I have an acute sense of smell. And the truth of the matter is, I stink.
Well here I am, in my Hereford den, poised to relate my adventures. But the black dog has sought to hound me yet again, and that is why my WordPress Tartan Trilogy is still wrapped in its box in my cerebral attic.
I have stolen the black dog metaphor from Winston Churchill because I cannot produce a better one. The hound appears from nowhere, hungry for your soul, thirsty for your life-blood. When you wake up and espy the beast lying at your bedside you cannot escape from him. Loyal as any hound, he follows you wherever you go, and finds his way into the core of your being. In many ways you become the black dog which is haunting you.
Shortly after my return from Scotland I learned that my grandmother had died. I thought that I was coping fairly well with my grief until the black dog bit my ankles and brought me down. Once I was on the ground with his hot breath pumping into my face, I could not get up again.
Over time I have learned that the black dog is not something to fight. He is stronger than I am, and could kill me with one snap of his jaws. Whenever I feel those iron jaws upon me, despite my instinct to fight him off I must reach out to caress and soothe him. As my fingers plunge into his black fur I know that I have to accept this unwelcome visitor. For an unspecified period I will be sharing my life with him – a semi-feral beast who would not be averse to eating me for dinner. If I allow him to stay and treat him with wary respect, I have a better chance of staying alive. For being no ordinary hound, eventually he will tire of me and wander away. The black dog likes to wander.
As I write, the black hound still lurks nearby but he appears to be retreating. As soon as I feel some space between the beast and myself I crawl onto my knees and examine my wounds. The bites have been severe this time, but they are not fatal.
I know that as soon as I regain some inner-strength and optimism he will slide away into the shadows. When I become master of myself, I am master of him also.
So the Tartan Trilogy may well appear fairly soon if the black dog continues his retreat. But right now he is still skulking between me and my mental archives, and I do not wish to lose my fingers.