Sample story

Madam Pip

Two and a half kilos of fierce, unshakeable devotion

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 Chihuahua behind Pip's sample, lying on white fleece in front of a snowman decoration

Source photo: the Chihuahua behind Pip's sample, a close-up of the face

Source photo: the Chihuahua behind Pip's sample, lying on a sofa in front of a lit Christmas tree

Source photo: the Chihuahua behind Pip's sample, lying on white fleece against a dark background

Source photo: the Chihuahua behind Pip's sample, lying on a sofa beside a gnome toy with a red knitted hat

Photo: Herbert Goetsch / Unsplash

A small long-haired Chihuahua, black, tan and white with a white chest and enormous ears, sitting upright beside a shoebox-sized carrier, against plain wall colours.

A Furhaps Keepsake Story

Dedication

For Mum — for Margaret, who rode the number 12 bus home with a barking dog in a shoebox-sized carrier. With all my love, Anna. Christmas.

Chapter One The Number 12 Bus

Interior of a bus, Pip's head and shoulders visible above the rim of a shoebox-sized carrier, a man's umbrella held above nearby, a window with daylight.

There was an umbrella on the number 12. Pip barked. Pip barked again. Nobody on the bus had warned her about umbrellas, and she was not about to let this one pass unannounced. I see you, umbrella. Everyone on this bus sees you.

Inside a present-day city bus, soft daylight. Pip's head and chest show above the rim of a small wicker carrier basket, the size of a shoebox, resting on a bus seat by the window. Outside the window, on a railing, sits one grey pigeon looking back at her.

Then a pigeon — an actual pigeon — appeared outside the window, being a pigeon at her through the glass. She gave it her full opinion. The pigeon stayed. The glass stayed. Pip won on points. You cannot come in. I have made my ruling.

Inside a present-day city bus, soft daylight. Pip's head and chest show above the rim of a small wicker carrier basket, the size of a shoebox, on a bus seat. Beside the seat stands a vertical yellow grab pole with a small round red stop-bell button on it; Pip barks up at the button.

And the bell. Somebody rang the bell, and Pip barked at the bell. Somebody rang it again. She barked again. The number 12 gets plenty of use. Ring. Bark. Ring. Bark. I am warning all of you.

Pip curled asleep on a folded scarf inside a shoebox-sized carrier on a bus seat, soft window light, warm colours.

Two stops before home, it all went quiet. Pip curled up on Mum's scarf and fell asleep, worn out from defending a bus. Mum says that's when she knew. Seven years ago now, and she never took the return trip.

Chapter Two Learning the Ground Rules

The landing of an old city building, soft daylight. Behind Pip, the doors of a present-day lift stand open, its small interior plain and empty. Pip sits firmly on the landing floor with her back to it.

Pip does not do the lift. She does not do it the way she does not do the vacuum cleaner: completely, and with her whole body. So every day, Mum carries her up all three flights of stairs, and Pip rides up like the Queen.

A warm living room in winter light. Pip lies curled on a pale fluffy sheepskin rug on a wooden floor in front of a painted radiator.

The sheepskin rug in front of the radiator — hers. The flat is on the third floor of an old building in the city, and within it, Pip owns specific things. This is the first of them, and the warmest. Nobody is returning anybody.

Pip sitting on a cushion on a windowsill above a city street, morning light, rooftops and a distant bus in soft washes of grey and amber.

The cushion on the windowsill — hers, and it is command central, and the street knows it. From here she can watch the whole street, every bit of it, and she does. Two and a half kilos of dog, and every gram accounted for.

A cosy corner of a living room in soft lamplight. Pip sits on a cushion; one adult hand gently rubs the base of one of her big upright ears.

Sometimes, when she thinks nobody else is watching, she lets someone rub her ears. If you notice, she has to stop. That's the arrangement. A lion in a teacup, fiercely loyal to Mum — and secretly, very softly, this.

Pip lying under a piano stool between a woman's slippered feet, warm afternoon light on a wooden floor, a piano's lower case and pedals.

At four every afternoon, Mum plays the piano, and Pip lies under the piano stool right between her feet, where the sound comes up through the floor and into her ribs. Mum calls her "my little metronome" — her tail keeps time. Da-dum. Da-dum. This is my song too.

Chapter Three The Gnome, the Toast, the Bus

Early morning, pale soft light from a window. Pip curls back up in her small round dog bed on the floor, settling down to sleep again.

At seven every morning she sits on the windowsill cushion and barks exactly once at the first bus — once, exactly once, the most efficient bark in the city. Then her civic duty is discharged, and she returns to the important work of sleeping.

A small kitchen in morning light, a tiled floor. A woman sits on a kitchen chair; beside her slippers on the floor sits Pip, looking up at one small warm toast crust the woman holds low beside her knee.

