Waggies

As a child of the 1970s, I always loved to roam, especially if it was alongside an ecstatic enthusiastic companion.  I was only 7 years old when I pleaded to be allowed to walk our pedigree Heinz 57 dog, Nicky.  

She was a  very protective dog, so it was agreed.  (And maybe my parents couldn’t believe their luck!) 

So off we went down the road, connected by a lead, stopping at nearly every lamp and gate post, and from time to time, suddenly disappearing up a neighbour’s  garden path where a cat lived. 

Nicky was very kind, she sometimes let me think I was in charge.  We would chat, she would show me this and that. But mostly, Nicky trained me like the harshest, most unsympathetic of Sargeant Majors! She was strong and pulled until my shoulders burned, she held some kind of furious grudge against Poodles, German Shepherds, various other dogs and cats. She ‘suffered’ from selective hearing, but also knew I was a sucker for the big soulful eyes trick, so I would let her off the lead, always faithful that she would come back this time. I don’t know how I ever got to school on time! We fell out daily, but she always looked so pleased with herself, I always fell straight back in love with her, and understood she was just making the most of her precious time out. I regarded her as my special little sister and have always felt like that with all the dogs I’ve known since. Nicky was my trainer of the 1970s, so several years, (OK decades), later, I have grown up, got grounded and learned how to be in charge. But I still haven’t met a dog that doesn’t make me love him or her.  And I still love nothing more than to walk or roam alongside a sniffing, tail-wagging, dog, so clearly, loving their time out.