Thursday, 29. November 2007, 19:05:56
golden retriever
Padi died a week ago today. An enormous hole has opened up in our lives. He was always there, always thrilled to see us, always in a good mood, always happy.
He was a kind, courteous dog. If courtesy doesn't seem like the right word to you, then you never met him. He would literally step aside to let people pass, or let the cat get to the water bowl. And he was always smiling. He seemed to enjoy life a lot. He was never ill; in nearly 16 years he only saw the vet for his booster injections.
I stuck up a few R.I.P. notices in Mount View Road and Granville Road, near his favourite "Park Part One" (now properly called The Spinney) which he used to visit every morning and evening.
This morning a little girl aged about 6, with a shaven-headed man pushing a baby in a pram, stopped at the notice outside the house. 'There you go' said the father, and the little girl reached up and put a flower on Padi's R.I.P. notice. There's another one on it tonight.
Our neighbour Chris came round to commiserate. Our neighbour Laurence on the other side put a lovely card through the door. Nathaniel, Jane and David made a card — and pragmatically gave us a book on dive sites of the world, now we can get away for a first holiday since February 2004.
We had emails from Wim, Xenia, Mike, Sumi. Padi seems to have touched a lot of lives.
That's a wonderful legacy for a dog. O I miss him so much.
Monday, 19. March 2007, 12:10:54
elderly dog, PADI, 15 years old, golden retriever
March 17th is justly celebrated around the world as the birthday of our serene old Golden Retriever Padi.
On Saturday he was 15 years old, a venerable age for such dogs. He is failing now; deaf, partly incontinent (as I’m sure you all wanted to know) and very lame. Stairs are a big problem, but eventually he manages.
This is how it will come to us all some day. I only hope we have the same amount of love to give and receive when it does.
Here’s his formal birthday portrait, taken as he anticipated the imminent arrival of a dried pig’s ear as his birthday treat. Yum Yum.
Padi's 15th Birthday
A letter flooded in to ask why his name is spelled PADI. Our previous golden retriever Lucca (named after the Tuscan city state) died of a heart attack in 1992, aged four. We had just flown off to Egypt to learn to scuba dive. We took a crash PADI course (it's allegedly an acronym for Pay And Die Immediately) in which we were immaculately taught by Erica Zahn, flew back in tears and bought a puppy. He was called Puppy for several months till we noticed he had been born on March 17th. So Puppy mutated to Padi.
Friday, 2. February 2007, 10:24:33
cats, kittens, Bembo, Bodoni
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OK, time for a Cat Update.
Bembo and Bodoni went to the vet for their booster injection yesterday. £101.50, it cost. That’s damn near $200. Yikes! No wonder London is the world’s most expensive city. We’d register them in Harlech but the vet is only open twice a week for 15 minutes at a time. Good with sheep, though.
Anyway, these guys are supposed to be brothers. Brothers my foot. They are totally different in looks, character, size and temperament. The only thing they have in common with most brothers is that they hate each other and fight at every opportunity. But they were sold to us by the Cat’s Protection League as Domestic Long Hair twins. Bembo has short hair, incidentally.
They’re now about 14 months old. They are treated identically. Bembo weighs 3.2 kilos, while Bodoni — weight for it — hauls around 5.3 kilos. In real weight, that’s 11lb 11oz. That’s a BIG cat. If you know anything about fonts, we’re thinking of changing his name to Thorowgood. Or Falstaff. Bembo sustains his svelte, trim shape at 7lb 1oz.
Bodoni simply eats everything he can lay his mouth on, and when he’s finished his he attempts to nick Bembo’s food, then Padi’s (we’re usually on hand to prevent him) until he resorts to squeezing through the cat flap (just) to go marauding among the neighbour’s cat dishes. There is no hope for him.
Dog update: Padi the Golden Retriever is still with us but everything is slowly failing. He’s deaf, sporadically incontinent (we find the occasional barker’s egg on the floor) and his back legs are very wobbly. He is 14 years, 10 months and 16 days old. Appetite and love undiminished.
Saturday, 6. May 2006, 18:03:26
pets, Lost dog, golden retriever
He ran straight across the road in front of me. The little Micra coming up the hill stood on its brakes and just missed him. He trotted obliviously on down the pavement.
Weighed down with groceries, I looked round to berate the owner. Nobody else in sight. “He’s lost,” said Yvonne. We followed across the road, and the dog was trotting fast away from us. Out of instinct, I whistled. He stopped and turned. I beckoned to him, and he came.
