The Light in Our Whare

Our home is full of animals.

Three Tibetan Spaniels and one slightly unusual cat who looks like he may have been crossed with a possum.

There used to be more, and they lived amazing, long lives, full of love.

They are not just pets. They are part of our whānau.

Charlee is the eldest. At fourteen she holds the quiet mana of seniority. When the food bowls go down, Charlee eats first. The others know this. It has always been this way. In our house, age carries respect.

Sammy comes next. She tries very hard to be a lion, and we encourage her in that ambition, but she also carries the classic burden of the middle child. Brave when it counts, slightly dramatic when she needs attention, and deeply loyal to her pack.

Then there is Awhi.

Awhi is nearly two and entirely convinced the world revolves around her. She is also, inconveniently, correct.

She arrived in our lives at a particular moment.

Our home had begun to feel like it was slowly turning into a nursing home. My parents were getting older (they live in a cottage on our property). Our beloved dogs were entering their senior years. My own health had been under investigation, and I had been advised to start getting my affairs in order.

It is a strange moment in life when someone suggests you prepare for the possibility that you may not be here much longer.

So instead of shrinking the world, I did the opposite.

I brought youth into the house.

I brought disruption.

I brought joy.

Her name is Awhi, which means to embrace, to support, to uplift. The name was intentional. I wanted her presence to wrap around the people and animals who might one day need it.

What I did not fully anticipate was just how much light one small dog could bring.

And somewhere across the lawn lives Jack.

Jack is our cat, though he has recently decided that he belongs to my parents more than to us. He was once a tiny, half-dead kitten who stumbled into our lives after Sammy chased him into the house. My father initially believed the kindest thing might be to end his suffering.

My husband Dave had other ideas.

Today that same cat sleeps beside my father every night. The man who once thought he might have to put him out of his misery would probably now nuke the world for him.

Life has a sense of humour like that.

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But if you ask the dogs who runs the house, they will tell you it is Charlee.

If you ask my father, he will say it is him.

If you ask the cat, he will say it is definitely not the dogs.

And if you ask the rest of us, we know the truth.

The real boss of the whānau is my mother.

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But the quiet heart of the system, the one who keeps everything moving, is my husband Dave. He stands behind the scenes holding the anchor of our little universe while the rest of us orbit around each other.

And in the middle of all of it, spinning with joyful chaos, is Awhi.

The youngest.

The brightest.

The small black dog who reminds us every day that life is still very much alive in this house.