Forty-seven years ago this morning, in a hole dug under a fallen tree, a small cream-coloured puppy was born, and found a place in our hearts that she still holds: the dog against whom all others are measured, against whom only one has ever even come close.
Perdy's mother was our yellow Labrador Vicky, a large kind dog who had already had two litters of puppies, one legitimate, one not. This time, it was my fault, as I'd left the door open and she had met a dog from the village, a 'Labrador type' who, to judge from his offspring, must have had greyhound and golden retriever in him as well. When her time was near, Vicky began excavating under the fallen tree, and every time she was let out would take refuge in it. She got so distressed when we tried to persuade her out of it when labour began, that my parents thought it would be best if she had the first pup in the hole, and then they could persuade Vicky back to the official maternity ward in the house. This worked, but every time they opened the door to see how things were going, Vicky stood there with the puppy in her mouth, desperate to go back to the hole and have the rest. In the end, she was overtaken by events, and the five remaining puppies were born in the right place: a total of two girls and three boys, plus one girl who didn't survive.
'101 Dalmations' was our favourite film (I'd seen it six times over the summer holidays) and so it was inevitable that they would be named after dogs in the film, regardless of the fact that ours didn't have spots: they were all varying shades of yellow, from cream to ginger biscuit. So we had Perdita, Pongo, Lucky and Prince, and the other girl was called Carmen because she was so vocal. Gradually they all found homes, except for Perdy. She was smaller than the others, her ears were set funny, she looked a bit odd. It was obvious that she was very intelligent, and my sister and I loved her dearly. At one point there was talk of sending her to be a guide dog, but eventually, almost by default, we kept her.
That winter, 62/63. was one of the hardest ever, and Perdy had numerous escapades. She fell through the ice on the kitchen garden pond. She learned how to chase deer. On one of the coldest nights, my father let the three dogs - Vicky, Perdy, and my aunt's poodle Puff, who was staying with us while she was in hospital - out last thing, and only two came back - Perdy was nowhere to be found. He searched for her in the snow for over an hour, without success. Eventually my mum thought to check my room. She had sneaked back inside, and crept into my bed, under the clothes, without waking me, and Puff had then curled up on top of her!
No doubt of it, Perdy was a bit of a tearaway. Dad tried to train her as a gun dog, alongside her mother, but with limited success. She would enthusiastically retrieve the pheasant, but obviously thought it was hers: however, she didn't like the taste of feathers, resulting in 'instant pluck'! Several birds came roasted to the table looking a little the worse for wear, with toothmarks in them. Once he stashed a pheasant six foot up in a gnarled tree for collection later: Perdy went back, climbed the tree and pulled it down. She used to take herself off for walks on her own, or disappeared chasing deer: I must have walked miles, and trespassed quite a few times, in pursuit. She also liked chasing the small Shetland Sheepdog belonging to one of my aunts: my sister and I loyally assumed she thought it was a rabbit, but it led to some family bad feeling.
One one memorable occasion, she and Vicky went off together - two dogs are a pack, my mother always said, and do things they'd never do on their own - and were gone all day, and into the night. We called and searched all over the park, without success. Eventually, long after dark, there was a phone call from the people in a house a mile upriver. Perdy and Vicky had fallen into the disused dry dock near them. They had heard barking and gone to investigate: the two dogs were standing on a pile of rotten wood, while the tide was rising around them. They had to be rescued by the Fire Brigade. Fortunately, they had our phone number on their collars.
After three years of this sort of thing, we thought that becoming a mother would quieten her down, and Perdy duly produced a litter of six. Shortly after the birth, she disappeared for several hours. We were just trying to find something to feed the poor little things with when she returned to do her maternal duty, with noticeable reluctance. As soon as they got teeth she gave up on them altogether, and Vicky, always a very kind and motherly dog, took over with enthusiasm, doing everything except feed them until they went to their new homes. Perdy did calm down a bit, but she was still very naughty. She chewed all sorts of things, specialising in the Sunday papers, which always arrived while we were at church. Once she ate my champion model yacht, Typhoon, which had beaten all comers in the swimming pool races. When burglars called, the dogs posed absolutely no threat. But her lovely, loving nature, her intelligence and her willingness to join in her games ensured that we were all devoted to her, despite her faults, even Dad! She accompanied us on our camping holiday, and encountered cattle for the first time when one stuck its head through the tent flap: Perdy tried to hide in my sister's sleeping bag. She was also chased by a herd of them, in the field above the camp site. In Shropshire, we entered her in a dog show: the judge kept trying to pull her ears forward into proper Labrador position, and they kept folding back! Her speed, her ears and her deep chest and narrow loins all pointed to more than a touch of greyhound.
When my father became headmaster, we had to give up the Buck House, the house in the grounds where we had always lived, and moved into a flat on the top floor. Perdy, by now middle aged, proved a huge hit with the boys. She used to lie in the sun on the floor of the South Hall, and every child who passed gave her a hug or a pat. Several of them used to compete to take her for walks. When my sister moved to Geneva for a year, she became briefly 'my dog' and slept on my bed: I usually woke with her pale yellow face on the pillow beside me. But when I left home as well, to live in Oxford as a mother's help, Perdy pined. She grew thinner and thinner, and cancer was diagnosed. I came home for a couple of weekends, and she regained some of her old energy and enthusiasm. But not long before my employment ended, I had a sad phone call from Mum: Perdy had had to be put down. She was only nine, and I cried for her far more than I had cried for anyone else I'd lost, including my grandmother.
But forty-seven years after that fateful day, I still remember her with huge affection. Of all the dogs I've known since, only Rowan looks back at me with the same love and intelligence, the same knowingness. I could write much more about Perdy, but for the sake of space I'll stop here, and quote a verse from Rudyard Kipling that says it much better than I could:
When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!);
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone--wherever it goes--for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart for the dog to tear.
