Sometimes when I am walking, I pace out the words of songs and poems. I am not sure whether I am unusual in this, as I have never asked anyone else if they do the same. It can be quite meditative- almost like the intonation of a prayer-mantra.

It is something I only do when on my own- or gathered under waterproofs in heavy rain and in steep country- because then, even in company, there can be little conversation.

At times, I try to be deliberate about my choice of words- as a deliberate prayer- but more often the words just appear as half-memories, like wind blown dandelion heads to which some seeds remain stubbornly attached.

There is this one poem that is a regular companion to my solitary walking, and it is one of the first I ever remember reading at primary school. It had a rhythm and tone that captivated me. So much so that still remember lines of the poem.

I even remember the teacher who read it to us- Mrs Purvis. Who beat me with a scholl because my spelling was poor. Or something.

More than this (although I am  sure I never knew this then) I remember the poem because it expresses something that I felt about myself. I was an outsider, a paid up member of the awkward squad, uncomfortable in my own skin- and as such, in school (and in life) a most unattractive being.

The poem suggested to me that to be alone and outside could be a positive choice, and that out of the crisis might come virtue. Not all animals hunt in packs- no matter how hard it can be to be alone.

As a much older dog, I have a deep appreciation of the fireside and your companionship around it. But I went looking for the poem…

To discover that it was written by an obscure poet called Irene Rutherford Mcleod, who published a few poems around the time of the first world war. Little is known of her, although it seems that her daughter married Christopher Robin Milne- yes that Christopher Robin.

Here it is-

Lone Dog

.

I’m a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog, and lone;

I’m a rough dog, a tough dog, hunting on my own;

I’m a bad dog, a mad dog, teasing silly sheep;

I love to sit and bay the moon, to keep fat souls from sleep.

.

I’ll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet,

A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat,

Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate,

But shut door, and sharp stone, and cuff and kick, and hate.

.

Not for me the other dogs, running by my side,

Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide.

O mine is still the lone trail, the hard trail, the best,

Wide wind, and wild stars, and hunger of the quest!

.

And just in case you find this too bleak- Rutherford also wrote this- which also resonates in my soul-

Song

.
How do I love you?

I do not know.

Only because of you

Gladly I go.

.
Only because of you

Labor is sweet,

And all the song of you

Sings in my feet.

.
Only the thought of you

Trembles and lies

Just where the world begins

-Under my eyes.