Sample story

Clemmie Bean and the Carrot

The story of a dog who stopped waiting by the door

A sample story. The photos show a real dog, shared freely by the photographer; the memories were written for this example. Your story is made only from what you tell us about your dog.

Made from these photos

Source photo: the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel behind Clementine's sample, standing side-on on a wooden boardwalk path between hedges Source photo: the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel behind Clementine's sample, looking straight up at the camera from a sandy path, a long shadow beside it Source photo: the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel behind Clementine's sample, sitting on a lawn in an avenue of old trees Source photo: the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel behind Clementine's sample, standing on a low stone edge in front of tall grass Source photo: the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel behind Clementine's sample, standing on a lawn in front of old tree trunks Source photo: the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel behind Clementine's sample, standing and facing the camera on a boardwalk path between hedges Source photo: the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel behind Clementine's sample, standing and facing the camera in a garden

Photo: Courtney Mihaka / Unsplash

Clementine sits on a sunlit lawn in the late afternoon, a warm patch of sunlight around her, her knitted wool toy carrot (visibly knitted from wool, one leaf mended with green wool) lying at her front paws. Behind her, low and soft, a few huge old trees with pale peeling bark; their tops stay low in the picture.

A Furhaps Keepsake Story

Dedication

For Hannah, who gave up her grey jumper on the sofa, and for Tom, who lets me follow him to breakfast. Both of you are mine. — Clemmie

Chapter One The Rainy Saturday in March

A quiet living room on a rainy afternoon, grey light from a window streaked with rain. Clementine walks slowly along the edge of a plain rug beside the legs of an armchair, nose to the floor, one front paw lifted mid-step.

She began the inspection. Very slowly, nose to the floor, through every room, sniffing as she went. Slow is careful, she told herself, and careful is how you find the doors. Two years old is old enough to check a whole house.

A quiet hallway on a rainy afternoon. Clementine sits on a plain wooden floor facing a closed front door with a small frosted glass pane streaked with rain, grey light coming through it. Beside her on the floor lie a folded blue blanket and a knitted orange carrot toy.

When every room had been checked, she went to the front door and sat down facing it — back straight, ears forward, the picture of a dog expecting somebody. Someone is coming, she thought. That is what doors are for.

Night, one warm lamp. Clementine is curled up asleep on an old soft grey knitted jumper lying on a sofa cushion, the orange knitted carrot tucked under her chin. On the floor in front of the sofa stands a brand-new round dog bed, empty and plump.

They had bought her a bed. She ignored it completely and slept on the sofa instead, on Hannah's old grey jumper, with the carrot tucked under her chin. Just in case, she thought. In case somebody comes back for it. The rain went on through the night.

Chapter Two The Eighth Evening

Evening in a living room, warm lamplight. Clementine lies across a woman's two feet in thick grey socks, resting on a rug in front of a sofa. Far in the soft background, the front door of the hallway is dim and quiet.

For a whole week she sat at the front door every evening, facing it. On the eighth evening she got up, crossed the room, and lay down across Hannah's feet instead. She has done it every evening since. Right, she thought. This is the arrangement, then.

Evening, one warm lamp. Clementine lies curled on a soft plain rug in front of a sofa, warm lamplight on her coat, drowsy.

By then they had begun using the names. Most days she is Clemmie. When she is warm and sleepy she is Clemmie Bean — which she regards not as a joke but as a straightforward description of her condition. The condition is upon her.

Chapter Three Every Person on the Path

A sunny park path of pale gravel between soft grass verges. Seen from the side: Clementine, on the left, trots eagerly along the path toward the right, head up, tail up and feathered; on the right, a passer-by walks toward her from the other direction, facing her.

She is gentle, nosy and hopelessly sociable, and she holds one fixed belief: every person on the path has come specifically to see her. Obviously, she thinks, tail already going. Why else would they be out? She has never once been persuaded otherwise.

A plain warm kitchen with a wooden floor. Clementine stands on the floor, her whole back end swung to one side mid-wiggle and her feathered tail sweeping low over the floorboards, a soft motion blur on the tail tip only.

When she is happy, her whole back end wiggles — not just the tail, all of it, swung to one side and back. Her tail thumps on the kitchen floor loudly enough to hear from upstairs. It is not a quiet happiness. It arrives with weather.

Clementine sits on a plain warm wooden kitchen floor, her knitted orange carrot toy (one leaf of green wool) lying just in front of her paws.

When she wants something — a treat, a cuddle, the carrot back from under the sofa — she sits, tilts her head, and looks straight up with those huge dark eyes. It has never once failed. Once is all it ever needs to do.

Just inside a front door, a plain doormat on a wooden floor, soft daylight from the open door. On one of the person's shoes lies her toy: a soft stuffed toy carrot hand-knitted from orange wool, plump and rounded, visibly knitted, with knitted leaves, one leaf in a different green wool — a dog's plaything, not a vegetable. Clementine sits in front of the shoes looking up.

When you come in the door, she drops the knitted carrot on your feet. It has been re-stitched twice, and one ear is green wool from Hannah's sewing box. She does not mind. A carrot that has been repaired is a carrot that is staying.

A garden in the afternoon. Clementine sits on the grass on this side of a plain wooden garden fence made of vertical boards with narrow gaps between them. Through one gap, on the far side, an old ginger cat is visible, sitting and looking back.

Every afternoon she watches Biscuit, the neighbour's old ginger cat, through the gaps in the garden fence — very politely, from her own side. They have never actually met. Politeness costs nothing, she thinks. Saves a great deal, too. The fence keeps its gaps. She keeps her manners.

