Plus ça change…

Rosie, the bearded collie

It seemed like a good idea at the time. Sell dog food, make lots of lovely money and cut back on caring for dogs. Just take the easy ones. After all, you can go out to dinner and leave a load of dog food in the cupboard but you can’t leave other people’s dogs alone in the house. It was an attempt to get back to a slightly more normal life, perhaps give me the opportunity to socialise more than I have over the last 10 years. Even go away a little more.

I shouldn’t complain. I’m lucky enough to live in a beautiful place and I love dogs but I’m getting older. I’m forever turning down invitations and most importantly, I keep promising myself I’ll find the time to write ‘my book’, so the dog food idea seemed the way to go. Give myself a little freedom.

And it went well. Amazingly well. Orders and re-orders came in – the suppliers were delighted. I even got a gift after I’d sold my first 500 kilos, but it simply wasn’t worth it in terms of the work/money ratio. For every 100 euros worth of dog food I sold, I had to first of all buy it, then pay 24.50 euros in social charges to the French government, which left around 10 – 15 euros profit before petrol, advertising, printing. All that lugging, all that paperwork – and I hate paperwork. It wasn’t worth it. Looking after dogs, even if it was hard to get away from the house, was easier. I was better off to be more selective in the dogs I take, not so many who yap endlessly, preferential treatment to oldies who lie about all day, puppies probably a no-no. Ease up, ease up.

I’m still recommending Arden Grange dog food – I so believe in it. But it wasn’t on to be working so hard for so little and giving myself even less time to do what I wanted to do. Friends say that France’s new President, Monsieur Sarkozy, may try and make life easier for small businesses, micro-enterprises like mine, but hey, I’m not holding my breath and I’m not prepared to wait.

As you may recall, I ordered a new car specifically for this new venture. Couldn’t be making deliveries to Monte Carlo in my battered old car – after all, got to look the part. Well it arrived at the dealership the day before I left for the Euro-OES-Show in the Vosges, northeastern France. I collected it the day after I got back. [I’ll write about the show in the next posting.]

The last car was 16 years old and I loved it. Yes, it looked battered but it was easy to drive and to understand. Frankly you’d need to go back to university to understand all the bells and whistles on this Golf Plus. There are 8 tiny buttons on the steering wheel alone – like you’ve got time to look at them whilst you are driving. One is to turn the volume of the radio higher, another to lower it. I haven’t investigated the other six yet. What’s wrong with reaching across and turning the knob on the radio itself? It took me an hour to find out how to open the cap to fill the car with diesel. Christophe, who sold me the car – a charmer, of course - handed me the 4-inch thick manual and told me to go away and learn it by heart. Huh! It’s in French, natch.

So I drove home and adored the car – responsive, powerful, it felt safe. I loved that I could sit ‘high’ – I’m only a titch for those who don’t know me. I loved it till I got home, that is.

Normally I reverse down my steep track. I’m so used to it now and it’s easier than turning in the small parking area half way down. I live down a dead-end track so can’t drive down and turn around. Often, in my old car, when I reversed down, I’d go wrong and have to drive up a little to correct the descent. Naturally, I went wrong in the new car and so I knew I needed to drive up a bit and get myself in the right position to carry on down. My track is not only steep but slightly windy too. So, as per usual I changed from Reverse to Drive and bugger me, the car continued to roll back down the track and nearly hit a stone wall. I grabbed the handbrake at the same time as I stuck my foot on the footbrake and just saved the situation. This wasn’t supposed to happen! The Rover, if you changed from Reverse to Drive, ‘held’ in Drive on the steep track. The Golf didn’t. Now, you should know that the whole reason I ordered an automatic car is that I have an arthritic neck and shoulder on the right side (caused by a stupid accident yonks ago) and this is the arm/hand that has to grab a handbrake. I can’t do it. Eventually, though, it was parked and next day I had a few more goes with it to be sure I’d not made a mistake. No. Every time I put the car into Drive it wouldn’t hold on the slope – it rolled back. Equally if I was facing downhill and tried Reversing, it continued forward. I needed to use throttle and the handbrake at the same time and I simply wasn’t used to this. I was cross. Very cross.

