Dearest Jane... (33 page)

Owners who may address their own sex lives with discretion are perfectly happy to see their dog rogering the arm or leg of a visitor or with their nose nestled happily in the groin or up the skirt of a guest. Solomon Grundy was a bright and busy Jack Russell terrier that my father acquired for himself, and he was happy to express his sexual interests at any given opportunity. Solomon and Pongo allied themselves into a loose brotherhood, bounding off on roving parties together when chance arose. The fields and lanes around my parents’ subsequent Berkshire home, Budds Farm, rang to the anxious calls of my parents summoning their two mischievous dogs and echoed to their indignant tones to each other as they exchanged accusations of negligence.

To their owners, dogs are often believed to be of a higher status than humans and unless actively aggressive – and sometimes even then – their behaviour is deemed unimpeachable. Messes in the house and peeing against the curtains are just a further celebration of their adorable animalness. In his letters, my father managed somehow to celebrate the monumental nature of the deposits of their dogs. Sell-by dates on food labels were an ignorable curiosity to my parents, a partial explanation for the curious state of both human and canine digestive systems in their household.

As he matured, Solomon was increasingly referred to as ‘The Cringer’. My father had trained him to perform a little parlour trick. ‘Lie down!’ instructed my father, quickly followed by roars of ‘Cringe! Cringe, you brute!’ The Cringer happily rolled on his back with all four legs straight up in the air in humble supplication, remaining in that position until my father’s smiling face indicated release.

My parents went about their different daily lives in their separate cars, their dogs on the front seat beside them, affectionate and unargumentative companions.

When Pongo’s final hour came, my mother was utterly devastated, and when my mother suffered, she felt compelled to share it unreservedly. My father sympathized but he found it hard to do so on an hourly basis. He wrote to me wearily: ‘At the name of Pongo, every knee shall bow.’

The Cringer, too, grew old. The sorrow of my parents was mutual when he turned up his toes. By then there was already a new canine presence in the house – Sir Peregrine van Notenpool. My mother had christened him with the name of an ancestor which even on paper nearly exceeded the size of the dog – a very camp Chihuahua, white and fluffy, with an unassailable sense of his own importance. His tail acted as a barometer – I’m uncertain what it meant when it was a fully fluffed out plume, but it meant something.

Not to be outdone, my father purchased a suitably posh chum for Sir Peregrine, a sandy-coloured little snapper named Baron Otto. These two canine pixies learnt to live alongside each other. Lashings of love were showered upon them.

The sexual antics between Otto and Perry were conjugations that could easily be overlooked, or looked over – owing to their tiddly size. I still can hear my mother chiding them indulgently for being such ‘randy little dogs’.

These little yappettes thought nothing of making deposits around the house. When I tentatively mentioned the tiny dog turds which regularly lurked under a smart chair in her grandsons’ bedroom there, my mother retorted, ‘Damn it all, it is their house!’

Dogs can be a rewarding conduit through which the British can express emotions more readily than as human to human; in this case creating an equation where their tenderness for their individual dogs added to the sum of love between my parents.

In the last eight years of her life, as a widow, my mother was comforted by a Chihuahua of great sweetness, little nut-brown Danny, who lovingly attended my mother’s every hour until he pre-deceased her by a month. At her thanksgiving service a few months later, a talented young singer gave a rendition of ‘Danny Boy’ which did not leave a dry eye in the house.

The dogs and their escapades scamper constantly through my father’s letters.

My Dearest Jane . . .

Barclay House

24 October [mid-1960s]

There was quite a nasty moment last week when the abominable Pongo sprang into a car and I thought for a moment he was going to devour a pink and succulent baby on the front seat. Fortunately he contented himself with licking the infant’s features. After that traumatic experience no doubt the infant will turn out to be a second Himmler or Christine Keeler, according to sex.

Budds Farm

Tuesday [1967]

Charles’s boss plus wife arrived here on Sunday on bicycles without warning. I think they wanted to see what sort of a nuthouse Charles lived in. I liked them both. They were accompanied by a large, shaggy, elderly dog (male) whom Pongo engaged in unspeakable acts twice, once in the water trough by the tool shed. Really the modern dog is almost human in his shamelessness.

