Kiwi, a dog’s life
Kiwi was not our first family pet, but she was the dog we had with us, unusually, from puppyhood (including the canine form of the ‘terrible twos’) for the rest of her long and comfortable life. What kind of dog? Every kind of dog really, I used to say. Large and bouncy, and we suspected some whippet in her mixed ancestry, especially when you saw her tearing around in the park.
She came from a dog rescue organisation, but in fact it was her mother who had been rescued. With us she grew up alongside our two children, and was very like having another child. She regarded herself as essentially one of the family. When we had her spayed we were told that she would probably want to self-isolate while the effects of the anaesthetic wore off, so we settled her nicely in her doggy corner. We had originally invested in an outside kennel for her, but had discovered the fallacy of thinking that dogs lived in kennels in the garden. She was never interested in it.
When she came round from her op, far from wanting to be alone, we observed her drunken looking progress across the floor to be with the rest of the family, which was much more her idea of recovery.
The first time we went on holiday and left her in kennels, she pined and grew thin. But her joy when she beheld the family party arriving to collect her made up for her separation anxiety. When she got home she soon sank into the deep sleep of sheer relief. After that experience, she gradually came to rely on reunion following separation (and later she had various spells at the vet overnight for surgery, and in the animal hospital).
She was a joiner-in. She loved a joke. You don’t think of dogs having a sense of humour, but she chortled and did her own form of grin when there was general merriment. Didn’t matter if the joke was obscure to her, the important thing was the collective mood.
When we took her to the park, the best game was for everyone to spread out and call her name from the farthest point away from her, which successfully harnessed her energies in running between us.
She had, as they say, a speaking countenance. After we moved house within the area, I happened to be walking her past the old one, and she automatically trotted up to the door. “No, Kiwi!” I called “We moved. Remember?” She trotted back. ‘So we did. Silly me.’
She discovered the through lounge of this ‘new’ house, with its alternative way to enter the living room. We saw her trying the various routes on the ground floor, and discovering that you came into the same place. After that she invented the game of Round and Round, which required us to chase her continuously in and out of the doors, with her unpredictably changing direction to confuse the ‘pursuit’.
She slept in the living room here, and rather disliked any human use of the room after her bed time, as she was fond of her beauty sleep.
Her toys came to display a winter theme, as many were Christmas presents. We would loosely wrap them in Christmas paper, as she enjoyed the unwrapping. Her Santa was her favourite toy, and she got this particular Santa for the second time when she had chewed or worn out the first, and soon got the new version having the familiar scent required. And reindeer and snowmen. Stormin’ Norman Snowman, a great games player in mock tussles, got left in the garden, and appropriated by a playful fox.
When my Father came round for Christmas lunch, the children would show him their new presents, and Kiwi would proudly display her own latest toy. ‘And look what I got, Grandpa.’
One later year when Jo our daughter returned from a holiday, Kiwi waited while family gifts were unpacked, then inserted her head enquiringly into the bag they had come from. Reacting quickly, Jo nipped up the road to the nearest shops and purchased a dog toy. Kiwi was happy to be included. ‘But how kind, how thoughtful’ her amiable expression conveyed.
She preferred the familiar. ‘Who said that?’ you could see her thinking, when our son’s voice was breaking. She disapproved of acting — even putting on a voice to tell a story. She liked the voices she knew.
When, myself post-operative, I crashed down with the ironing board underneath me, she hurried upstairs to tell Maggie that strange things were happening. ‘Mum! Mum!’
Finally, when she was near the end of her journey, I sat on the floor with her at the animal hospital and told her how we all loved her. She fell deeply asleep listening to this. A couple of days later, they put her to sleep with Maggie and me there to soothe her on her way.