Back to the Volkswagen Garage and the dishy Christophe. I wanted him to see the problem. He hadn’t told me the Golf wouldn’t hold on a hill, so there had to be something wrong with it. There is a slope – quite a steep slope – down to the VW garage. He drove up the slope in Drive, stopping it with the foot brake and then letting go to see if it would hold, it didn’t. Ha! I thought. Now he sees it and it will get fixed. But he got out of the car and said, ‘ C’est comme ça.’ Very French, Christophe, but that won’t do. He offered to get the technicians to look at it but insisted, ‘that’s how it is.’ The French love saying: c’est comme ça. He then said I could rectify the situation by using the brake with my left foot and accelerating with the right – i.e. just like a manual car. ‘I don’t want a manual car! It’s not what I bloody well ordered.’ So I said ‘Right, take the car back. Give me my money back. I’ll start again elsewhere. I need a car that will hold on hills.’

Christophe looked at me askance. Funny word ‘askance.’ I don’t believe I’ve used it before. Obviously been reading too many bad novels. I digress…. So he said he’d call the manager and out came a nasty piece of work, Monsieur Nasty-I’m- Going-To-Intimidate-You. Aggressive, rude, got into the car, very angry – said of course I must use the handbrake. That’s how you start the car. That’s how you use it. What an idiot I am, except he didn’t say that but obviously implied it. I told him my Rover held in Drive on ANY hill and he said he didn’t know about Rovers but that Golfs are ‘comme ça.’ Since that day, speaking to friends, I know other automatics do indeed hold on hills. So put that in votre pipe and smoke it, Monsieur Manager of Volkswagen Motors, Menton.

At this time I’d got one of the worst sore throats I’ve ever had. The drive back from the Euroshow the day before had been hellish – snow at the entrance to the Gotthard tunnel, rain for 8 hours of the 10-hour journey, I wasn’t at my best. So, anyway, I drove away with the car, not a happy camper but thinking he must be right. After all, I’m a mere woman and women don’t know about cars, do they?

On the way home I had to stop at the pharmacie to get some medication for my throat. The pharmacy on the route de Gorbio is tucked away and it’s always tricky to park. I wasn’t about to try with so little confidence in my ability to drive this car. So I drove up the steep road alongside it, sure I could find somewhere easy to turn around and be facing the right direction to drive away again. I couldn’t. In the end I had to turn in the tiniest space, the car rolled forward – of course. I heard a horrible noise, dammit to hell, I’d bashed the front of it. Damn! Excuse my French. I’d had the car two days and now it’s bashed. Oh grrrrrrrrr. Now I can’t even change it if I wanted to. Oh grrrrrr a thousand times. My new car is dented in front because it doesn't hold on steep hills and why the hell would anyone (thank you, Christophe and Monsieur Nasty) sell such a car to people (little ol’ me) in the Alpes – goddam – Maritimes which, let’s face it, is nothing but steep hills?

Eventually I got home and decided to ring David, who with his wife, Pamela, is the owner of Rosie, the bearded collie, who comes to stay at Pension Milou. David and Pam are fabulous people and always look out for me. He seems to know everything about most things and what luck, he had a good relationship with a VW garage in the UK. And further good luck, David told me when he phoned back, the guy in England had exactly the same model Golf Plus as me. ‘Drive your car up to the top of your track,’ he said – ‘so you’ve room if the car falls back. With the handbrake on and your foot on the brake, put the car into Drive. Let go of the brake and handbrake and the car should fall back just a few inches and then it will lock.’ He told me if it fell back more than that, something was wrong. I did all this. The car rolled back 6 feet before I jammed on the brake and grabbed the handbrake. I called him back. ‘Leave it with me,’ he said. Sometimes I wonder what I’d do without friends like David and Pamela. He called back about 10 minutes later. His contact at VW in the UK had got in touch with the technicians and word came back, the Golf Plus won’t hold on a hill that has a steeper gradient than 5%.

So now we know. I waded thru the manual and there it was on page 149 - …’un déclivité d’au moins 5%.’ That was it. Nothing was wrong with the car at all, but I should have been told. God knows, this part of France is all hills. How stupid. Christophe really should have told me this except I honestly don’t think he’d thought about it or even knew. See how I trust car salesmen. David said he thought I’d get used to the handbrake. He also told me that whilst it was hard on my neck and shoulder at the moment, the hand brake would gradually ‘bed in,’ whatever that meant and that it wouldn’t be as difficult for my bad arm as starting in a car with a manual gear shift.

