Storm: The Dog Who Walked Beside Me

Preface: Storm: The Dog Who Walked Beside Me

This is a story about a dog — but not just any dog. This is the story of Storm.

He was an English Springer Spaniel born on the Isle of Skye, bred for the field, built like a tank, and gifted to me through an act of extraordinary kindness. From the day he entered my life, Storm became more than just a gundog or companion. He became part of the rhythm of my days, part of the stillness of my evenings, and part of the story that has shaped who I am.

This series isn’t written to impress anyone. It’s not about trial wins or perfect retrieves. We never won a single competition. But that’s not the measure of a life well lived, nor of a bond well forged.

Storm was a working dog through and through — determined, stubborn, endlessly driven. He could frustrate me as much as he amazed me. He was tough on cover and tough on birds, strong-willed and wild-hearted, but in his own way, he was everything I could have asked for. He never gave me an easy ride. What he gave me was something better: honesty, grit, companionship, and memories I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life.

The title, “The Dog Who Walked Beside Me”, says it best. He was never behind me, never underfoot, and rarely out front for long. He was beside me — not just on shoot days or evening walks, but in life. That’s where he stayed. And that’s where he belongs still.

I’ve written this story with the help of AI — not as a replacement for my words, but as a way of shaping them. The memories are mine. The voice is mine. The love, the mistakes, the lessons — all real. AI has simply helped me bring clarity to emotion and structure to story, and in doing so, allowed me to honour Storm in a way that feels fitting.

This is not a manual. This is not a guide.This is a thank-you, To the dog who walked beside me — and left pawprints far deeper than I ever expected.

Part One

The Beginning — How Storm Found Me

Before Storm came into my life, I wasn’t looking for a new dog — not really.

I already had Holly, a bright, eager Springer Spaniel who was full of heart and potential. She was my introduction to gundog work, and I thought, at the time, she might carry me through the world of training and maybe even competition. But life doesn’t always follow the path we plan.

As I tried to register her with the Kennel Club and navigate the world of health testing and hip scores, the picture began to change. Holly, wonderful as she was, had limitations I couldn’t ignore — and wouldn’t work around at the cost of her wellbeing. I wanted more than just a dog to work with. I wanted to do it right.

And so, I shared Holly’s journey online — small, honest updates about our progress, our setbacks, and the hard truths that come with owning and caring for a working dog. What I didn’t know at the time was that someone was paying attention. Her name was Enid Lake. And she would change everything.

What follows is the true story of how Storm came into my life. It begins not in a kennel or a shoot field, but in a quiet act of generosity.A journey north.A handover on the border.And a dog who didn’t just fill a gap — he opened a new chapter.

Storm – The Dog Who Changed Everything

Some dogs arrive quietly. Others burst into your life like a force of nature. And some, like Storm, do both—steady in presence but powerful in impact. He didn’t just enter my life—he reshaped it.

It’s hard to write about a dog like Storm without pausing to take a breath. Not because the memories are painful—though there are some of those—but because they are so incredibly full. Full of meaning, full of movement, full of the weight and lightness that comes from sharing more than a decade of your life with a soul that never once pretended to be anything other than exactly who he was.

Storm was born on the 21st of February 2012, on the Isle of Skye—a place known for its dramatic landscapes and brooding beauty. That raw, rugged setting couldn’t have been more fitting. His breeder, Enid Lake, gave him the kennel name Sgùrr La Nà Glaise—named after a rugged Highland peak cloaked in mist and legend. Even before I met him, the name told me something important: this was no ordinary dog.

He was an English Springer Spaniel, bred for work. Not bred to win ribbons in the show ring or lounge in suburbia, but to run, flush, retrieve, and think. These dogs are known for their energy, but Storm had more than that—he had presence. Even as a pup, he carried himself with a certain gravity. You noticed him. You remembered him.

At the time, I wasn’t really in the market for another dog. I already had Holly, another Springer. She was a cracking little dog—smart, enthusiastic, a joy to work with. But there was a complication. Holly wasn’t Kennel Club registered, and I was becoming increasingly interested in gundog training and potentially competing. I wanted to explore what was possible in that world.

I did everything I could to work around the obstacles. I had Holly health tested and hip-scored, and I even managed to get her KC-registered through the unverified dog process. But sometimes no matter how much heart you put in, biology has its say. Her hips scored poorly—far too poorly to consider breeding or competitive work. That dream slipped quietly into the background, not out of disappointment, but out of respect for the dog I had.