The Biological Stains Research Centre

Wedgwood Benn House

Much Dithering

Wilts

[1971]

We have the Burghclere Horticultural and Canine Show shortly. Pongo is going as Jilly Cooper, Cringer as Wedgwood Benn. I am going flat out to win the Mrs Swingthorpe Cup for Home Produce with a stuffed marrow. The local council are busy having trees felled at the top of Harts Lane. I almost admire them for their determination to make the countryside hideous in the sacred cause of motoring.

c/o Bishop of York

Ebor Castle

York

[1970s]

In the Burghclere Show dogs fancy-dress competition, Pongo is going as Mrs Whitehouse, Cringer as Margery Proops. They are both transvestites at heart. I am entering a thermos of nettle and dandelion soup for the Home Produce competition.

c/o The Official Receiver

29/31 Carey Street

London EC2

16 October [mid 1970s]

Pongo has dug a huge hole in the lawn; frankly I would like to bury him in it. He has also been voted ‘Dog of the Year’ for making, in the kitchen, the largest, most offensive mess ever achieved by a member of the canine race.

Budds Farm

28 August 1974

On Saturday the Wrights and Pockneys came to supper. Your dear mother had prepared an elaborate spread including a most complicated and doubtless delectable pudding. Just to annoy me, she released Pongo just before dinner. After Pongo had knocked over two glasses in the drawing room, he retired downstairs and consumed the pudding. I must say for once your mother’s admiration for Pongo showed signs of dwindling.

The Scorchings

Burghclere

12 August 1974

Pongo collapsed after a long walk on the downs and I thought he was a goner. However, I revived him with damp towels and cold water, drawing the line though, at the kiss of life.

Castle Gloom

Burghclere

7 February [early 1970s]

I took Cringer for a walk this afternoon in the Palmer Memorial Park, Newbury, which is very agreeable if you are keen on discarded cigarette packets, dead shrubs, dog turds and used contraceptives.

Budds Farm

[Early 1980s]

I have just retrieved the Cringer from his canine hotel – £14 for 5 days, about the same as my honeymoon stay at Claridge’s.

Chez Nidnod

Burghclere

[1979]

Your mother is in brisk form – our Welsh holiday was a great success. Solomon’s name has been changed to Canute on account of his absurd conduct on the beach.

The Maudlings

Heathcote Amory

Berks

[1970s]

Cringer keeps rolling in the remains of a dead hare and comes home stinking in a very vile manner. The habits of dogs are most disgusting. No wonder people say they are ‘almost human’.

Asylum View

Much Twittering

Notts

10 July 1970

Cringer has just been revolting with two young dogs; no wonder in the East the dog is the symbol for shamelessness. I always give the big Ha Ha when old ladies describe their dear doggies as ‘almost human’. I reckon they must have known some curiously uninhibited humans.

The Old Dosshouse

Burghclere

[1970s]

Cringer is in disgrace following a lengthy absence. I find the concern shown for this animal by myself to be wholly discreditable but what can I do about it? Answer comes there none.

The Sunday Times

[1969]

Cringer is in love with the Bomers’s dog and only looks in here for an occasional nap or meal. Faithless beast! The more I see of dogs, the more I prefer human beings and believe me I don’t like them all that much!

Le Petit Bidet

Burghclere Les Deux Eglises

Sunday [1970]

Cringer is back home and apparently entertains an insatiable sexual appetite for Pongo who is permissive but bored.

Budds Farm

18 August [1970s]

Your parents pushed their rather leaky old boat out yesterday and had 20 middle-aged, middle-class locals to what Nidnod calls a ‘buffet’ lunch. Saturday was blazing hot: I tidied up the garden while Nidnod worked endlessly in the cook-house. As it was so hot, we decided to take a chance and base operations on the garden. During the afternoon the boiler went wrong and no one could be found to deal with it. No hot water! In the evening a girl arrived to help Nidnod with the food. She chose to bring 2 dogs with her, one of which at once made a mess an elephant would have been proud of outside the drawing room. At 8 p.m. Mr Thorn arrived to cope with the boiler but unfortunately left the door open and Solomon bolted. I spent hours searching for him but when at last we went to bed he was still absent and your mother was in a fearful twit. At 6 a.m. the Bomers rang up; they had heard a noise in their swimming pool and on investigation had found an exhausted Solomon trying to get out with little hope of success. The pool had been covered and Solomon had gone through the plastic top! He was lucky not to be drowned.