I persevered. Now I can do a hill start like a pro. The car positively purrs as it gently takes off. I still can’t do a turn on a slope. Bugger that for a lark. I reverse down, not as advised looking in the side mirrors, though. My brain won’t work looking at something that is back to front it seem to me. I lean out of the window, will get wet on rainy days, but tant pis, it’ll be okay.

I reckon this nonsense of the car not 'holding' on more than a minor slope is a major design fault but then I really know about cars, as you’ll gather. It seems it relates to the weight of the car. Of course it’s all those gizmos and gadgets. Keep it simple, stupid. Keep the weight down and the car might work. No matter, I’m stuck with it but I’m getting used to it and the good of the car – and it IS a super car – makes up for these early disadvantages.

So, here I am with a posh new car, a bashed front fender and no dog food to lug about.

Life goes on. Plus ça change…plus c'est la même chose.

Scupper

Scupper at Pension Milou

This is the story of Scupper. It’s a story that actually began many years ago when a black Labrador called Bosun used to come and stay here. Bosun had a best friend at Pension Milou – a Jack Russell terrier called Alfie. Bosun and Alfie were inseparable. Alfie was a very special dog with a wonderful temperament and Bosun’s owners often spoke about getting a Jack Russell puppy as a friend for Bosun. Well, that never happened. Alfie went first to Australia and then home to England where he still lives with his family and a new lady friend, another Jack Russell terrier. Bosun sadly died and life, as it does, went on. You can read more here: Bosun - le chien pêcheur de Monaco.

Sometime later, when a group of Brits were trying to help the Refuge de Flassans in the Var, several of us went there and adopted a dog. Bosun’s owners, Nicholas and Victoria went along and adopted THE most beautiful black Labrador - Neptune. You’d not expect that such a good specimen of a breed would be in a refuge, but Neptune was originally from a breeding kennel where he’d been used at stud. He was and is a beautiful Lab. He’d probably been chucked out because he’d got too old to be of further use. Well, he landed on his feet when Nick and Victoria, and daughter, Daisy, gave him a new home.

Not long after Neptune settled into his new family they decided they would finally get the Jack Russell terrier they’d long wanted. They knew exactly where to go in the UK. Bosun had had a great friend in England called Badger - a Jack Russell, of course - and Badger's aunt was expecting puppies.

Travelling from England to France

The family wanted a wire-haired male. Scupper was the only boy and fortunately had the right coat. Unfortunately he was the runt of the litter. When he was born he was a tiny and very weak puppy and not expected to make it. He was hand-fed and being the little fighter he was, he made it with all flags flying. When the family went to see him they went with some trepidation, after all, they were to have no choice as he was the only boy available. They needn’t have worried. One look and they were totally captivated. Scupper had found his family. And when he was old enough and with all the right injections and papers, Nicholas collected him and brought him to France.

Nick and one very small, tired puppy

Soon after this, I got to meet him. Scupper was a puppy so scrumptious and adorable, you felt you could eat him. He was beautiful, he was bright, he was interested in everything going on. He was cute and funny and responsive and loved to be cuddled.

Daisy and Scupper

Scupper and Neptune spent their time either in Monaco or in the house in the country - in the Aveyron.

His first brush with disaster came in February when he ate some slug bait. He was taken immediately to the vet who put him on a drip. His system was flushed out and after a few days, happily, he recovered.

Water is fun!

Scupper came to stay here on two or three occasions. He was a dog that always wanted to please, he gladdened the heart of everyone who met him and everyone who met him fell in love with him. If he had a fault, he barked a lot but then he was a Jack Russell. Here, he’d wear a citronelle collar, which bothered him not one jot and it worked – no barking. Even with his special collar on, he looked adorable because he was.

Christmas 2006 - Victoria & Daisy with Neptune & Scupper + biscuits!

