Some people are dog people and some are cat people. In my family we grew up with both. At our peak we had two dogs and four cats running around, not to mention rabbits and gerbils. By the time we left our old house on Nightingale Road, half way between Bounds Green and Wood Green, so many pets had come and gone our garden was very much a pet cemetery.
In this edition of London Loves, I asked three London 'dog people' (four including me), to talk about their own dogs.
The Surtees family slowly graduated to getting a dog, first practising with fish (killed by the cats obviously), stick insects (released back into the wild once we grew bored and terrapins (god knows what happened to those). But from as early as I can remember we incessantly begged our mother to get a dog. She finally caved in when I was about 8 or 9 years old. On the proviso that we all take turns walking him in the evenings she drove us all down to Battersea Dogs Home and we came back with Frank. The staff there had labelled him cross Great Dane but he looked more like a Pointer than anything else. Immensely powerful, he could run for miles up mountains, over streams and swimming across lakes to chase sheep (literally). On the Parkland Walk - a disused railway line that serves as a nature trail running between Finsbury Park and Muswell Hill - I remember many summer evenings after school spent trying to get Frank to come back and to stop humping other people's dogs. He was neuteured but that didn't stop him. Fiercely protective and mildly insecure it took him a long time to shake off the mistreatments he'd endured before being rescued. Our second dog Smiffy was similar. Most rescue dogs have 'issues'. When Frank died we all went into a period of mourning which, for me, was truly depressing. Smiffy is dead too now. They both had nice lives. The sad thing about owning dogs is that their lives are so short and they seem to go from puppies to old timers in the blink of an eye.
In this edition of London Loves, I asked three London 'dog people' (four including me), to talk about their own dogs.
The Surtees family slowly graduated to getting a dog, first practising with fish (killed by the cats obviously), stick insects (released back into the wild once we grew bored and terrapins (god knows what happened to those). But from as early as I can remember we incessantly begged our mother to get a dog. She finally caved in when I was about 8 or 9 years old. On the proviso that we all take turns walking him in the evenings she drove us all down to Battersea Dogs Home and we came back with Frank. The staff there had labelled him cross Great Dane but he looked more like a Pointer than anything else. Immensely powerful, he could run for miles up mountains, over streams and swimming across lakes to chase sheep (literally). On the Parkland Walk - a disused railway line that serves as a nature trail running between Finsbury Park and Muswell Hill - I remember many summer evenings after school spent trying to get Frank to come back and to stop humping other people's dogs. He was neuteured but that didn't stop him. Fiercely protective and mildly insecure it took him a long time to shake off the mistreatments he'd endured before being rescued. Our second dog Smiffy was similar. Most rescue dogs have 'issues'. When Frank died we all went into a period of mourning which, for me, was truly depressing. Smiffy is dead too now. They both had nice lives. The sad thing about owning dogs is that their lives are so short and they seem to go from puppies to old timers in the blink of an eye.
In September 2001, about a week after 9/11, my mum returned from a week in Derbyshire on a residential course with the Association of Radical Midwives and as I walked into the kitchen to greet her I was surprised to find a tiny fluffy ball of black and white leapingng up the garden steps and immediately beginning to chew my toes. It was love at first sight. Her mother was a white boxer, her father an unspecified huge hound. We named her Poppy and in eleven years she's grown from this cheeky thing...
Into this...
"Poppy is my sixth dog and probably my last dog. She started
life in a deprived council estate in Derby.
From being a tiny bundle of black fluff with a spattering of white she grew
into a beautiful, sensitive, funny gentle giant. As I just wrote that sentence
she knew I was thinking of her and came over to push her lovely face into mine,
smiling with pleasure at me. I feel very lucky to have a dog like Poppy who is happy to
do anything: walk for miles over hill and dale in sun or rain, trudge through
snow, drive in the car for hours, live with cats, say hello to old ladies, sleep
in a tent... Anything is fine with her as long as she can do it with me alongside her.
