b. 4 May 1993 d.13 September 2004 

Born at the Couch Farm in Perth, Ontario, daughter of Snip and Bart, Ceilidh lived most of her life with her sister Pushkin on a 26-acre property in the Gatineau Hills. Surrounded by forests and fields she lived a dog’s dream: deer, squirrels, porcupines and grouse to chase; fallen trees, rocks and creeks to explore – all outside her back door!  Always curious about the world around her, she spent her daily walks in our forest following the smells and sounds that the natural world had left for her. In our country paradise, she had a clear view of the moon in the dark sky each night, and many times she decided that it was the moon she had to pursue – across our field, across the road and into the next field she would go, until the sound of her distant barking was the only clue to her whereabouts.  She never caught it, though, and she always came back. 

Ceilidh was a sensual and hedonistic dog, ever in pursuit of physical pleasure.  She loved to eat.  She loved to lie in the sun or in front of our woodstove, soaking up the heat.  She loved to plop herself in a cool muddy creek.  And as much as she liked swimming, she loved to simply lie at the lake’s edge and drink her fill while the water cooled her.  As the forest came back to life in the spring, she always found the last patches of snow to roll in. 

Family and friends who visited us know that Ceilidh liked to bark.  She barked when the phone rang and when we picked up the phone to make a call; she barked when a car arrived and when a car left; she barked when we left the house each morning and when we got home every evening; she barked at cars passing on the road, and she sat at the front window and barked at the moon. She barked at the television. If we sang or danced, she barked.  When we played outside, she barked.  It drove us to exasperation, but now it is very quiet at our house and we would give anything to hear her bark again. 

Ceilidh left us very suddenly.  On her final walk in the woods, she was her normal exuberant self, even chasing a deer in our field. The next day, when she seemed out of sorts, we took her to the veterinarian with no inkling of how seriously ill she was.  She died during the night following the emergency surgery that we had hoped could save her. Sadly, she could not fight off a massive infection resulting from perforated abcesses on her liver.   

When we walk in the forest now, we are accompanied only by Pushkin.  But the moon in the early morning sky and the sounds and smells of the forest remind us that with every step, we are surrounded by the spirit of our beloved friend. 

John Pinkerton and Tamara Tarasoff