Two weeks ago today – a Saturday – he was at home in the country and, as he always did, followed his friend, Neptune, outside. After so much rain, the grasses had grown and Victoria watched Neptune running along and every now and again, Scupper’s head would appear, bobbing up and down – the grasses pretty much covering such a little dog. But a little later, Victoria was horrified to see him return to the house with an enormous swelling on his neck. She rushed him to the vet who said it wasn’t likely to be a snake bite as he was too lively. The truth is we don’t know what caused the swelling: a snake, an insect, perhaps he ate something – like all Jack Russell terriers and especially puppies, he was into everything. Whatever it was, he was one sick dog, and unfortunately the medication seemed to make him worse. He went back to the vet three times over the next day or so but by the following Thursday, he had deteriorated and first thing on Friday morning, Victoria put the Scupper and Neptune into the car and drove the six hours to their regular vet in Cap d’Ail, where he was immediately put onto a drip, blood taken and the woeful diagnosis given that he had renal failure. But no one was giving up.

Buddies: Scupper & Neptune

He remained on a drip for days, eventually leaving the surgery to go home at night to the Monaco apartment, and then, back next day to be hooked up again. He ate the tiniest amount of food but he was fast losing weight and getting weaker.

Daisy & Scupper - gardening?

Two days ago, he seemed weaker, his legs were wobbly and he had a cloudiness in his eyes. He was a very sick dog and there seemed to be nothing to do but put little Scupper to sleep. On the way to the surgery, though, he suddenly brightened up and started to take interest in what was going on outside the car, even wagging his tail. Nick and Victoria were naturally confused. ‘We can’t put a dog to sleep who is showing such signs of life,’ but sadly it didn’t last long and by the time they got to the surgery, he had weakened considerable – and of course, the fact remained, he had renal failure. He couldn’t survive without a constant drip and even then, probably not for long. He would eventually suffer more. As he lay in Victoria’s arms, and just before the dreaded needle went into his little leg, his cloudy eyes suddenly cleared and he looked at her – right at her - with his beautiful bright eyes and seemed to be saying, ‘thankyou.’ And then he was gone. Nick cried, Victoria cried, Louise, our kind vet, cried. It’s not often a vet cries, you know. Scupper was only 10 months old.

Place du Casino, Monte Carlo

Scupper's ashes will be buried, and a tree planted over him, in his favourite place near to the small lake on the Aveyron property. When Scupper wasn’t following Neptune about, he’d be found here, sitting for hours watching and chasing the frogs.

Why Scupper? God – or whoever is in charge! – why does a gorgeous little puppy like Scupper have to die? Take an old dog, God! Don't take Scupper. Do the good die young? Well Scupper was young – too young – and he was more than a good dog, an exceptional dog who brightened the lives of everyone who met him. The only consolation - hardly that - is that whatever happened to him: a bite or poison or even the wrong medication, he was doing what he loved – running about the countryside following his best friend Neptune.

Aveyron in winter

It’s strange how some dogs have such an effect on you. Scupper, as I said, only stayed here two or three times but I’ll never forget him. That was the effect he had on people. He was a one in a million dog.

Oh Scupper, we miss you. I'm just mad as all hell that you died, that's all. Mad as all hell. If I could write poetry, Scupper, I'd write a poem for you - to you – but I can’t write poetry. You deserve a poem, Scupper - hell, you deserve a life! A life, longer than 10 short months.

I hope little Scupper is playing with Bosun now, in doggy heaven, and introducing him to the delights of chasing frogs. You know, I have a strong feeling he is.

Circles of Life - 2

Why do we choose the breed of dog we do? – part 2. You can read the first part here.

Poppy and Scruff

About a year after Poppy, the poodle, came into our lives, Peter and I stood entranced outside a pet shop in Ealing. A small white fluffy puppy was doing its best to attract our attention – and succeeding. We’d seen a Sunday Times photograph of a dog we admired in the arms of a well-known actress, an actress whose name I now forget. Was this the same breed? Those were the early days of The Drama Studio in Ealing: a life of students and teachers and the day-to-day running of the school. Naturally we lived and breathed acting and actors so it was natural we’d notice what dogs they owned. [To digress, I was chuffed to see that Forest Whitaker, who’d been a student at The Drama Studio many years after Peter and I split up, won the 2007 Oscar for his amazing portrayal of Idi Amin in The Last King of Scotland.] Peter and I, happily, are still great friends.