I’d shared Holly’s story online—not to boast, but to connect. I wanted to document the process, the highs and the lows, and maybe help others along the way. I thought it would go mostly unnoticed. But someone did notice. Someone who would change everything.

Her name was Enid Lake. A respected breeder and a person of remarkable generosity. She had read my posts and followed the journey I’d taken with Holly. And then, out of the blue, she reached out. I can still remember reading her message—careful, kind, and completely unexpected. She said she had a dog. One of her own. And she wanted to give him to me.

Not loan him. Not sell him. Give him to me.

I didn’t know what to say at first. Offers like that don’t come often, and they certainly don’t come from people who don’t trust you. But Enid had seen something in me—maybe not talent, but honesty and care. She trusted me with one of her dogs, and that trust is something I’ve never forgotten. The only condition was that I collect him myself.

I didn’t go all the way to Skye—instead, I drove north to meet her husband, Geoff, on the border between England and Scotland. There was something quietly significant about that handover. We met on a quiet roadside, no ceremony, no fanfare. Geoff handed Storm to me, we exchanged a few words, and then we went our separate ways.

I also brought back another dog for someone else that day and dropped it off on the way back to Wiltshire. But Storm was mine. And as we travelled south together, he sat quietly in the car, calm, observant, and already beginning to map out his new world.

When we arrived home, everything changed. From that first moment, Storm brought something new into my life—not just energy or companionship, but challenge, purpose, and reflection. The original plan was simple: I would train him as a gundog, not for competition, but for the joy of working together in the field. I wasn’t shooting at that time. I just wanted a dog to walk the hedgerows with. A partner I could share the landscape with. Someone to beat alongside, flush birds, maybe pick up at local shoots. But Storm was never going to be a dog who simply followed a plan. He was still young, but already incredibly driven. He didn’t just run—he charged. He didn’t just investigate—he hunted. His instincts were finely tuned, and his drive to work was almost overwhelming. I quickly realised I didn’t have an average working dog on my hands—I had a storm, just like his name suggested.

There was something primal about him. Something untamed, but not wild. He was smart, often too smart, and not always easy to train. He questioned things. He challenged you. He’d test the limits, and then test them again, just to see if anything had changed. But he was never spiteful—just stubborn. Just strong-willed. Just... Storm.

I remember those early days as a mix of pride and frustration. He was so obviously talented. You could see it in the way he moved through cover, the way he read the wind, the way his nose went to work without a single word. But he had a mind of his own when it came to retrieving. He didn’t always want to bring game back. He wasn’t destructive—he didn’t chew or damage anything—but he loved the feeling of having that prize in his mouth. He would strut around, showing it off, full of pride. It wasn’t disobedience—it was showmanship. He was saying, “Look what I’ve done.”

Because he came from Scotland, where docking had been outlawed, Storm arrived with a full tail. And that, unfortunately, became a problem. His style of hunting was so aggressive, so relentless, that he would smash through dense cover without hesitation. Thorns, brambles, sharp branches—it didn’t matter. He ploughed through it all with 25 kilos of solid muscle and zero concern for his own welfare.

It didn’t take long before his tail started taking damage. At first, it was just cuts. Then the cuts wouldn’t heal. Then it bled continuously. No amount of bandaging or rest would fix it. Eventually, we had no choice. He needed a full amputation. It was a hard decision—but the right one. And in true Storm fashion, he bounced back from it like it was nothing. No fuss. No drama. Tail or no tail, he had work to do.

That first year with Storm laid the foundation for everything that followed. We didn’t enter competitions. We didn’t bring home trophies. But we brought home stories. Hundreds of them. Days in the field, evenings by the fire, long walks through the woods, and silent looks that said more than any command ever could.

This was the beginning of Storm: The Dog Who Walked Beside Me — not just a title, but a truth that would define the years to come. He wasn’t just a dog I trained. He was a dog I lived alongside.

And that was just the beginning!

Coming soon: Part 2 – Storm in the Field

In the next chapter, we’ll follow Storm’s working life—his rough shooting adventures, his unstoppable drive, and how our bond deepened through challenge, laughter, and the wild rhythm of the land.