A living room. Clementine walks calmly out through an open doorway into a hallway. Behind her, standing on the rug in the room, is an upright vacuum cleaner, painted plainly and quietly.

The vacuum cleaner comes out, and she leaves the room with enormous dignity, never hurrying, at exactly the pace of someone who has decided to be somewhere else. Tom calls her Duchess, because of that walk. She considers the title earned.

Chapter Four The Gaps Between the Boards

A wooden boardwalk path made of planks with narrow dark gaps between them, running between soft rounded hedges in morning light.

Her first walk on the boardwalk, in that first week, presented a problem: the gaps between the boards. She would not step on them. She hopped over every single one — hop, hop, hop, all the way along. Gaps are not floor, she informed nobody. I will simply go over them.

A warm sandy path in bright sun. Clementine stands on the sand; her own dark shadow lies long and clear on the sand beside her. A person's legs in jeans and walking shoes stand beside her.

The first time she noticed her own shadow on the sandy path, she stopped dead and stared up at Hannah, as if to ask who the flat dog was. She spent the rest of that walk looking over her shoulder, checking it was still following her. It never explained itself.

Early evening in a park: an avenue of huge old trees with pale, peeling, papery bark and sweeping trunks, a soft grass lawn between them, warm low light. Clementine trots along the lawn between the trees.

What survived every walk was the part she loves: the avenue of huge old trees with peeling bark in the park near their home. Trees that old, she has decided, have clearly been standing there for someone. Every evening she walks under them, checking that they have.

Chapter Five Six O'Clock

Early morning light in a hallway. Clementine sits on the floor at the bottom of a plain wooden staircase, looking up the stairs. The top of the stairs is soft and bright.

Her days run on three marks, and she guards each one. At seven every morning she waits at the bottom of the stairs for Tom. Seven, she thinks, ears up, one eye on the staircase. He is late by a stair. I will forgive it.

Early morning light in a plain kitchen doorway, a wooden floor. A man walks ahead into the kitchen; Clementine follows close behind his heels, tail up and wagging.

Then Tom comes down, and she follows him into the kitchen for breakfast, tail thumping on the kitchen floor. Tom is her favourite at breakfast time; Hannah is her favourite for everything else. She has always considered this a fair division of labour.

A lawn in the late afternoon, mostly in soft cool shade, with one warm golden patch of sunlight lying across it. Clementine lies stretched out inside the sunny patch.

In the late afternoon there is the sun. It crosses the lawn in one patch, slowly, and she lies in it, moving only as far as she must to stay inside it — like a dog keeping an appointment. Warm is warm. It does not wait.

Early evening, warm light. Clementine stands on a wooden floor in front of a woman's feet in grey socks, holding her knitted orange carrot toy (one leaf mended with green wool) in her mouth.

At six every evening she brings Hannah the carrot. This means it is time for their walk — always the same loop: down the boardwalk path, through the avenue of trees, back across the big lawn. Six o'clock is the carrot's finest hour.

Night, warm bedside lamplight. Clementine sits on the floor beside the foot of a bed with a soft pale quilt, looking up at it, waiting.

At bedtime she waits beside the bed to be lifted onto the end of it. She could jump. She never has. I could, she thinks, settling at the end of the bed. I don't. That is the whole arrangement, and I am very content with it.

Chapter Six The Whole Lawn to Herself

Early morning on a big empty lawn, the grass silver with dew, soft pale sunrise light, the avenue of old trees far and hazy behind. Clementine runs across the lawn, leaving a faint curved trail in the dew.

Her third birthday, the first one she had with them: the park really early, before anyone else, the whole lawn to herself, still wet with dew. She ran zoomies in huge circles, ears flying out like wings. All of it, she thought. Wet, and green, and mine.

Early morning on a big lawn, the grass silver with dew, soft sunrise light. Clementine lies flopped on her side in the sun; beside her lies her toy: a plump, rounded, soft stuffed toy carrot hand-knitted from orange wool, visibly knitted, with knitted green leaves, one of the leaves in a different, brighter green wool — a dog's plaything, not a vegetable.

Then she flopped down in the sun with her carrot — re-stitched twice, its odd green ear from Hannah's sewing box — in the dew beside her. She turned five this spring, and the lawn is still there. Early mornings still belong to whoever gets there first.

Morning sun on a picnic blanket spread on a lawn. Clementine lies on the blanket with her knitted orange carrot beside her. A person's hand reaches in from the edge of the frame holding out one tiny piece of chicken.

Then came the picnic: a blanket on the grass, and one tiny piece of chicken, which she ate very slowly, as if to make it last. She has never been in a hurry with anything that good. If I take my time, she reasoned, it is still happening.

Closing Chapter If I Could Tell You One Thing

Evening in a hallway. Behind Clementine, a closed front door stands quiet in the soft dark. She walks away from it toward an open doorway ahead, where warm lamplight spills from a living room.

Hannah. I know you remember my first week — me at the front door every evening, facing it. Seven evenings I gave that door. So here is the one thing: I don't have to wait by the door anymore. I knew it on the eighth evening, when I put myself across your feet instead, and nothing bad happened.

Night, warm bedside lamplight. Clementine lies at the foot of a bed on a soft pale quilt, her knitted orange carrot under her chin.

I don't need the door. I need your feet, and six o'clock, and the end of the bed. This is home. You are not going anywhere. The carrot is under my chin and I know exactly where you are. I'm not waiting anymore. I'm already here.

— The End —

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