Dogs’ lives are too short. Their only fault, really.
This poignant saying, attributed to American novelist Agnes Sligh Turnbull, was written on a card sent to me by a dear friend when our much loved rescue Dalmatian, Duke, died.
He came to us when he was seven years old, from the wonderful people at British Dalmatian Welfare We knew that taking on an older dog would mean we wouldn’t have the same amount of time with him than if we’d had him from a puppy but we accepted that. We were ready for it, we told ourselves.
But of course we weren’t.
I would have loved to have him reach the age of fourteen so we could say that he’d been with us for half his life. But, sadly, that was not the case and we lost him when he was thirteen and a bit. So close.
We’ve always had dogs and losing each one of them was hard. But losing Duke was especially so because we knew he would be our last dog.
We still get to dog sit every now and again and always look forward to it. There’s sweet natured Bramble who never seems to tire of chasing a ball and then there’s Daisy, our son and daughter-in-law’s dog – a tiny whirlwind who never fails to make us laugh, even though we have to cover the kitchen bin with a bag of books to stop her emptying it and to replenish our sock supply when she leaves.
But to get back to that lovely quote about a dog’s only fault. While I totally agree with the sentiment, the reality is that Duke, in particular, had several faults, most notably the way he took exception to other dogs.
There’s a pub in Devon to which I can never return, much as I love it. The memory of that day still makes me want to hide in the nearest hole in the ground.
We’d been for a good long walk and called in for lunch. The main bar was full so we went into a small side room where there were four small tables, quite close together.
Our lunch arrived and Duke’s attention was, as always, focussed one hundred per cent on our plates, so much so that my husband was not holding on to his lead quite as tightly as maybe he should have done.
I’d taken the first bite of my omelette when a man came into the room. With a dog. A beautiful blue eyed husky.
With no warning Duke shot across the small room. The husky told Duke in no uncertain terms to back off. Which he did and no harm came to either dog.
Sadly, the same can’t be said for the poor guy sitting at the table nearest the door. He did not have a dog. What he did have, however, was a full pint of beer on the table in front of him. As Duke skittered to a Tom and Jerry type halt, he cannoned into the table and the entire pint ended up in the unfortunate man’s lap.
Do you have any idea just how much liquid there is in a pint and how far it spreads? I didn’t but I do now. It spread from his waist to his knees, turning his pale grey walking trousers to a dark glistening pool of wetness that slapped against his legs as he moved.
Before we could apologise, he squelched to the gents (the beer having by that time reached his boots) and so we had to sit and wait for him to come back – which, as you can imagine, took some considerable time.
And then (I still don’t know why we just didn’t walk out. I think we were both in shock and not thinking clearly) we stayed in that tiny room, with the beer soaked man and his walking companion not three feet away from us while we pretended to eat at least some of our lunch.
Apart from our profuse apologies and his grunted half acceptance (which under the circumstances I thought was very generous of him) we sat in uncomfortable silence although I acknowledge it would have been far more uncomfortable, (physically at least), for him.
The man with the husky had long since gone.
Rescue dogs can come with baggage, that’s for sure. And Duke had his fair share. But we loved him so much and miss him every single day. There’s no doubt, losing him was indeed, his biggest fault.
Although maybe the guy with the beer soaked trousers would beg to differ.
…..
That was the real life stuff of nightmares. But on a lighter note, I’ve written hundreds of short stories for women’s magazines, published in the UK and overseas. Many of these have featured dogs and one of my favourites features a Dalmatian called Jemima (named after our second Dalmatian). See this page for her picture.
This story appeared not only in the UK but in a Swedish magazine. At least I think this is the story, as my Swedish is non-existent. But the picture kind of gives it away, doesn’t it?
In my short story collection, Selling My Grandmother, I’ve included several stories which feature dogs, including that one – and I promise you, it’s the English Version and is called Mail Order Husband.
Selling My Grandmother is available here. There are stories to make you laugh, make you cry and sometimes make you think.
Link to Selling My Grandmother
PAULA WILLIAMS 