Alice Feeling Worse

Alice Feeling Worse

Coffee first. Always coffee. Today, it’s essential for more than just focus—it’s a small anchor in what feels like a slowly unravelling day.

Alice is clearly worse. She barely lifts her head when I enter the room, only blinking lazily as if to say, “Do you really think walks are still on the agenda?” Nicolas, ever the worrier, watches her nervously from his chair, ears flicking at every faint sigh she makes. Shiva remains calm, ever the sentinel, sitting quietly beside her and occasionally nudging her gently as if to say, “We’re still here, whatever happens.”

Attempts to encourage a walk fail immediately. Treats are ignored. Coaxing is ignored. Even the gentle sound of the lead rattling—usually enough to spark curiosity—elicits only a faint flick of her ear.

The morning is quiet, save for the occasional bark from a client dog outside or the wind rattling the windows. Normally, these sounds would spark chaos, barking, chasing, and general field mayhem. Today, the house feels muted, a hushed waiting room where Alice’s presence dominates the mood.

Emails and bookings still need attending, but my thoughts keep drifting to her. Coffee cup in hand, I sit beside her, stroking her black coat. Shiva leans into me, as if sensing my worry, while Nicolas flops down near the sofa, occasionally sighing loudly in canine sympathy.

By afternoon, she is still subdued, barely eating, resting most of the time. It’s clear to me that this is no passing fatigue. I note it carefully: Alice is deteriorating, and this is serious.

Despite everything, the other dogs still need walking. I gather leads, organise the team, and make sure the clients’ dogs get their exercise and stimulation. Shiva helps maintain calm, Nicolas provides… commentary, and I run the walks with the usual juggling of leads, mud, and mild chaos—but the absence of Alice’s spark hangs over every step.

Back home, I sit again with her, coffee cup replenished, watching her breathe and hoping for a sign of comfort or ease.