“Darn,” I cursed. The tree had died, for we had forgotten to dutifully nurture it. I feverishly raced to get a bucket of water. Dousing the parched earth that supported the resolute death stick, a part of me knew my efforts were in vain. But just like that dead stick, I refused to concede it was all over.

Earlier this month, with the heaviest of hearts we said goodbye to Bubba Pig. Here we pay tribute to a pig who loved his Mumma so much that he decided a life without her, was no life at all.

On a recent rehoming I was taken down some dusty tracks; they wound this way and that, and as they did, my mind wandered with them. I was struck by the raw beauty that daily abounds as Louis Armstrong belted out “What a wonderful world” in my head.