Back to the puppy in the pet shop. The owner of the shop told us it was a West Highland white terrier. He agreed to keep it whilst we went home and found the photograph in the newspaper. We always kept back copies of the Sunday papers - doesn’t everyone? Could we find it? Of course we couldn’t. Regardless, we went back, bought the puppy and named her Scruff. A week later we found the newspaper, found the photograph of the famous actress and discovered that the puppy we’d admired was a Maltese terrier. Wrong breed! Duh! No matter, Scruff was adorable and she and Poppy played together. Our doggy family was happy and so were we.

So why did we get those two breeds? Well, Poppy was bought for someone else, Scruff was bought because, I’m ashamed to say, we were influenced by the newspapers. A bit like people now buy a Chihuahua because they’ve seen Paris Hilton holding her dog, Tinkerbelle, as if it were a fashion accessory. Not necessarily a reason to choose a dog.

Time passed and by then Peter and I were, I suppose, what were called Yuppies in those days. Young, Upwardly Mobile …I forget the rest. Habitat furniture, a Volvo, the Good Food Guide and visits to trendy London restaurants. Always though, I noticed dogs. Once we saw a sports car with two people in front and then realised that the passenger wasn’t a person but a large fluffy dog. We were both captivated and recognised it as a dog we’d seen in the Dulux paint advertisement, an Old English Sheepdog. Sometimes I can’t believe that the breed that was to become the ‘breed of my life’ was chosen because of a paint advertisement. Maybe that’s not a bad thing – it certainly wasn’t in my case - but often people do buy a breed because it’s fashionable and then lose interest when they realise it’s all in the too hard basket. I was lucky - I fell in love with this breed and it’s been that way ever since.

Sloopy, the first Old English Sheepdog

The habit of looking at the pet section of the Evening Standard continued from the time we found Poppy and so, one day, what should I see but an advertisement, again way out in the East End of London, for a six month old Old English Sheepdog who’d apparently outgrown her apartment. This time, rather than taking the tube, I drove and some hours later returned with an enormous grey and white dog who’d been sick all over the back of the car. We called her Sloopy. We thought her perfect and it wasn’t until I got to know more about the breed, that I realised she was anything but – she was long in body with cow hocks, she had a narrow head and her coat was thin and tended to brown. To us though she was perfection, she was the first and she had that beautiful Old English temperament.

But it wasn’t to finish there. Suddenly three were a crowd. Two would play and one would be left out. Logical to get a fourth? Of course. But this time we decided we’d give a home to a refuge dog so long as it was female and large and fluffy. We didn’t mind what. The refuge, somewhere north of London, had dogs tied to trees, stuck in pens, not a good situation but the man who ran it wouldn’t let us have a dog. He told us that we had three young well-adjusted females and that he didn’t have another who was suitable for us. He told us they all had histories and problems and needed a one-person home, so we left somewhat dejected but looking back, he was right.

So, sometime later, again via the Evening Standard, I saw an advertisement for 10-month-old female Old English at Chalfont St. Giles, in Buckinghamshire. Off we went - I knew nothing about puppy farms in those days but that’s what it was. There were puppies of every imaginable breed. Most were in large clean dustbins – you peered down and in the gloom at the bottom would be three or four puppies looking up, crying for attention.

We were shown an enormous run containing around 15 or so adult Old English Sheepdogs. We wondered which of these was the 10-month old bitch we’d come to see. The dogs bounded back and forth, throwing themselves against the wire fence. I’d have been happy with any one of them. Then I noticed a shy little bitch in the far corner who didn’t move. Yes, you guessed it - she was the one for sale - Tara. We changed her name to Muffin. As luck would have it, Muffin had been bred by Colonel Bury Perkins, the Chairman of Bath Championship Show. She was a beautifully made bitch with an excellent pedigree who was to pass on her good qualities to her offspring.