She is my best friend who accepts and loves me unconditionally. My children say she is naughty and she does take advantage
of her age and position sometimes. Barking at unsuspecting passers-by who come
too close, wanting treats in her dinner and digging up my garden if I leave her
alone for too long are just a few examples of her transgressions. Yet her cheeky
grin and wicked tail wag absolve her every time."
My next London dog owner is Laura Roberts. Originally from the Rhondda Valley in Wales Laura now lives in East Finchley in north London with her boyfriend Ed and their dog Fred. Here's Laura's account of living with Fred...
"This weekend it'll be a year since we picked up Fred and
brought him back to London. He was a gift for my birthday from my boyfriend.
Our friends back home in South Wales show Beagles and often have puppies for
sale. We'd been speaking about getting a dog for a while so I asked if they had
any boys left in their recent litter. They said no but that we could have one from the next litter. Little did I know that my boyfriend had been in touch to ask them
to keep Fred for us.
I'd always had a dog growing up and seem to remember him
being a lot easier to look after than Fred. Maybe I'm looking back with
rose-tinted glasses, or maybe it's just that my parents did all of the 'work'.
During Fred's first six months with us he managed to destroy half of my shoes,
our bottom bookshelf of books, quite a few dvd cases and two handmade cushions.
People say that dogs chew things because they're bored, because they don't have
toys. It's a lie. Our living room looked like Pets at Home but all he wanted to
chew was our stuff. He also took it upon himself to ensure that every last inch
of our carpet had been wee'd on. We soon became quite well acquainted with the
wonder that is a Vax carpet cleaner. Since then though he seems to have got a
lot better - or maybe there's just nothing left to destroy.
The puppy classes
might've helped too. My boyfriend saw the classes as a sign of
weakness - we were admitting that we couldn't train our own dog - so I took Fred there myself. It was six
weeks of hell. The other puppies were all around three months old - tiny little
things. Fred was this great, big, seven month old dog who looked like he'd been
kept back a good few years for failing class. He spent the first class mainly
facing the wall because that was the punishment for barking too much. Bad dog.
It did get better though and we passed the course. Although everyone passed so
I'm not too confident our certificate actually means anything.
One of the best things about being a dog owner in London is
people's reaction to him - so many people stop and stay hello. Strangers even
start talking to you on the tube if you have a Beagle sitting on your lap.
Before we got him we didn't know any of our neighbours. Now - due to the many
hours we spent outside encouraging him to wee away from our carpet - we know
loads of the people who live around us. It makes you feel a lot more settled in
your community. We walk him at least three times a day around the same
route which means that quite often you see people on a daily basis - it's like
being back in a village as opposed to being in a city.
The only trouble with having a dog in London (although this
might apply to anywhere) is that he's a magnet for children. He's a friendly
looking dog so most children aren't afraid of him plus, he's really good with
them and will happily sit down to be stroked. Some children are very polite and
ask before touching him but you wouldn't believe the amount of kids that come
running up and grab at him before asking. It's fine because he's generally a
good dog but not all dogs are and you never know, he could be having an off
day. I wish parents would teach their kids that they should ask before touching
a dog."
My final dog owner, Chris Hey, lives in Wichmore Hill and has recently acquired a Labradoodle (which, if you hadn't guessed is a cross between a Labrador and a Poodle). Here, Chris tells us about Molly the dog...
"We chose our beautiful labradoodle puppy because we wanted a gentle,
affectionate and easily trained(!) companion in our retirement. After previously owning two much-loved rescue dogs we decided this time we wanted a
dog that didn't moult. Molly quickly grew tall and weighs 26 kilos at 9
months, but she loves to run and play and we will make sure she doesn't get
fat by over-feeding her. She is the most
gentle, happy dog I have ever known and likes nothing more
than being with people. She has never cried or whined, only barks at
umbrellas, and is eager to do party tricks. She adores going to the vets as there are more people there, and animals which she sees as a bonus! Her
biggest sin? Infrequently, joyously, but unpredictably, ripping up plastic,
wood, garden plants, tea cloths etc. in the blink of an eye. She is a comforting companion, a source of fun and a soft fleece to hug."