xx D

The Crumblings

Burghclere

16 October [1970s]

I have just left poor Tiny Man (the Cringer) at Highclere kennels. The English upper and middle classes are really very weird. They feel guilt and remorse at boarding their dogs for a week at enormous expense and in luxurious surroundings: yet they have very little compunction in sending off a little boy of eight or nine to a place where the standard of living would have caused rumblings of discontent among Spartans, where they will be ill-treated by their companions, felt by the masters, and are more or less certain to be very unhappy indeed. The excuse that ‘it does the boy good and makes a man of him’ is just hypocritical balderdash; the real object of the exercise is to duck out of the inconveniences involved in having the boy at home; just as nannies got mothers off the fatigues of nappy changing, looking after the sick and doing all the chores involved in bringing up young children.

Chez Nidnod

15 August 1981

The Cringer was 2nd in the Veterans Class at the local dog show and was inclined to be truculent afterwards.

The Miseries

Busted

Herts

11 May [1970s]

A lot of people to supper last night including a fairly tiresome female who gave animal imitations. I was pleased when Cringer, resenting her familiarities, bit her nose quite severely.

Chez Nidnod

21 March 1982

I don’t think I can face another winter in a house that is never really warm: thumping away on an ancient typewriter wearing three sweaters and with my fingers numb with cold is not all that amusing. As a matter of fact I may not have to: The Cringer and I are both deteriorating physically ‘au pas gymnastique’ and it is just a question of which of the two elects to give up the pointless struggle first. The poor old dog now finds difficulty in jumping into my car while arthritic joints make it hard for me to climb out of it.

The Bog Garden

[1982]

Poor Old Cringer is showing signs of wear and tear. I fear he may not see the winter through. Judging from the odd looks he gives me from time to time, I have an idea he feels the same about me!

Age Concern House

Burghclere

10 October 1982

Poor old Cringer is getting old, feeble and gaga, like his owner, but Nidnod keeps him going in a remarkable way.

The Miller’s House

17 October [mid 1980s]

Just a line to say how sorry I was to hear about your well-loved dog. I remember how miserable I was when poor old Cringer’s life ended. Anyway, all my sympathy to you both.

I may not be quite as dog-orientated as my parents, but I have loved several dogs dearly. Our sweet and handsome Labrador, Timber, had met his end, hit by a car
.

The Miller’s House

22 August [late 1980s]

We drove to Stow-on-the-Wold on Saturday to look over David Nicholson’s stable. There was a big crowd there and there were constant appeals on the public address system to release dogs who had been left in cars with insufficient air. I sometimes wonder if the English are really fond of animals. I am careful not to let our little dogs stray. Baron Otto bit a cross-eyed youth delivering an order of white wine this morning, in the ankle. I hope I don’t get a summons.

La Maison des Geriatriques

27 February [early 1980s]

Peregrine does not care for children.

Hypothermia House

22 February [early 1980s]

Your mother is furious with our neighbour, portly Mrs B, who has made disparaging comments on Peregrine’s domestic and sexual habits. She will never be forgiven!

Budds Farm

[Late 1970s]

Nidnod’s dog will sit on my head in the car which I don’t fancy all that much.

Budds Farm

[Late 1970s]

Your mother is in very good form as Peregrine was judged ‘Champion of the Show’ at the Burghclere Flower and Dog Show.

The Miller’s House

May [mid 1980s]

I read Jilly Cooper’s book ‘The Common’ and rather enjoyed it though doubtless I should find her and her dogs extremely tiresome.

The Miller’s House

[Mid 1980s]

Otto has not been worse than moderately tiresome. He is apt to hide when I am in a hurry and he plays ‘hard to get’ underneath beds. His breath is not un-reminiscent of a station lavatory in Suez.