Muffin and her daughter, Peggotty, my first showdog

So there we were with our four dogs: a crossbred poodle, a Westie, who should have been a Maltese terrier, and two Old English Sheepdogs. Twice a day, Peter and I (or just me) walked the dogs in the park alongside Ealing Studios until one day something happened that changed my life. I met Maria, who was walking her three Old English in the same park. We became friends and she taught me how to groom and care for an Old English Sheepdog and then, one day told me she was going to a dog show and asked if I’d like to go with her. I told her I thought it was cruel as ‘didn’t they walk the dogs round and round in circles?’ Well I went and the Old English Sheepdogs I saw at the show that day didn’t resemble my two scruffy bundles in the least. These dogs were immaculate, they were stars. You know how a good football match can be a theatrical experience – well so was this dog show. I was stunned by the beautiful bitch who won that day. She stood there, head in the air, saying to the judge, ‘Me, look at me, I’m the best.’ And she was. I went to two more dog shows after that, the last of which was Crufts, the biggest and most prestigious dog show in the world. At this show, that same bitch won and on that day I vowed that one day I’d breed a dog good enough to win at Crufts. And nine learning years later, I did when Champion Pelajilo Milly Mistletoe won Best Bitch at Crufts, 1981.

Champion Pelajilo Milly Mistletoe

I won’t fill this posting with stories of the Old English Sheepdog part of my life as it went on for years and it continues to this day, as I still judge the breed from time to time. Indeed last year it was my tremendous honour to stand in the middle of the ring at Crufts and judge the Old English Sheepdogs. Circles of life.

Judging Crufts 2006

When Peter and I split up, I moved to Wales, where I lived for six years. Slowly my kennel of Old English increased in numbers – and quality. More Westies got added to the mix. My wedding present to Micky (yes, another husband) was an Irish Wolfhound from the Irish Wolfhound Rescue Scheme. Zelda. What did I say in the last posting – that I knew nothing about hounds? I’d forgotten sweet Zelda, a wonderful creature, more a person than a dog.

And later, living alone in Australia, when Mistletoe, the last of my precious Old English Sheepdogs died, I went to a refuge in Cairns and came home with a mutt – probably more hound than anything else – what is it about a hound? She didn’t last long as she continually jumped the fence when I was out attempting to sell Real Estate. The police got fed up with this dog and suggested I find a more secure home for her. Luckily I did and she lived happily for years on Holloway’s Beach with an old lady and behind a higher fence than I had. At least she was out of the refuge.

UK & Australian Champion Bumblebarn Scramble of Pelajilo on Bondi Beach, Sydney, 1985

So many wonderful dogs, so many doggy love stories but the dog of my life wasn’t an Old English Sheepdog at all but an American cocker spaniel called Milou. And I didn’t choose him. The chauffeur of the lady who owned him brought him to Pension Milou (later named for Milou) when he was three years old. She was sick and eventually died and he became my dog and lived with me for 12 wonderful years. I still miss him and I always will. You can read his story here.

Milou, aged 4 when we lived in Roquebrune

Flavia, a Labrador and a retired guide dog for the blind, came to Pension Milou too and never left, but again I didn’t choose her. I’ll write her story another time. She lived with me for about 6 years and when she died, soon after Milou, I vowed no more dogs. Milou’s death in particular had knocked me for six. And then, there I was last year, driving home with a needy hound in the back of the car. So why?

The truth is I don’t know the answer. I can only think it has something to do with the soulful look in a hound’s eye that appeals to something deep within me but then, not all hounds, just particular ones – mine! You see I can’t answer the question I posed. It probably has nothing at all to do with the dog being a hound or any other breed, come to that – more a connection between an individual dog and me. His soul reaches out and I’m there. We fill a need in each other.

Beau

Isn’t that why you chose your dog – or he chose you?

Circles of life

Boots and me (aged 8 or 9)

Have you ever wondered why, of all the dogs in the world – of all the breeds and mongrels available – we choose a particular type of dog? Do we choose? Maybe we are chosen.

Often, of course, once we’ve had a particular breed, we stick with it forever. If you had a dog in childhood, the choice was made for you. Having said that, I’ve heard people say when their much-loved dog has died that they’ll never have another dog of the same breed because it would remind them too much of the one they just lost. I always advise people that if it’s the characteristics of a breed they love so much, then they shouldn’t change. Another dog of the same breed won’t be exactly the same (it will be like having a second child) but having the same breed, at least you know how a little of what to expect. If you knew and loved a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, you might not feel the same about a high-energy terrier and even less if you chose a crazy, albeit beautiful, Weimaraner.