There was a bone-shaped metal tag on his collar engraved with his name – Tommy – and a mobile phone number. We pulled him into the front garden and I rang the number. It was on answerphone. I left a message. It was 12:32.
With care, because there were two kittens and a deaf 14 year old Golden Retriever waiting for us inside, we opened the door. Immediate chaos, panic, outrage, fur flying everywhere. We dragged Tommy downstairs and into the back garden.
Water is the first necessity. He drank thirstily, then took stock, just as we did. He was a handsome, dark coated Golden Retriever. This was at least 500 quids’ worth of dog. The distraught owner would be calling any second.
Yvonne settled him in to the garden and introduced him to Padi while I grilled a couple of kippers for our brunch. The dogs shared the skin. Then Bonios all round. The cats, pent up with fury, glared through the drawing room windows. No call from the worried owners.
At 1:30 I rang again. Still the answerphone. Yvonne had to go out to the garden centre, so I waited in for the call. Nothing. So I settled down to watch Gloucester versus Wasps. I rang again. Still the answerphone.
I tried the Haringey stray dogs service, but of course they were shut. The only council department that operates outside the hours of 10 to 4 Monday to Friday are the traffic wardens, and they work as relentlessly as the mortgage.
I rang the police. “Bring it in,” they said. Bloody hell. Gloucester had just scored a try. Yvonne came back. “We’ve got to take him to the police station,” I said. “You mean the owners haven’t rung?” she asked with amazement.
He leaped into the car with alacrity. He was well-groomed, healthy, friendly, a lovely, handsome dog. At the police station a WPC came out and wrinkled her face in disgust. “Oooh, I don’t like dogs,” she said. A constable with a bizarre beard took our details. “If nobody claims him, we’ll have him,” I said impetuously. “You can take him home with you now if you want, and we’ll get in touch if the owners contact us,” said the PC. We looked at each other and thought of the two enraged catlets and our perplexed senior citizen. “Better not,” I decided.
We got home in time for the second half. No calls. What a great game. Wasps just scraped it, a bitter disappointment for Gloucester. No phone call.
It finally came at 6:15. A youth asked “Have you found a dog?” Er, yes. That would be the four messages I left on your answerphone? “Oh, we had it on silent.” Right. I said we’d taken him to the police station, and gave the contact details. “Oh. Right.” I waited. There was a muffled adult voice in the background. “Er, thanks,” said the youth and hung up.
The police rang at 6:50. “The family has just come to pick up their dog. They showed proof of ownership. They had two young kids with them.” That was good of the police.
All’s well that ends well. But I would have been worried sick. And I would have checked my mobile to make sure it wasn’t on silent.
Friday, 17. March 2006, 16:30:25
golden retriever, Wales, stock agencies, stock agency
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Today is March 17th, a day for feasting and celebration. The reason being that our beloved Golden Retriever Padi has his fourteenth birthday today.
Congratulations, old pup. You are the sweetest dog, gentle and kind, self-effacing, greedy, affectionate when it suits you, and now rather stiff-legged and totally deaf.
He arrived in the summer of 1992, just after we had learned to dive in Sharm el Sheikh. We’d learned to dive on a PADI course, PADI standing for Professional Association of Dive Instructors (or alternatively, according to rival BSAC instructors and given the speed of the course, Pay And Drown Immediately).
When we got back, this new bundle of yellow fur was simply called Puppy (there’s imaginative we are, isn’t it?) until we noticed on his pedigree (whoa – there’s posh!) that he had been born on March 17th, which is the saint’s day of the famous Welshman St. Patrick, who converted the heathen Irish to Christianity.
You can see the way our minds were working -- with tectonic slowness. St. Patrick = Paddy = PADI = Puppy = Padi!
Fourteen is a good age for a golden retriever. He’s reasonably healthy, got a good strong appetite, eager for walks but hasn’t the strength to sustain them for long. Stone deaf now.
But oh, the Car! How he loves it! I have to lift him in now, but oh, how he loves the Car! World’s favourite place! He still enjoys it as much as ever.
The only downside is his steady, regular farting; silent, rich, ripe and spectacular. If the MoD is looking for a new nerve gas this would be a fair contender. Ye gods.
Happy birthday, baby. Real beef tonight! Here's a picture of him at lunchtime today with his birthday bone.
WIDGETIZE