My
love of pets began at a very early age. The first I owned was a budgie called
Toby who came from a local breeder. He was a pretty blue colour with a necklace
of black dots. He learned to talk, due to my mother constantly chatting to him
after I had just started infant school. Friends commented that Toby’s voice
sounded just like my mother’s!
He used to fly around the room for exercise and then back to his cage. Sometimes we used to put his cage out in the garden of our first house at 65 The Avenue, Leagrave, Bedfordshire with the door shut, and he would preen and ruffle his feathers in the warm summer sunshine. He was a happy little chap with quite a personality as far as budgies go.
When we went on holiday our relative Auntie Minnie who lived opposite always looked after him and this led to her getting two birds like Toby of her own. They never talked, although she insisted they did, but to my mother and me it was just ordinary budgie chirpings and gibberish. We named him Toby after Sir Winston Churchill’s pet bird which accompanied him on all his trips overseas, and would perch on his head while he was reading his state papers in bed.
I remember it was my first experience of death and I can recall putting Toby in a cardboard box, lined with Kleenex tissues, and showing him to any immediate neighbours who would be interested in viewing the frail little corpse. Old Aunt Polly, Auntie Minnie’s ancient mother, was staying with her at the time, and poked at him with a long bony finger. To my great chagrin I don’t recall much interest from anyone else!
In
the fifties and sixties tortoises were very popular and you could buy them for
as little as seven shillings and sixpence from the local pet shop. I acquired my
first one named Timmy from a large pet store in
Thank God today this import of tortoises has been banned and there are now very strict laws to protect the species. Those few that survived and managed to live in this country are now very old themselves, having been lucky enough to have caring and knowledgeable owners who have cherished their much loved, humble chelonians for all these years. There are now several excellent tortoise societies in this country devoted to their welfare and who are only too happy to give advice to those seeking it.
Sadly, my Timmy did not survive his first year of hibernation, but my second one, named Tottie, given to me by a neighbour, did live for longer but disappeared from the large garden of our new house when we moved there in 1961.
I did not own a dog until I was eight. Up until then I had to make do with friend’s and relations dogs.
Every Sunday afternoon my father and mother used to take my brother Anthony and me over to Great Uncle Perce’s farm at Gaddesden Row, near Markyate in Hertfordshire. He lived there with his older sister Great Aunt Annie, his daughter Gwen, her husband Len and their twin sons Michael and Paul, who were four years younger than me. Gwen was a great lover of cats and dogs, and there was always a litter of kittens in the huge kitchen, not to mention other older cats prowling round the rambling old farm house. It was called Whitehouse Farm. My mother, being town bred, did not really approve of cats in kitchens and tended to distance herself from the scene, much to Gwen’s and my father’s amusement!
I remember with great clarity the many happy Sunday afternoons spent there. Together with the twins we would play around the farm yards and surrounding fields. There was an old double-decker bus that uncle Perce had mysteriously acquired from somewhere. Hens roosted in its crumbling seats, it being long before the days of health and safety regulations. Paul, Michael, Anthony and I had many an adventure aboard the stationary bus.
Sometimes Mary and Graham, who were the children of Gwen’s older brother Brian, and who lived next door to Whitehouse Farm in a bungalow, would join in the fun.
There
were two dogs at the farm, Ben a rather fierce black
My mother’s two older sisters Aunt Eva and Aunt Ivy owned pet dogs before we did.
Aunt
Ivy and Uncle Cyril lived out in the countryside in an olde worlde cottage in
the
My uncle and aunt were both keen gardeners. Uncle Cyril’s passion was growing chrysanthemums and it became a tradition in the family to drive over in the early autumn for a bunch of the lovely blooms with their unique pungent scent. Nothing evokes the feeling of autumn and harvest time, than burying the nose into a chrysanthemum flower head.
For
me, however, the main attraction for these seasonal trips were not for flowers
but to see Bobby, the brown and white mongrel terrier my uncle and aunt had
acquired from a local dog’s home. He was a typical country-born dog, seldom at
home but always off after rabbits in the surrounding woods and fields. He had
been the last of several dogs the family had owned during their marriage, the
first being a large Airedale Terrier that was so tall he could help himself to
whatever he wanted from the kitchen table! My late cousin Derrick recalls as a
boy, curling up in the kennel with his faithful canine friend. This was long
before I was born. The only dog in the family I remember was Bobby. In a family
gathering photograph I am sitting on the ground next to Bobby looking at him
instead of the camera!
My
other Aunt Eva and Uncle Harold, with their only daughter Pat, always lived in a
town environment. They had a flat in
It was a great adventure in the fifties to make the journey north up the A5. Usually we would go at Easter and perhaps stay for a week.
My
cousin Patsy was a great dog lover and she and Pepe complemented each other.
Patsy always dressed well and her hair was well coiffured. With her natural
blonde hair and large blue eyes she looked like a model. Little Pepe, after his
shampoo and trim, trotting like a small hackney pony at her side completed the
effect!
In
those far-off day Patsy worked in
It was probably due to Pepe and kind Aunt Eva’s persuasion that my parents finally gave in and agreed to us having a dog.
They were amused by the little dogs quirky intelligent ways and affable nature. Also, and this was important to my mother, being a poodle, he did not shed hairs.
So came the exciting day when George our first miniature black poodle arrived as an eight-week-old puppy.
He did not have to travel far. A lady who lived opposite our house called Belle Hayes, bred and showed poodles. She owned three brood bitches, Jose a white poodle, Michaela an apricot and Tina, black and mother to our George.
He attached himself to my
mother, recognizing her as the mother figure in the family. She was his
favourite person from the start. She fed and walked him and he was always with
her while we were at school.
He was very intelligent and understood every word, spoken or unspoken. He could pick up on atmosphere too. He did not like men very much, and this was due to my grandfather Ernest teasing him whenever he used to call. He would stamp and shuffle his feet and throw his hat at him. George hated it and would rush snarling at him, snapping at his feet. My parents were furious and always blamed George’s rather unpredictable nature as he matured, to the foolish and irresponsible teasing of Grandfather Ernest.
Having always lived on a farm he was only used to rough and ready working dogs that lived outdoors in a kennel. A pampered and cosseted poodle like George was far beyond his understanding. “Why on earth pay fifteen guineas for a silly dog like that!” he would exclaim with derision.