In the days when we dared to hope she’d get better, Elliot would lift Harriet from her bed, and tease how she pretended to be weak just to take advantage.

Beautiful Harriet with her honey hair. The doctors had warned us it would thin but it refused, responding instead as though Harriet had anorexia and needed the warmth of thick thick fur. A cruel trick to keep us guessing; to keep us hoping.

In hindsight, they were happy days: the family drawn together by illness; drawn together by hope. We’d pile into the station wagon. Elliot at the wheel, I in the passenger seat, Harriet tucked in tight behind, and Jayden behind Elliot, holding Harriet’s hand with the care of a lover she’d never have.

Scamp was shoved in the back with the picnic basket and rugs. He wasn’t my dog. Jayden had begged, Elliot had entertained, Harriet’s eyes had widened, I had given in. As if I hadn’t enough to do. Scamp was played with by Jayden, petted by Elliot, worshipped by Harriet. I walked him, fed him, trained him, washed him, cleaned the messes, managed the vet and pet store trips, wormed him, gave him company through the day, organized care when we went out, coordinated the bins to avoid dog mishaps. Scamp didn’t notice. His heart was invested elsewhere.

Every morning I’d come downstairs, and Scamp would look up from his bed. Not a welcome as I moved to the laundry to see if there were any night messes to clean and scold about. Fifteen minutes later, Elliot’s tread would reach the top of the stairs, and Scamp would go ballistic. He’d run to the base of the stairs, quivering with excitement. As Elliot glided down, Scamp’s beagle head and tail would lower to the floor and his whole body would wiggle-waggle with uncontained delight. Ears flapping wildly as his head moved back and forth to counter the exquisite vibration of his behind; his tail making an invisible three hundred and sixty degree arc of destruction. As soon as Elliot’s feet touched the tiles, Scamp would be onto him. Jumping and licking and whimpering and lovingly gnawing as if being rejoined after a long and unexpected separation.

If only we could harness the energy!

I’d smile, put food in Scamp’s bowl, and watch him gobble it down, his eyes following Elliot all the while. Breakfast down, he’d run to Jayden’s door. A couple of barks to get Jayden moving, and again the wiggle-waggle celebration. Five minutes of welcome, and Jayden would move to the shower to wash off the lick. Scamp would trot back through the kitchen, past me, back to Harriet’s room and sit, watching me. Waiting for me to open the door.

He’d enter, head held high, with a self conscious dignity and regal grace, put his front paws up on the mattress and gently poke her with his nose to elicit an invitation. Once issued by the maiden, Scamp would take a flying leap, tail flaying wildly, and snuggle in, wriggling and licking all the while. Stealing all my Harriet hugs.

What was hygiene compared to my daughter’s weak smile and laugh?

We liked to picnic on a slope above the oval. It would have been an easy walk from our house if not for Harriet. The grass was mown infrequently on the slope. Trees provided spotted shelter from the sun. Seated beneath one, we could at once take in the rhythm of any activities on the oval or the stream and walkway that bordered it.

I always prepared the food. It always consisted of anything that might tempt Harriet. I always took a picnic rug. Scamp always peed on it. No one else cared. It was tradition.

Elliot, Jayden and Scamp would run down the slope to the oval, blinded by the sun and falling over each other with the pleasure of life. The routine was to forget the ball with Harriet. Scamp would be sent up to fetch it from her before the entertainment could commence.

I’d sit with Harriet, trying not to weaken her by staring in her beautiful everything. There were always little daisies to be found in the grass. We’d pass the time watching the boys, and chaining the delicate white flowers with their pink tips. Sometimes I’d take a wander, gathering the little flowers and using my straw hat as a bowl to carry them in. I’d bring the offering back to Harriet. She might be asleep. I might feel allowed to touch her hair and stroke her face and kiss her pale soft skin. I was scared of being ‘too much’. Scared that efforts to send my life force into her might backfire and take life from her.

Is that possible?

After she died, there was nothing. We did not talk to each other. There was nothing to say. We all knew: just make it through today. Just find a way to make it through the day. Scamp wiggle-waggled with forced desperation. Smiles were given by force of habit.

The boys leant on their routines: work, school, sport. I sat in Harriet’s room. Tried to breathe her in. Tried to breathe any loose cells she had left behind back into life by taking them back into my body. Tried to stay alive. Just make it through today. Just find a way to make it through the day.

I felt old. Too ancient and used up and drained to belong to this world any more. Invisible things slid. The floors lay unvaccuumed, take away replaced dinner, dishes and clothes lay unwashed, windows uncleaned, the fireplace unused, beds and toilets festered. I don’t know where the groceries came from. Everything stank of dog.

Scamp whimpered. He passed his time by digging up the yard.

What did I do all day?

The people at Beyond Blue suggested I try to get out. “Baby steps,” they said. “You can do it. You found enough to make this call. You can do it. Just see if you can make it to the mail box this week. Call again next Friday. We want to hear how you’re going. Truly - share the little successful steps. It really helps.”

Scamp whimpered. His eyes followed me through the fence.

Slowly, over the following months, I did it. I got out of the house. Just once a day. I started taking Scamp for walks again.

He didn’t pull at the leash these days; happy to take it slow. He didn’t lag behind; content to stay at my heel and nose me gently along.

One day when the sun shone warm through the still cool air, I wasn’t thinking and found us on the walkway that led around the oval. Scamp yanked the leash and ran. Nose to the ground, ears flapping, he ran helter skelter across the oval and over the slope. I called and called. He wouldn’t come back.

Bloody beagle.

I dragged each foot, each weighted anchor, across the oval.

This is where Elliot and Jayden played.

I dragged each foot, each weighted anchor, up the slope.

This is where my Harriet breathed.

I sat down and cried, and cried, and cried myself into an unconscious sleep.

The sun had moved me into the shade by the time Scamp’s nudging woke me. Time for this stupid lady, who wailed in public and fell asleep in the sun, to get on home. I felt small but heavy in the sun’s light warmth. We walked quietly back up the street.

Back in the empty silent house, I lay down on Harriet’s bed. Scamp came over and put his front paws up on the mattress. He had something in his mouth.

A daisy.

He dropped it in my hand with a hesitant soft lick, crawled onto the bed and wriggled into my arms.