Watching the two of them, the dog and the boy, wrestling around on the lawn gave me cause for a wry grin. Not that long ago, when Mabel was a puppy, I had forbidden Charlie from teaching the stripling any bad habits — no ball chasing, no tugging, no spoiling, no fighting, no biting, no inconsistency. A hardhearted standpoint perhaps, this liturgy of don’ts, but essential for the pup’s education.
Charlie has grown up with dogs; he is an only child, so they are the closest thing he has to siblings. His first word ‘Gheee’ he repeated over and over. My wife and I eventually twigged he was calling our aged whippet, Ghillie. His maiden tottering steps were achieved by him taking a firm hold on shaggy lurcher fur. Dear old Ruby, wincing throughout, accepted the role of walking frame with doe-eyed stoicism.
However, Mabel was the first puppy Charlie had experienced. Enticing and endearing as she was, I kept them separated from one another while I trained the young dog. These days, though, I am more lax and thus Charlie has a fine playmate in my cocker bitch. They romp in the garden together, enjoying boisterous games of hide and seek, chase and tag — usually at the expense of my delphiniums.
Mabel will be four before long and Mrs Negus and I had agreed that it was time to breed from our little paragon. She is well bred, possesses a perfect temperament and works like a demon. We have earmarked a mate for her — a keeper’s dog, a solid liver-coloured chap called Goose, from just over on the wrong side of the river Stour. Charlie had listened in on our matrimonial plans for Mabel, and this initiated a campaign of persuasion by him that we should let him have one of the puppies, should the MabelGoose union prove fruitful.
This story is from the June 02, 2021 edition of Shooting Times & Country.
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This story is from the June 02, 2021 edition of Shooting Times & Country.
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