Sample story

Pickle: A Year of Chaos

One small dog, one big family, and a missing sock

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 Pembroke Welsh Corgi behind Pickle's sample, lying down, chin on paws, against a white studio background Source photo: the Pembroke Welsh Corgi behind Pickle's sample, standing side-on with the head turned to the camera, tongue out, against a white background Source photo: the Pembroke Welsh Corgi behind Pickle's sample, rolling over on the floor against a white background Source photo: the Pembroke Welsh Corgi behind Pickle's sample, sitting and facing the camera against a white background Source photo: the Pembroke Welsh Corgi behind Pickle's sample, lying down and facing the camera, tongue out, against a white background

Photo: fatty corgi / Unsplash

A bright beach on a fresh May morning. Pickle sits squarely on top of a small, slightly squashed child-built sandcastle, sand stuck to his fluffy rump. Behind him, low and soft, pale sand and a thin band of gentle blue sea.

A Furhaps Keepsake Story

Dedication

For Ivy — my favourite person. For Sam — my project. For Priya — who knows I'm in charge and lets me think it's a secret. Love, Pickle Pie.

Chapter One Six Forty in the Morning

Early morning light in a child's bedroom. Pickle stands on his hind legs with his front paws on the edge of a low bed. On the pillow, a sleeping child is seen only as a tumble of dark hair and a rounded shape under a soft duvet, face turned away and hidden.

At 6:40 in the morning, Pickle wakes up with a plan. The plan is Ivy. He puts his front paws on her bed and sneezes directly into her face. Ivy. It is morning. I have decided. Nobody remembers agreeing to this system.

The back seat of a car on a grey December day, soft light through the side window. A tiny eight-week-old Pickle, the same markings as on the sheet but much smaller and rounder, is bundled in a soft yellow dressing gown on a child's lap; only the child's arms in a knitted jumper hold the bundle.

The first Sunday of December, and the drive home. Eight weeks old, about the size of a loaf of bread, wrapped in Ivy's yellow dressing gown. He hiccupped the whole way. Hic. Hic. Hic.

A kitchen in winter. Under a wooden kitchen table, in its shadow, a tiny eight-week-old Pickle (much smaller than on the sheet, same markings) edges his nose and front paws out. In the foreground a child lies flat on her tummy on the floor facing the table, seen from behind: only the back of her head with dark hair, her shoulders and arms.

Home at last, Pickle shot straight under the kitchen table and would not come out. So Ivy lay flat on the floor and sang him 'Twinkle Twinkle'. Once. Twice. Three times. On the third time, a small nose came out. Then the rest of him followed.

Chapter Two The Boss and His Project

A plain kitchen floor in soft daylight. Pickle lies down on his tummy, seen from DIRECTLY behind, his face turned away from the viewer so that only the back of his head and his two large upright ears show: a round, fluffy, loaf-shaped back and rump, his paws tucked under him, no paw pads visible.

One of his nicknames is Loaf. Not because he was the size of a loaf of bread when he came home — that would be too simple. Loaf is about how he looks from behind, lying down. Exactly like bread. He is not embarrassed.

A living room floor. Pickle stands holding a classic squeaky rubber chicken toy in his mouth; the rubber chicken is long and floppy and clearly bigger than his head, its legs dangling.

Pickle has help, in his mind, from a squeaky rubber chicken bigger than his entire head. It squeaks when he bites it, which he takes as agreement. The council has voted, he thinks. Carry on.

Pickle sits on a sofa cushion. Poking out from under the cushion right behind him is the end of a red-and-blue striped sock.

There is a sock — one of Sam's red-and-blue striped socks — missing since January. The family is certain Pickle knows where it is. If asked, he would look extremely calm and change the subject. The sock is mine. Next question.

An upstairs landing with a carpet in soft daylight. Pickle trots along the carpet carrying one long red-and-blue striped sock in his mouth, the sock dangling beside his chest.

He is pure chaos with excellent intentions. Brave, bossy and very loud for someone so short. He is convinced he is in charge of the whole family, and honestly he might be. He collects firsts — the stairs, the sit, the snow — and he collects socks.

A living-room floor in warm afternoon light. Pickle lies flat on his tummy, completely floppy, his short back legs stretched straight out behind him and his front legs stretched forward.

Being in charge is tiring. When Pickle gets tired, he goes completely floppy, like someone let the air out of him. One minute he is a boss mid-sentence. The next he is a deflated Pickle, legs where legs should not be, ears everywhere.

A plain soft background. A close portrait of Pickle's head and chest, his two very large upright ears filling the top of the frame.

And the ears. They grew before the rest of him did, and for about two months he looked like a small fox wearing two satellite dishes. He is growing into them. Mostly. There is still some ear left over, and he is saving it for later.

Chapter Three Snow, Stairs, and Other Scandals

A carpeted staircase in a house. Pickle stands with ALL FOUR PAWS on a step partway up the staircase: three steps below him lead down to the hall floor, and many more steps rise above him. Each step is nearly as tall as his legs are long.

In February, Pickle climbed the stairs by himself. He got stuck on the fourth step for five whole minutes, deciding nothing was wrong. I meant to stop here, he told the stairs. This is exactly where I planned to stop. Five minutes is a long time to be right.

The top of a carpeted staircase in a house, soft daylight. Pickle stands on the landing at the very top, all four paws on the landing floor, looking back down the stairs he has just climbed; the stairs fall away below him.

