Tales From A Harrogate Caravan
Chapter 49 — Smokey's Death
← Karl Swainston / Tales From A Harrogate Caravan
The vet said he would have to undertake invasive surgery to determine what the problem was, and it would be better if we left him at the vets. Returning home with Alex and Anna and with no Smokey was terrible. The wait back home was even worse.
Finally, the phone rang, and it was the vet. I answered the phone, whilst Anna and Alex looked on with fear written into their faces.
‘Hi, Karl? It’s the vet.’
‘Yes.’
‘Smokey isn’t well at all, as there’s a major part of his intestines which are not working and are dead and which need to be removed. The operation isn’t a good one, and his chances of surviving it are extremely slim. Do you want us to go ahead with the surgery, or do you want us to put him down?’
Desperation overcomes all reason, and I answered, ‘Go ahead with the surgery.’
I related to Anna, Rebecca, and Alex the conversation and this only increased their states of mind. A further two hours passed, and then the phone rang. It was the vet. Alex was sat with his mam.
‘Karl, I’m afraid Smokey didn’t make it through the operation...’
I muttered something incoherent, but it was enough for Anna and Alex to realise Smokey was gone. They both fell to crying. It’s always hard when you lose something or someone you love, but it’s even harder when you watch others grieve their loss, as I did Alex in the arms of his mother. This was the first time Alex felt the pain of loss in death, and it wouldn’t be the last.
***
The years slipped by and work and life moved on with much happiness. We would work hard during term time and often would go abroad when the holidays arrived. Rebecca was now nineteen and had been dating a lad called Danny for a few years. They both lived with us, but when the house next door came up for sale, Anna decided to buy it with Rakiya, so that Danny and Rebecca could live in it.
Alex had grown up and was now in his 13th year, and two other canines had since joined the pack: Daisy and Tye. Alfie was still alive, and he had a feline companion, too, by the name of Faye, whom Anna named after Fate.
At work, Rakiya and I had bought a unit and a house, and I had bought a bungalow for John to move into, renovate, and sell on. Anna was against the idea, but patience prevailed, and the bungalow was bought.
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About Karl Swainston
Karl Swainston is a writer and storyteller whose work is forged from a life lived across the North of England and far beyond. Growing up on a Leeds council estate in the 1960s, Karl's journey was anything but linear. By the age of thirty, he had already lived a dozen lives: from the rigors of grammar school to a degree in Latin, a stint as a fishmonger, a period of discovery living in Marseille, and a return to the hustle of London. Whether working as a postman, a builder, or competing as a county-level chess player, he was, above all, an avid reader—constantly documenting the world around him. This restless spirit continued into his professional life. Karl later taught in Bradford, where he ran a specialist unit for 244 of the most excluded students from across the region—young people whom even the local Pupil Referral Units could not accommodate. Working alongside his old friend Malcolm, Karl spent his days navigating the volatility of Bradford's most aggressive and dysfunctional teenagers. Throughout his life, Karl has been an avid runner and has always shared his home with a rotating cast of beloved dogs and cats—companions who have been constant witnesses to his work. As a writer, Karl's range is as expansive as his history. He works across a wide breadth of genres, including fiction and short stories, autobiography and memoir, biography, non-fiction, and metaphysical writing, as well as providing sharp commentary, opinion, analysis, and essays. Whether writing about his years managing the Harrogate Arms or offering insights from his current adopted home in South East India, where he lives in a simple village with his dog, Bambi, Karl's voice reflects the full, untidy, and deeply human breadth of life. He continues to draw on the rich, decades-long tapestry of his experiences to tell stories that matter, proving that no matter where you live, the human story remains the same.
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