A Dog's Life(5)

The silence continued through dinner and well into the evening. It was nearly midnight when David spoke.

‘You can keep her under one condition.’

‘What’s that?’

‘That you call her Circe. It’s the right name for her. I hate to say it but she’s an enchantress. And the flat smells absolutely disgusting.’





Dog Days



‘You bought her. You clean up after her. She’s your responsibility.’

In those first weeks following my momentous decision to buy Circe there was a great deal of cleaning up to do. Every floor in the flat was covered in newspapers, to accommodate the various messes she was making. She wanted to eat everything, even – I discovered to my horror – the contents of the cat’s litter tray. I got her a wicker basket to sleep in, and the taste and flavour of the wicker obviously appealed to her, for it was soon reduced to shreds.




The cat, a sulky tortoiseshell named Alice, lived almost permanently in the garden while Circe was confined to the house. She hissed at her rival, who reacted with indifference or frantic tail-wagging, depending on her mood. She was a puppy and pleased with her young life. I would be pleased, I knew, when it would be possible to take her to the park. I yearned for that happy time. I had promised David that I would have the carpets cleaned professionally the moment her necessary imprisonment was over. The stale smell lingering in every room would be expertly dispatched.

The vet, Michael Gordon – who shares my interest in, and admiration for, the writings of Primo Levi – saw Circe a second time and declared her fit and safe to meet other dogs. He advised me to mix vegetables in with her food. I followed that advice for sixteen years, feeding Circe once a day, in the early evening. She stayed lean and energetic as a result, unlike some of the lethargic animals she met on our travels.

The day of her freedom dawned, and I was yanked towards the park for the first of many times. She somehow knew it was there. There was some training to do along the way and she learnt very quickly that the pavement was not to be fouled. Within a week, she understood that she wouldn’t be slapped or chided if she made for the gutter.

Catching her, bringing her to heel, was not so easy. I often needed the assistance of my fellow dog owners, who laughed as they attempted to catch hold of her. Circe was intent on staying free, especially in the winter when she ran faster to keep warm. I lived in terror that someone would leave the gate of the Dogs Only area open, thus ensuring her certain escape. And that is precisely what happened one morning. She sprinted off at an alarming speed, forgetting the ball I was throwing to her. I chased after her, bellowing her name. Fortunately for me, she caught sight of a luckless jogger and chose him as her target. She yapped as she ran beside him, and then – to the man’s justifiable annoyance – tried to nip his ankle. He stopped and grabbed her by the back of the neck, and I took possession of her.

‘Have you no control over that bloody thing?’

The truth was that I hadn’t, and I was so grateful to the jogger that I couldn’t contradict him.

‘Not yet,’ I said, panting. ‘I’m very sorry.’

‘So you bloody should be,’ he snapped, recommencing his run.

I was suitably humbled, and dragged the uncomprehending offender home.

In Richmond Park, some weeks later, I let Circe off the lead so that my two godsons could play with her. Their parents, David and I sat on the grass drinking white wine and eating smoked salmon. We watched the boys taking turns to throw the ball, and smiled with delight at Circe’s impatience when they teased her by holding on to it a little too long for her liking. The game was proceeding happily until a running man hove into view. And he really was running, not jogging. Circe saw him and found it impossible to resist the thrill of pursuit. The man was listening to music through earphones and was oblivious to her barking. I gave chase and ran like a demon for twenty minutes while the long-distance runner and Circe forged ahead. It was she who stopped on this occasion, having worn herself out with the effort of scampering alongside a man who ignored her.

She remained on the lead for the rest of the afternoon – to her, and the boys’, irritation. And I, at the age of forty-seven, had taken sufficient exercise in the blazing heat of late July.

‘You don’t frighten her. She’s got you where she wants you. She owns you, not the other way round.’

I shouted at her when I was angry, and she frequently continued to disobey me. Neither David nor my great friend Vanni Bartolozzi had cause to shout. Their voices, seldom raised, had bass notes she listened to with apprehension. They told her she was doing wrong, and she believed them.