Open Writing

We have always been a Labrador family. When the children were growing up it was an adorable black Lab puppy that found its way into our hearts one Christmas, and with typical British ‘soppiness’ became a fifth child.

Not a brilliant specimen of the breed, I grant you (as my gamekeeper friend commented “she has a good tail”) but she was magnificent as the family’s devoted protector and my constant companion until she went to the great kennel in the sky, aged eleven. My son, studying hard to get into Art college at the time, then created an impressive tombstone with painted fresco from an old paving slab, that with due ceremony, was placed in a sunny spot in our garden to commemorate Elsa.

Having vowed that I could never have another dog, Poppy arrived with a long pedigree and a revealing birth certificate. I had been asked if I would give a home to an older Labrador, and, as the alternative was she would be put down, of course I succumbed. Who wouldn’t? The story was, she was seven years old and therefore no longer valuable on the breeding front. It turned out she was at least a year older and missing a good few teeth. Not only that, having been conditioned to indoor kennel life, night and day were equal. Twelve hours of sleep summer and winter. Six o’clock was bedtime and any hint of an evening walk was greeted with an eye merely opening enough to take stock before determinedly closing again.

She was too old to train with any degree of success. We gave up trying to stop her opening doors (a trick she had learnt in kennel to ward of boredom). She loathed cats, although she had never seen one until our Banjo appeared for his supper on the day she arrived. She refused to be parted from my daughter at night and slept on the Indian rug beside Beth’s bed. And to top it all, was prone to digestive troubles that could occur at either end and could be embarrassing if you had guests for dinner.

After years of regulated living she knew we would protect her and that she was in doggy clover. That trust meant she just loved lying in the sun, even when it was the height of summer, eating everything in sight and generally enjoying a quiet and peaceful life on her terms.

Finally when arthritis and the effects of a stroke got the better of her dignity, she crawled under a wild rose bush one September day and made her wishes known. She was well over fourteen and we mourned her greatly. Poppy now rests in our garden under rose that began as a climber of a flashy name but has gone back to its roots, so to speak, and turned wild. True to form, Poppy has had her way!

I have never replaced Poppy. The children have instead taken up the Labrador lead. There has been chocolate sisters, Mollie and Millie and currently, the newest, youngest and very cute, Tess, a farm bred black beauty with a twinkle in her eye and a yeast for emptying the rubbish bin when my daughter’s back is turned.
Meanwhile, out in Australia, my son has bought himself a black Labradoddle. (It’s suppose not to shed hair). He says its taken to water like a proverbal duck and surfs the waves alongside my grandsons. It too raids the garbage, keeping alive the tradition of Labradors as walking dust bins.

There is a breakaway spur to the family though. Eldest daughter has gone in for cocker spaniels. I couldn’t believe it when she appeared with the first, a white and ginger lady with slightly almond shaped eyes fringed by lengthy lashes. When number two turned up I was completely aghast. It too is a lady and a rich chocolate colour that I am told is very sort after.

I have got use to them. They are actually quite sweet and currently, having finally got through puberty, incubating what my daughter says are the ‘family’s tickets to Australia’. I gasped when she told me how much they are worth.

Will I have one of the puppies? No I don’t think so. As far as I am concerned I lost my heart to a particular breed many years ago, so and when I finally get around to buying that new collar and lead, I am convinced it will be attached to a black Labrador again.