Don’t suppose anyone wants a Springer Spaniel pup? Bertie – my handsome, nobly-pedigreed, adorable monster – has fathered a litter of five, born 5 February, and just one little liver-and-white dog, (the image of his Dad), remains.

The mother, a black-and-white Springer name of Tigan, belongs to a gamekeeper friend of mine, and is a delightfully bright and obedient little creature. As the female of the species, she is infinitely more sensible than Bert, of course. When she and Dave arrived here one bright wintry morning to consummate the union, as it were, she advanced on Bert, bum in the air, with typical, womanly, let’s-get-on-with-it pragmatism.

My little prince was bewildered. Sure, he pranced around her a bit. Flapped his tail, chased her politely up and down the lawn (he has faultless manners) but soon trotted back, plonked himself on my foot and gazed up in mute enquiry.

‘Don’t ask me,’ I hissed. ‘Whaddya want? Soft lighting and Mantovani? I mean, just – do what comes naturally.’

As you will have gathered, he did eventually get the hang of the business, although my sympathies were with Tigan. I’d swear I caught her suppressing a yawn. If this pup inherits her sweet nature along with Bertie’s drop-dead good looks, he’ll be a star.
If he takes after his Dad in other ways, however… Well, any prospective owner will need Olympic stamina (for chasing him over hill and dale); a cheerful unconcern for their gardens (Bert was a champion digger in his salad days); a strong stomach for dealing with the dead and decaying specimens of local fauna which will regularly be sniffed out and delivered to their feet, and (ideally) a generous trust fund to cover the inevitable vet’s bills.

Not that I’m trying to put anyone off, of course. I may still bear the white ghosts of barbed wire scars from long-ago Bertie chases; my bank account may be at an all-time low, and even yesterday I had to remove from his mouth (with effusions of praise and delight because one must never discourage a hunting dog) a well-rotted pigeon, but I love this pooch to the point of madness. Three years old, and near three stone of solid, rippling muscle, he still snuggles into my lap like a kitten and croons sweet nothings into the crook of my neck – what more can a girl ask? Besides, he hasn’t dug up a daffodil bulb for years.

Incidentally, for anyone trying to get hold of copies of my earlier novels – because re-publication still awaits my producing the next book (I know, I know, I’m working at it…) – I made use myself last week of Amazon’s second hand service. A talking book company wants a copy of The Colours of Snow to see if they might record it, and I only have my own file copies of all the various editions. But there on Amazon a paperback was offered at a bargain price – I pressed a single button and, bingo, it arrived today in very decent condition. Did cross my mind to wonder how many other authors find themselves having to track down copies of their own books in this way…




  posted by Kate @ 11:02:29 AM