I got to ponder the question of why we choose a breed after I returned from the Refuge de Flassans last year with a hound and a mutt. And the second time, a couple of months later, with another hound. I’ve never had a hound in my life before. I don’t even know much about them except that of all the hounds I’ve cared for at Pension Milou, all had good temperaments. But that’s not why I chose them. There were eighty plus dogs to choose from at the refuge, so why two hounds?

All this got me to thinking about the dogs I’ve owned – or who have owned me.

My mother had no time for dogs – she actively disliked them - which is strange when I think how important they are to my life. There’s a childhood photograph of me, aged 5, with a West Highland white terrier who belonged to an aunt. We seem comfortable with each other although I barely remember the dog.

Then, when I was about 8 or 9 years old my mother allowed us to have a cocker spaniel and Boots, a black puppy with white face and feet arrived. Our mother didn’t look after him though as she was never home – we saw her on weekends. The housekeeper, Elsie, more our mother than our mother, cared for us and our dog. One day, when Boots was about a year old, I came home from school and he’d gone. Elsie told us that our mother had sent him away to the country because he brought too much mud into the house. I try to remember Boots but there’s an image, somewhere out of reach, of a happy, playful dog. Sometimes, in my mind, I see him flying, floating in the air – do I remember him? I don’t know. What I do remember is the total horror and loss when I walked in from school (even young children walked home from school alone in those safer days) to find Boots had gone. I think a brick wall to feeling went up that day and perhaps I blocked out a visual memory of him too.

Just now I found a photograph of Boots and me. I’d completely forgotten this photograph. I must have blocked even the photograph from my memory. Funny to think, all these years later, that a cocker spaniel, Tasha, one of my doggy clients, and looking not so very different to Boots, is featured on the first page of the Pension Milou website. I didn’t think about that till this very moment.

The next dog, some years later, was Nicky, a chocolate coloured miniature poodle. Why a poodle, I don’t know. Perhaps Elsie chose him. Nicky was never well and had to be put to sleep soon after he arrived. After Nicky came Nicky 2 and he was run over and killed by a car. I remember that day. He was not much more than a puppy when he saw a dog on the other side of the road, ran across and that was that. I remember his warm lifeless little body sticking out from under the wheel of the car. From then on I closed my heart to a dog - until much later in life, that is.

There was another childhood dog, again a chocolate poodle but called Brumas this time. Two dogs called Nicky and both dying so young - Nicky 3 would have been tempting fate and anyway, perhaps all children called their dogs Brumas at the time? Brumas was the first polar bear to be born and successfully reared in London zoo and he (although really he was a she) got a lot of publicity at the time. Brumas, the dog, lived till old age but he was far more my sister Sally’s dog than mine as I left home very young and would only see him when I came back to visit.

It wasn’t until years later, when I was married to Peter and living in Ealing that we got to thinking about a dog. But not for us. We used to visit Peter’s godmother on occasion. She lived by the sea in Kent and had recently been widowed.. She’d always had a dog, either a dachshund or a poodle, and Peter thought it might be an idea for her to have a dog to help her get over her husband’s death, get her out of the house, be a companion for her – all the usual things. So I made a habit of looking in the pet section of the London Evening Standard but every time a dachshund or a poodle was advertised, they were always far too expensive for us. We had little money in those days.

The day arrived though, when it all changed. On that day, I found an advert for poodle puppies in Plaistow and the price was only £6. That was more like it! I took the tube all the way to the East End of London. The puppies looked like poodles to me – white – although some seemed to have little brown patches. Of course they weren’t purebred. The breeder offered half a pedigree but I declined as I left with my chosen furry bundle.

That night I discovered in myself unknown maternal instincts – I worried about this little puppy, tried to settle her, cuddled her, endlessly got up to tend her in the night. Next day, off we went to Kent to present our gift to Peter’s godmother. She tooked at the puppy and said, ‘Oh goodness, no. I don’t want a dog. I wouldn’t be able to walk her. At my age I’d be frightened I’d slip and fall on a wet pavement.’ We tried to persuade her, of course, but there was no persuading.

So that was how Poppy arrived in our lives and how I fell in love with a dog again.

I'll post the second part of this next week and tell you how Old English Sheepdogs came into my life and how I met the dog of my life, Milou, an American cocker spaniel. And perhaps I’ll answer the question of why we choose a particular breed and there again, perhaps I won’t.

Why did you choose your breed of dog?