My dog died last year. Juju. She was 14 years old and had various illnesses that just weren't getting any better, so I had to do what was best for her. A week or so later I got a letter from the vets saying her ashes were ready to pick up. I didn't pick them up. I didn't want to. I wanted a break from crying. It was months before I found enough strength to fetch her remains. I was presented with a box with her name on it and a dried flower glued on top and, as expected, I cried.
I'm not religious, so knowing what to do with a box of ashes was puzzling. She was gone and those ashes weren't going to change it. I hid them away as I had images in my head of sneezing into the box and getting a face full of ashes like in a bad sitcom. These thoughts didn't amuse me though, I worried and obsessed over them.
I had an idea of where I could scatter her ashes. There is a spot in Stanmer Park near Brighton where Juju and I would always stop on an hour long walk of ours. I would lean on a wall there and admire the view over the Downs while she panted in the long grass at my feet. About a year after Juju died I made a pilgrimage but when I got there it had all changed: a muddy mountain bike trail sliced through the thicket and the little path to the wall was overgrown. I scattered the ashes and tried to muster a tear but a pair of day-glo cyclists churned around the corner and I stifled my grief. I took the dried flower from the box and squeezed it into the stone wall and slunk away.
Luckily my partner had suggested scattering half of Juju's ashes somewhere closer to home. There's a river on Exmoor with a path by the side of it that I walked with Juju a few times: Horner Water. It's close to my favourite campsite too. In fact, going to that campsite was what started my decision in choosing a black labrador for a dog. There was a black labrador there who belonged to a friend of a friend and I remember how autonomous the dog was, how he seemed to have his own agenda; he wanted to sit by his owner's tent and not by the fire with everyone. When I had a chance to rehome a black labrador I took it straight away. I went back to the campsite much later with Juju. She ran around all the empty firepits and ate the scraps of food that campers had left, not to mention the lumps of charcoal too.
I drove to Horner Water on a rainy autumn day and carried the remainder of Juju's ashes in my rucksack as I tramped through the woods, cocooned in my waterproofs. The floor was a thick bed of sodden, rusty leaves which squelched and squeeked as I walked down the riverside. Hidden stones tripped me and roots grabbed at my boots. It seemed the right kind of weather, the right kind of atmosphere, for laying to rest a close friend.
I reached the spot I had in mind, a plunge pool where the river calmed for a second before crashing onward. A moment of calm. I crossed a footbridge and crouched by the pool so I could get the ashes out of my bag. I had brought a candle with me; I found a hollow in a tree and managed to keep it alight in the rain for a few seconds while I opened the bag of ashes. I clambered down to the pool side and thought about Juju.
I thought about how much she would have liked to be on this walk. About how the rain wouldn't have bothered her. About her spirit. About how alive she still seems sometimes. And about how vague her memory has become at other times. All these things swirled and eddied in my mind as I let go and her ashes sunk into the flow of the river. Gone.
I washed her from my hands and then, completely spontaneously, washed my face with the cold fresh water. It seemed like the natural thing to do. I wanted to be with her, nuzzle her fur like I used to, and this was the closest I could get.
The flame of the candle went out. I packed up, said a last goodbye and carried on with my walk.
It's hard when you're an atheist to find meaning in what seems to be a very religious ceremony. As much as it might be a comforting thought in a time when comfort is sorely needed, I don't believe that she's gone to a better place or that I'm going to see her again. She's gone and that's the way it has to be. But spreading ashes is rarely pointless. It's a purely symbolic gesture and I took what comfort I could from the metaphors the river, the rain, the leaves and the trees could provide.
