybe, a hint of stale beer from the last match of the season, a matter of days ago.
The dogs love this, with space to run, places to sniff, rabbits to dream about even if they’ll never catch them.
The eldest dog keeps to the track, mostly. She trots with a sort of stubborn air of nobility, never straying far unless she finds a familiar smell, but rarely in a rush. She has her own route, her own tempo and we all know we are better off for following her, at her pace.
The youngest, only just turned one, is the chaos factor. Everything is exciting. Everything is new and worth leaping at.
He’ll launch himself into brambles and emerge looking proud with himself but slightly confused. He’s not learned to pace himself and I’m not entirely sure I want him to, well not yet. That energy is a gift, even if it comes with muddy paws and a chewed shoe or two.
The middle one, at almost three, is the glue in the pack, keeping one eye on the pup and one on the old girl, knowing when to race and when to pause. You’d swear he was born to balance them both; his great aunt and his younger brother.
Sometimes, I take them with me to the village pub. Not inside, not unless we have to, they’re better outside on the benches, half under the table, half in the way and always nosey.
The old one knows which table I prefer and heads there without needing to be told. The youngest tries to charm every passer-by with an excited wagging tail, never quite understanding that not everyone wants their knees nuzzled by a wet nose.
The middle one just watches, calm, content, watching and thinking, knowing he will get a lick of best bitter in the next few minutes.
It’s here, over a quiet pint and the distant bark of someone else’s terrier, that you realise how deeply rooted the dogs are to this world.
They aren’t pets, not in the modern sense of pets, they are far more. They’re companions. Observers. Part of the scenery, yes, but also part of the wider story.
They don’t worry about village politics and parish notices or rowdy planning objections. But they know which trees are best for sitting under out of the summer sun, plus which lanes are likely to have pheasant scent or even a pigeon to flush.
They know the regulars in the pub and the soft spot on the hallway floor where the sun lands after lunch.
Marking time
People often talk about dogs as if they’re extensions of us and our families, as if their loyalty and love exist solely for our benefit. But that’s too narrow a view, far too narrow. I believe they live alongside us and with us, but also beside the land and the natural world. They mark time in their own way.
This young pup doesn’t know about last winter’s snow and the eldest doesn’t bother much with next week’s weather. But together, they are a walking record of days and seasons, of fields walked and rivers paddled, with evenings curled up in the warmth of the hearth.
Back home, as dusk settles, a little earlier now, the dogs each find their place.
The youngest circles before plonking himself down with a great sigh. The middle one waits for a cue from me, he’s always waiting, always ready, then drops at my feet, while still keeping an eye on me. The old girl, without fuss or apology, claims her spot nearest the window, it’s been her spot for over a decade.
She’s earned it. The others accept it without argument.
I sometimes wonder how many more Septembers we’ll share with her; above all I try not to count.
There’s always that late-summer moment, somewhere between supper and lighting the fire, when you hesitate. Is it cold enough yet? Do we need to light it? You tell yourself it’s too soon. But you know, deep down, it won’t be long. The dogs know too. Soon they will gravitate toward the hearth. It’s like they’re calling time on the day before you even ponder about it.
I used to think the seasons shifted in obvious ways, with leaf colour, harvest and morning mist. But now I think it’s subtler. Quieter. Maybe it’s when the dogs sleep a little deeper after a walk, or when you see your breath faintly in the night air, as you call them in.
These are the country’s clocks, ticking in the background. Not easy to read. Not easy to see. Not loud and not brash, but true to you and to nature.
So, no, the dogs don’t care that it’s Monday or September, or even almost autumn. Or that the cricket has finished and the marquee’s been taken down. That the last of the country shows is finished. But they know things are changing, just the same. They feel it and they carry it, and they remind me, as they so often do, to pay attention, to look, listen and feel it.
They don’t speak, but they know. What’s more, they never lie about it. And that, in a world full of noise, nonsense, inboxes and emails may just be the finest thing of all.
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Lincolnshire Life Magazine Newsletter 12/25 - mailchi.mp/lincolnshirelife.co.uk/lincolnshire-life-magazine-newsletter-12-25