A tale of Tigger, who licked my face and inspired a poem

Everyone has a home they’d like to keep forever. Ours had a 180-degree view over False Bay. When we stood in front of the bay window, Kalk Bay harbour was to the right, and to the left lay the reef so popular with surfers.

Occasionally, their happy shouts reached us on the salty breeze, as we sipped wine in the garden.

Sometimes in the early hours we’d hear the muffled bellowing of whales, the low putt-putt of fishing boats going out for the day’s catch, or the crash of storm waves on the harbour wall.

Of course, what we really loved about the house was all its memories of family gatherings and laughter. Although every nook and cranny of it contained a story of love, in 2015 we decided, for the usual complicated reasons, to sell our old home.

Since I was living there at the time, much of the packing up and disposing fell to me. I became profoundly depressed, often crying for what felt like no reason.

I remember walking upstairs one day, feeling as if I were lugging something unbearably heavy with me. The loneliness of the rapidly emptying house was overpowering.

But when I entered my bedroom, our little dog, Tigger, was sitting in his favourite place on the sunny window seat, thumping his tail in greeting.

I knelt down beside him so that my face was at his level. In that tender way dogs have when they see human distress, Tigger licked away my tears.

When I had recovered, I went over to the mirror to see if my face was fit for a public outing. Tigger, sensing a walk, looked up at me in a quiver of expectation.

There was only one thing for it: to get his leash in a mood of humble gratitude. The next morning, I wrote this poem:

Dog produces Monet forgery

My worst mood is no different from yours.

I am alone and I can’t stop being alone.

I go upstairs looking for comfort

in an empty house.

I can’t see clearly,

but I find the small dog

wagging on my window seat.

I kneel before him, and he licks my face

until I am ready to stand up and look in the mirror.

He is modest, waiting for me to give my opinion of his work.

I name it ‘Depression Sunrise’ and we go looking for his leash.