Warm toast crusts are one of her favourites, and her opinion of anyone eating toast without her is firm. Among her favourites, too: the sheepskin rug, the gnome with the red knitted hat, the windowsill cushion. But toast crusts are toast crusts.

Pip trotting across a rug carrying a small gnome with a red knitted hat by its beard, warm indoor colours, a radiator behind.

One Christmas, Mum made Pip a little gnome with a red knitted hat. Pip loves this gnome in a way that is difficult to witness. She carries it around by its beard, from room to room, like something she caught and intends to keep.

Pip carrying a slipper in her mouth across a wooden floor toward a doorway, soft daylight, warm interior colours.

Nobody taught Pip to bring Mum her slippers. She simply worked out, entirely by herself, that slippers belong to Mum, and that a dog with a mouth and a sense of duty is fully equipped to deliver them. She worked it out the winter Mum had her hip replaced.

Chapter Four Good Evening, Madam Pip

Inside the front door of a small city flat, soft daylight from the landing. The door stands open and a visitor has just stepped in; Pip stands on the floor in front of her, barking.

Anna visits every Sunday, and Pip barks at her for the first ten seconds — seven years of Sundays, no exceptions. You would think family would earn a fast track. The barking is the ticket. I know it is you. That is not the point.

Pip sitting on a woman's feet in a doorway or hallway, Sunday coat hung nearby, warm homely colours.

And then, having confirmed that it is only Anna, she climbs onto Anna's feet and sits there. Ten seconds of barking, then the feet. That is her arrangement with Anna, and it has never once varied.

And in the evening, she waits for Mr Okafor from across the landing. She barks at him in the morning — a formal greeting, deeply traditional. And every evening, he bows and says, "Good evening, Madam Pip." Pip receives this bow as her due.

Chapter Five Six Weeks, and Cardigans

The winter Mum had her hip replaced, Pip didn't leave her side for six weeks. She cannot fetch a hip. What she can do is be there, until being there is the treatment. This is where she lives. Same place.

Pip's face emerging from the folds of a large knitted cardigan, a dark window with rain streaks beyond, lamplight inside.

When the sky is broken, Pip has to be inside Mum's cardigan — entirely, folded into the wool with just her face out, riding out the thunder against Mum's chest. The dog who barks at everything is silent in the cardigan. The fear doesn't get a reply.

Chapter Six One Gold Bauble, One Perfect Snow

Evening, warm lamplight. Pip sits on the floor in front of a decorated Christmas tree, barking up at one round shiny gold bauble hanging on the lowest branch, a tiny soft reflection of her in its surface.

Her first Christmas with Mum, she discovered the tree. She sat in front of it for a whole evening, barking at one gold bauble on the lowest branch — her own reflection, round and gleaming and clearly up to something.

Pip carrying a round gold bauble in her mouth past a decorated tree with low branches, her small bed in view, warm Christmas colours.

She won. Pip took the gold bauble off the lowest branch in her mouth and carried it to her bed. Not stolen — annexed. The bauble was hers since she first saw it; the carrying was just paperwork.

Pale winter daylight. Pip lies curled asleep in her small round dog bed on the floor; tucked beside her in the bed is one round shiny gold Christmas bauble.

The bauble stayed there until February. That is not an interpretation; that is the official record. She came home seven years ago on a bus, barking at everything, given back twice. Now she has a gnome, a bauble, a sheepskin, a piano, and a Margaret.

Pip sitting in a few paw-deep prints in fresh snow at the edge of a tiny park, wearing a little knitted jumper, the old building across the road behind.

The best day was the first snow last winter. Mum put Pip in a little knitted jumper and they crossed to the tiny park. Pip took three steps into the snow, sat down, and refused to move. Cold. White. Everywhere. No.

Pip in a little knitted jumper held in a woman's arms above the snow, the tiny park's bare trees and white ground, a bench dusted with snow.

So Mum picked her up and carried her twice round the park, all the way round, twice, watching the snow from the safest possible position, which is a loved one's arms. They both came home pink-cheeked. Well, Mum was pink-cheeked. Pip was offended.

Closing Chapter If I Could Tell You One Thing

A lamplit living room in a small city flat, an upright piano soft in the background. Pip sits upright on a rug; lying at her front paws is her toy: a small soft handmade gnome with a red knitted hat and a woolly white beard.

If I could tell you one thing: I was not too much. I was waiting for you. They returned me twice for barking at everything, because everything had never proved it was safe. On the number 12, you held the shoebox-sized carrier, and you did not give me back. I am two and a half kilos, and I am fiercely, entirely yours.

Pip curled asleep in the crook of a woman's knees under a knitted blanket, a scarf folded nearby, warm evening lamp colours.

Here is the thing I want you to know, from the scarf onwards: the flat isn't quiet any more, and that is because of me. The flat has my one morning bark, my tail keeping time under the piano stool, my gnome, my bauble, my place in the crook of your knees. From the scarf onwards, I knew you were home.

— The End —

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