New Year’s Day.

I go down to the do the mares with my gumboots on over my blue striped pyjamas, which feels very louche. There is driving sleet but none of us minds; not me, not the thoroughbreds, not the dogs. Stanley the Manly positively prances about with his ears pricked and I gaze at him in awe and wonder. He is sixteen. I have no idea why he is still alive. Every day feels like a gift with him. He still opens all the doors (including, most lately, the fridge door, which I would have said was impossible without opposable thumbs) and he still has all his secret plots (my oldest and dearest friend thinks he is a Russian spy-dog) and he still sees the world from an oblique angle.

You can see him there, in the photograph, going on his merry way. The weather outside is frightful, as the old song goes, but Stan the Man does not care. He’s very resilient, and he does not complain. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him whine, not once.

I think, quite a lot, about what we humans can learn from animals. A bit of resilience and some cracking on through the gloomy weather are not bad life lessons. I’ll take those, for 2025.