An excerpt from the new book Dog Tales, a fund raising venture for two very special organisations.

It was just after Christmas a couple of years ago and there was a fine layer of snow over ground frozen hard as iron. My son Jon and I were out in the crisp morning air exercising the dogs on Clarendon Park. Twinkle a foundling Doberman cross, was, as usual, ploughing along, head down, pushing one side of her face through the snow as if her only aim in life was to fill her silky, oversized ears with the chilly white stuff. Her youngest pup, eight month old Lolo was bounding across the field, running excitedly first in one direction, then in another, like a cannonball on legs. At seventy pounds,he was already a hefty individual and I watched him nervously, worried that he might knock me over again. The week before he had clipped the back of my leg and sent me crashing down. The experience had left me jolted and aching, so I really did not want a repeat.
Here and there other dogs were enjoying the frosty conditions and the park was looking particularly beautiful as the low winter sun sent bright horizontal rays across the hedgerow, lighting up bare branches and setting them aglow. Lost in the beauty of it all, I took my eyes off the dogs for a moment. When I looked back it was to see Lolo rushing blindly in my direction. Just in time I stepped aside and he continued unchecked. Jon, who had just finished a long night shift, stood a little way off, hands in pockets and only half awake. Lolo’s head connected with Jon’s legs. In horror I watched my son fly up into the air and down again in a graceful arc, hands still in pockets. He landed hard, directly on his head.
For a few minutes he just lay there, out cold and the dogs milled around anxiously. I clipped the dogs’ leads on and knelt down by my son, unsure what to do. Should I leave him and go for help or stay? When Jon came round he struggled to his feet and took Lolo’s lead and together we made our way home.
He thought he was just shaken but the short walk proved tougher than he expected. We dropped off the dogs and I took Jon to hospital where we learned that the tumble had left him with cracked ribs, fractured sternum and severe concussion. He had double vision and bending down caused him to pass out. When we got back I raced over to his house to take care of Lolo’s three siblings who were living with Jon. Daisy, Slim and Weyland were waiting hungrily for their overdue breakfast and dived in enthusiastically while I cleaned up the mess from their equally overdue visit to the garden.
Jon went to his girlfriend’s to recover with his oldest dog Conan and I embarked on a routine that nearly destroyed me. I went to his house four times a day or more to let the pups out, feed them and give them some company, driving around 400 miles that first week. Every time I opened the door, all three would leap at me as if they were on springs, battering me and covering me in the mess they’d made between visits. I wore waterproofs just so that I wouldn’t have to change my clothes after every visit. I think a healthy person would have found the routine difficult and expensive; but I have Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and this means my stamina is almost non-existent.
Within days I knew I could not cope. My visits dropped to once a day, then even that became more than I could manage; but could find nobody willing to help and the puppies suffered. I started ringing around animal charities to see if they could help. Most were unsympathetic. They would accept them for adoption, or not at all. Jon refused to consider the notion. With fading hopes I rang Leicester Animal Aid at Huncote and explained my problem. The pups were immediately offered respite kennelling for two weeks; long enough for Jon to get back on his feet and assess his options. While they were there staff noted that they were beginning to work as a pack, and strongly advised splitting them up before they became dangerous. Timely advice.
A friend had often said he would like to have Slim and so was delighted when Jon agreed to him moving there. Daisy moved to the country with a family who fell in love with her on sight after they visited the LAA kennels looking for a lively, intelligent pup, characteristics Daisy had in abundance. Weyland went home with Jon and has made a beautiful family dog.
My gratitude to LAA is huge. When we were desperate, they were there and I wanted to do something to show my appreciation. Just handing over what money I could afford would be a limited gesture, so I started looking for ideas.
Whilst I was mulling over my options, I came into contact with supporters of another local organisation called East Midlands Dog Rescue. This independent Hinckley based group takes in dogs who have lived with elderly or infirm people no longer able to care for them. They also accept rescue dogs and look after them in their own homes for as long as necessary. Those suitable for rehoming are advertised in the local papers Some cannot be rehomed for various reasons and so they are given as comfortable and loving a retirement as possible. I felt I wanted to support his organisation as well. Being a writer, it is probably inevitable that I would decide to use my skill to raise funds, but I wanted to share the pleasure and so asked people to send me their dog stories - some true life, some fiction. This book is the result. There is joy, sadness and fun in these pages, with a couple of spooky stories to spice things up, with illustrations from a Texas dog lover and wonderful poetry by June Dyer.
The first twenty copies have been shared between these two good causes for them to sell. If all goes well I will supply as many more as they wish at cost price. Every single penny of profit will go where it is intended – to the animals.

Sue Phillips 2005