Perdy's mother was our yellow Labrador Vicky, a large kind dog who had already had two litters of puppies, one legitimate, one not. This time, it was my fault, as I'd left the door open and she had met a dog from the village, a 'Labrador type' who, to judge from his offspring, must have had greyhound and golden retriever in him as well. When her time was near, Vicky began excavating under the fallen tree, and every time she was let out would take refuge in it. She got so distressed when we tried to persuade her out of it when labour began, that my parents thought it would be best if she had the first pup in the hole, and then they could persuade Vicky back to the official maternity ward in the house. This worked, but every time they opened the door to see how things were going, Vicky stood there with the puppy in her mouth, desperate to go back to the hole and have the rest. In the end, she was overtaken by events, and the five remaining puppies were born in the right place: a total of two girls and three boys, plus one girl who didn't survive.
'101 Dalmations' was our favourite film (I'd seen it six times over the summer holidays) and so it was inevitable that they would be named after dogs in the film, regardless of the fact that ours didn't have spots: they were all varying shades of yellow, from cream to ginger biscuit. So we had Perdita, Pongo, Lucky and Prince, and the other girl was called Carmen because she was so vocal. Gradually they all found homes, except for Perdy. She was smaller than the others, her ears were set funny, she looked a bit odd. It was obvious that she was very intelligent, and my sister and I loved her dearly. At one point there was talk of sending her to be a guide dog, but eventually, almost by default, we kept her.
That winter, 62/63. was one of the hardest ever, and Perdy had numerous escapades. She fell through the ice on the kitchen garden pond. She learned how to chase deer. On one of the coldest nights, my father let the three dogs - Vicky, Perdy, and my aunt's poodle Puff, who was staying with us while she was in hospital - out last thing, and only two came back - Perdy was nowhere to be found. He searched for her in the snow for over an hour, without success. Eventually my mum thought to check my room. She had sneaked back inside, and crept into my bed, under the clothes, without waking me, and Puff had then curled up on top of her!
No doubt of it, Perdy was a bit of a tearaway. Dad tried to train her as a gun dog, alongside her mother, but with limited success. She would enthusiastically retrieve the pheasant, but obviously thought it was hers: however, she didn't like the taste of feathers, resulting in 'instant pluck'! Several birds came roasted to the table looking a little the worse for wear, with toothmarks in them. Once he stashed a pheasant six foot up in a gnarled tree for collection later: Perdy went back, climbed the tree and pulled it down. She used to take herself off for walks on her own, or disappeared chasing deer: I must have walked miles, and trespassed quite a few times, in pursuit. She also liked chasing the small Shetland Sheepdog belonging to one of my aunts: my sister and I loyally assumed she thought it was a rabbit, but it led to some family bad feeling.
One one memorable occasion, she and Vicky went off together - two dogs are a pack, my mother always said, and do things they'd never do on their own - and were gone all day, and into the night. We called and searched all over the park, without success. Eventually, long after dark, there was a phone call from the people in a house a mile upriver. Perdy and Vicky had fallen into the disused dry dock near them. They had heard barking and gone to investigate: the two dogs were standing on a pile of rotten wood, while the tide was rising around them. They had to be rescued by the Fire Brigade. Fortunately, they had our phone number on their collars.
After three years of this sort of thing, we thought that becoming a mother would quieten her down, and Perdy duly produced a litter of six. Shortly after the birth, she disappeared for several hours. We were just trying to find something to feed the poor little things with when she returned to do her maternal duty, with noticeable reluctance. As soon as they got teeth she gave up on them altogether, and Vicky, always a very kind and motherly dog, took over with enthusiasm, doing everything except feed them until they went to their new homes. Perdy did calm down a bit, but she was still very naughty. She chewed all sorts of things, specialising in the Sunday papers, which always arrived while we were at church. Once she ate my champion model yacht, Typhoon, which had beaten all comers in the swimming pool races. When burglars called, the dogs posed absolutely no threat. But her lovely, loving nature, her intelligence and her willingness to join in her games ensured that we were all devoted to her, despite her faults, even Dad! She accompanied us on our camping holiday, and encountered cattle for the first time when one stuck its head through the tent flap: Perdy tried to hide in my sister's sleeping bag. She was also chased by a herd of them, in the field above the camp site. In Shropshire, we entered her in a dog show: the judge kept trying to pull her ears forward into proper Labrador position, and they kept folding back! Her speed, her ears and her deep chest and narrow loins all pointed to more than a touch of greyhound.
When my father became headmaster, we had to give up the Buck House, the house in the grounds where we had always lived, and moved into a flat on the top floor. Perdy, by now middle aged, proved a huge hit with the boys. She used to lie in the sun on the floor of the South Hall, and every child who passed gave her a hug or a pat. Several of them used to compete to take her for walks. When my sister moved to Geneva for a year, she became briefly 'my dog' and slept on my bed: I usually woke with her pale yellow face on the pillow beside me. But when I left home as well, to live in Oxford as a mother's help, Perdy pined. She grew thinner and thinner, and cancer was diagnosed. I came home for a couple of weekends, and she regained some of her old energy and enthusiasm. But not long before my employment ended, I had a sad phone call from Mum: Perdy had had to be put down. She was only nine, and I cried for her far more than I had cried for anyone else I'd lost, including my grandmother.
But forty-seven years after that fateful day, I still remember her with huge affection. Of all the dogs I've known since, only Rowan looks back at me with the same love and intelligence, the same knowingness. I could write much more about Perdy, but for the sake of space I'll stop here, and quote a verse from Rudyard Kipling that says it much better than I could:
When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!);
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone--wherever it goes--for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart for the dog to tear.
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