When I was little, we had a dog named Scoot. He was a black collie.
My mischievous brother ensured that I'd be frightened of dogs for the rest of my life. He threw a stone to a spot beyond me so that I'd be midway between Scoot and the stone. I was taken unawares when this huge black mass came tearing towards me, striking terror through my very soul. As Scoot passed, it seemed as if a gigantic black monster was towering menacingly above me. I've never lost the fear of dogs, generated in me by this episode.
We moved to another area when I was seven. We left Scoot behind. Later, we heard that he had been shot because he wouldn't stop pining for us. Life was tough in those days. My parents had another dog when I was 11 - a small, fluffy, golden-coloured mongrel. He developed fits. It was horrible to watch him running around in circles, demented. He had to be put down. I never asked how. He just wasn't there any more. My brother's weeping left a lasting impression on me. Dogs don't equate with happiness in my recollections of childhood.
Anna, my daughter, has always adored animals. She kept asking, as a child, if she could have a dog. I promised I'd think about it. I guess my thinking was: 'Never do today what you can put off tomorrow.' She was already learning to ride and I was agonisingly struggling with my terror of horses. Coping with a dog, in addition, seemed too much of an added torture.
One Saturday, after her ballet lesson, we went, as usual, to a bookshop. Anna loved reading and her weekly treat was choosing a new book to add to her collection. I shared in her pleasure, remembering my own unsatisfied childhood thirst for reading. Possibly, this veneration of books is the greatest quality I have passed on to her. She has kept all of her childhood books and will occasionally take some of them out and reread them.
Eddie Straiton, the TV vet, was in the shop that day, signing copies of his latest book. Anna told him about her longing for a dog. He said he might have the perfect dog for her. He'd been performing an operation on a lovely dog for the TV series, 'All Creatures Great and Small'. If her Mum and Dad went to the clinic the day after the operation, they could collect the dog. I knew I had lost the toss! There was no way I could turn down such an offer.
Soda was a beautiful golden retriever with a Crufts pedigree certificate. His official name was Stefan of Haywood but he was called Soda for short. Apparently, he had a hard mouth so was useless as a gun dog. That is why he was given away.
We collected Soda and nursed him though his convalescence. I had the job of preparing his meals and when Anna and Mike were out during the day, I'd take him on long walks in the park and through the woods. Gradually, I lost my fear of Soda, if not of other dogs. He was so gentle and loving and trusting. I bought him an outsize basket and tried to leave him in it in the utility room. He didn't want to sleep in that basket. He was much happier with an old blanket in a cardboard box or on an old settee in the utility room. He became very much part of our household. Anna adored him and he her.
One evening, we had a power cut. I was halfway through cooking the evening meal. I finished the cooking on our open fire by dim candlelight. Soda sat in front of the fire, enjoying the cosy comfort, warmth and company a scene often recalled by Anna. It is one of the happiest of childhood memories for her.
One Saturday, weeks later, Anna and I set off by car for her ballet lesson in Stafford. Mike took Soda on his lead towards the park. Anna sat looking back and waving. When we'd disappeared from view, Soda suddenly pulled on the lead and managed to break free. The collar had snapped, so Soda was without his name tag. He went chasing after the car. We returned home in the afternoon to find a distraught Mike. Soda had gone and was nowhere to be found. My heart missed a beat. Anna and I went down the road, calling his name but with no success. Who had been so reluctant to have a dog? The very person who was now displaying so much distress! I was as broken-hearted as Anna. Her world was falling apart.
Next morning I opened the front door and there was Soda sitting on the doorstep. What a royal welcome he received! Joy reigned supreme once more. Equilibrium was restored to our home.
The following week the same thing happened only next day there was no Soda on the doorstep. Through the park and into the woods we trudged, stopping everyone we met and asking if theyd seen a golden retriever. One person had seen a man with a dog matching Soda's description. Our spirits lifted. The man had three other dogs with him and that was the day Soda disappeared. Who was this man? Where had he come from? Why hadn't he tried to find the dog's owner?
Day after day, week after week, month after month, Anna and I searched. We placed notices in newspapers. We called to the vets. We'd see someone with a golden retriever and we'd race towards this person, calling Soda's name. It wouldn't be Soda but we'd ask: 'Where did you get your dog from?'
It must have sounded as if we were making an allegation that the person had somehow acquired our dog. We'd explain our bizarre behaviour before returning home in low spirits.
We never saw Soda again but one day Anna met a lady with a golden retriever resembling Soda. The lady told Anna that her dog's grandfather had been famous because he had appeared on television in All Creatures Great and Small. Anna then related her story. That was an exciting discovery. Anna had met Soda's granddaughter!
Losing Soda had an enormous effect on Anna for a long time afterwards. She'd make up little rhymes and put the words to music. One such song was entitled 'Soda Come Home'. She'd also sit and sketch pictures of golden retrievers.
At the age of seven she was making her First Communion. The nun in charge told the children that whatever they asked Jesus for at that time He'd give them. Anna came home ecstatic with joy and eager to tell me that Soda was coming home. At first I thought she'd found out who had taken Soda. I was ready to celebrate with her. Then I expressed my wonder at the child's faith. I was feeling puzzled. Finally, the full horror of what she was telling me sank in. Her hopes had been building up and I foresaw a reawakening of the pain and loss when the shattering truth emerged. How I wished I could find the words which would soften the blow! Oh! The agony of being the mother of a sensitive child! My pain was as cruelly sharp as hers. I went to see the nun and I angrily pointed out to her the effect her thoughtless words would have on my child.
I told Anna we'd have another dog. A colleague of mine had friends who bred Jack Russells and he asked them to reserve the pick of the litter for us. When we went to collect the dog, Anna's attention was caught by a tiny puppy described by the owner as the runt of the litter. That was the one she chose, a small, plump, snowy-white ball with pale-brown markings. The name Anna chose was 'Annabel Snow-white'.
'She's your dog, Mum', Anna said.
The remark cut through me, leaving me numb with the realisation of the depth of her grief. Anna grew to love Annabel but could never see her as a replacement for Soda. Searching for words of comfort was like trying in vain to console the bereaved. You hope that in time the pain and the grief will ease and that with the passing of the years will come acceptance.
Anna was in Oregon when Annabel died. Mike and I buried our little white bundle under the trees in the garden and mourned her for many a day.
We never heard anything more about Soda. Who out there could tell us what happened to him? If we knew, we could lay him to rest.