Then, all at once, he did the rest in one go, arriving at the top like he'd never doubted himself. He also learned to sit — for Ivy, before anyone else. For you, his eyes said. The rest of you can fill in a form.

A small back garden under fresh deep snow on a January day, soft white light. Pickle stands in the snow just below a low back doorstep, snow up to his chest, a clump of snow on his chin like a beard.

January. Snow. Pickle stepped off the back step, sank up to his chest, and came out with a snow beard and a look of total betrayal. The ground has lied to me. It had not. He did it again anyway. On purpose.

A small back garden under deep fresh snow on a January day, soft white light. Pickle races through the snow, snow spraying up around his chest; behind him a winding trench-like trail ploughed through the snow.

Because when the world surprises him, he makes the world his. For twenty minutes he raced round the garden, leaving little corgi-shaped tunnels in the snow. Sam laughed so hard he had to sit down in it. Pickle noted Sam down. The project continued.

A soft patterned living-room rug. Pickle lies on his back on the rug, all four legs in the air, completely floppy.

When the snow is not available, there is the living-room rug. Pickle rolls on his back with all four legs in the air, boss of everything upside down. It is not a nap and it is not a trick. It is simply his favourite way of being in charge.

Chapter Four The Night Everyone Stayed

A dark kitchen at night lit only by one small warm lamp. Pickle lies in a round dog bed on the floor. Beside the bed, a child sleeps curled on the floor under a blanket, seen from behind, only dark hair showing. Behind her, an adult lies on the floor too, only a long shape under a blanket and one arm.

In March he swallowed one of Ivy's hair bobbles, and there was a trip to the emergency vet at eleven at night. By morning he was completely fine. But that night, Ivy slept on the kitchen floor 'to keep watch' — and Sam ended up on the floor too.

A plain kitchen. Pickle stands braced on the floor in front of a closed oven with a dark glass door at floor level, barking at it. In the dark glass, a faint soft reflection of him shows, dim and blurred.

There are other enemies. For a whole week, the enemy was his own reflection in the oven door. I see you in there, he seemed to say. I know what you're doing. The other Pickle never gave in.

A small back garden in autumn. Pickle stands at the foot of a plain wooden garden fence, barking up at it. A few dry autumn leaves blow over the top of the fence from the other side.

There is a leaf blower next door that Pickle cannot stand. The moment it starts, he flattens his ears and makes for the far side of the room. That noise again, he thinks. I would like it to stop now, please. It never does, not soon enough.

Chapter Five The Sea Belongs to Pickle

A wide sandy beach in May, bright fresh light. A small gentle wave curls in, its foam reaching toward Pickle's front paws.

His best day was the beach, in May, and it started with a fight. The opponent: the sea. Pickle barked at every single wave for ten minutes — one at a time, as they came in. I see you, he told each one. Don't think I don't see you coming.

A sandy beach in bright May light. Pickle stands on the damp sand shaking himself, a spray of water drops flying off his coat; wet sand clings to his fluffy rump.

Then something changed. The barking stopped, and Pickle decided the sea belonged to him now. He marched in up to his tummy and came out with sand stuck all over his fluffy bottom. Some sand is loyal.

The back seat of a car in warm late-afternoon light. Pickle lies asleep along the seat with his sandy head resting on a man's knee in jeans. Only the man's knee, thigh and one large hand resting gently on Pickle's back are in frame.

Ivy built him a sandcastle, and he sat on it — the way a king sits on a throne, because it was clearly his. Then he slept the whole way home with his head on Sam's knee. Sam's knee. The sea's secret, Pickle thought, drifting off: it's for sleeping on.

Chapter Six The Dog Person on the Sofa

A small back garden at dusk, blue evening light and one warm glow from the house. Pickle trots across the lawn carrying a small empty cardboard box in his mouth. In the background, softly, a recycling bin by the house.

Thursday nights are his busiest. He 'helps' Sam with the recycling, carrying one cardboard box round and round the garden while Sam does the actual work. Recycling complete, he decides, dropping it. The garden has been inspected. Sam's work is acceptable.

Then one ordinary evening, Priya came downstairs and found them. Sam, on the sofa, asleep. And on Sam's chest, also asleep, was Pickle. The man who said he wasn't a dog person. Project complete.

A plain hallway in afternoon light, a front door at the far end. Pickle runs at full speed along the hallway floor toward the door, his short legs stretched out mid-stride.

Every afternoon, the watch resumes. Pickle takes his place on the back of the sofa, nose pressed to the window. Then — there — a yellow coat at the gate. And he is gone, down the hall, a rocket with fur, arriving before the gate knows what's happening.

Closing Chapter If I Could Tell You One Thing

Night on an upstairs landing. Pickle lies curled asleep on the carpet right against a closed bedroom door; a thin line of soft warm light shows under the door.

Ivy. My favourite person in the whole world. I sleep outside your bedroom door so I know you're still there. You sang to me when I was too scared to come out. You built me a castle and let me sit on it. I will always be at that window waiting for you. Whatever coat you're wearing.

A living-room window in the afternoon. Pickle stands on the back of a sofa, nose to the glass. Outside, far and soft, a garden gate, and at it a small figure in a bright yellow coat, too far to have a face.

And Sam. I want you to hear this properly, from the chest you pretend is just furniture: I knew all along. Every 'not a dog person'. You were my project, and you finished it. I'm proud of you. And Priya — you said I might be in charge. A boss never confirms. I don't need to speak. I'm at the window. You know what that means.

— The End —

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