Wilfred De'ath
The Aged P also gave Pam a daily Cadbury’s Wispa, ignoring my protestations that chocolates were poisonous for dogs: ‘Rubbish, she loves it!’
Pam died aged 12. Not a bad age for a dog on the Liver and Wispa Diet who didn’t care much for exercise (when let off the lead on walks, she promptly returned to the car).
Into the nineties, Mr Home Front and I bought a beautiful black mongrel from Battersea Dogs Home as a companion for toddler Fred. This sweet-natured girl had been found in a sack and dumped at Camden Lock. Fred liked her to stay with him until he fell asleep, but she would sneak out when he wasn’t looking. When she was middle-aged, I took her up to the London Palladium to audition for the part of the dog in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.
The idea was to write a piece for The Oldie about her abject inability to perform any of the obedience tasks. But, the moment the spotlight hit her, Beulah turned into a canine Sarah Bernhardt, leaping on and off chairs to order, begging, playing dead and jumping through a hoop. I was horrified when they told me she had been shortlisted. Much to my relief, the part went to five younger dogs, including one who did a Stephen Fry-style bunk before a performance in Southampton. Fame, even for dogs, is no guarantee of happiness.
Then came the dog love of my life, our Irish rescue terrier, Lupin. For some unfathomable reason, he worshipped the ground I walked on, whereas I always suspected Beulah would have saved Mr Home Front first from any fire.
The present incumbent is our large, handsome Greek rescue hound, Destry, who looks like a failed genetic experiment to combine dog and horse. Despite having lived with us for six months now, he rebuffs my affections. I feel perpetually like Miss Kenton to Destry’s Stevens in The Remains of the Day. When not sleeping excessively like most adolescents, he chases flies, chews things he shouldn’t and digs holes in the garden.
Recall on walks is non-existent. I’ve tried tempting him back with everything from fresh chicken to feta cheese (hoping, absurdly, it might remind him of home). All to no avail.
Last Sunday, we lost him again on the common when he got a whiff of deer. Forty minutes later, a very nice woman phoned my mobile to say she had found him going round in circles near the main road.
As she spoke, I could hear Destry’s distraught howls in the background. A peculiar and oddly affecting sound. The first inkling that he might like his adopted Surrey family more than he lets on.