I was ten when my mum brought Grace home. I can still remember my curiosity at the box in the back of the car being rewarded with a small, black and tan furry head bursting out and instantly offering me excited licks and needle sharp scratches. She established herself as the head of our small family the moment she walked over the threshold with a large puddle on the hall rug.
"Oh bloody hell!" exclaimed my mum.
"Cuuute!" I gushed, knowing immediately that this dog could never do any wrong in my eyes. (Except when she ripped to shreds my poster of Magnum P.I., I wasn't too chuffed at that!)
My mum and I had moved to the south coast from the North West and I was desperately missing my extended family. Grace helped enormously to fill the gaping hole they had left when we swapped north for south.
Long walks along the beach ensued as Grace grew bigger and completely bonkers! Chaos had a nasty habit of following Grace like a mischievous shadow. Once free from the custody of her lead, demented behaviour prevailed, scooting back and forth across the sand like her bum was on fire. In and out of the Channel she would frolic, oblivious to all trying to enjoy their day at the beach. Picnics and blankets were sprayed with excavated sand and dog scented water from her vigorous shakes, before bowling into the backs of legs, knocking the hapless pleasure seeker to the ground before they'd even seen her coming. "No, that's not my dog," I'd say while walking hastily from the scene.
Walks in the park were no less eventful thanks to her obsession with balls - any ball - cricket, tennis, foot, all granted equal attention as she would disrupt countless games in her need to quell the irresistible temptation they represented. Many a cricket match came to an abrupt halt due to Grace running onto the green and nicking the ball with me chasing frantically after her, before she would take off to enjoy her catch in the privacy of a bush, leaving me to be shouted at by angry men in their summer whites.
I was powerless against her will. With The Dog Whisperer some fifteen years away, my only role model was Barbara Woodhouse, and what self-respecting teenager would look to a blue-rinsed granny for guidance? I had to act on my wits, hence we got into a lot of trouble - my wits were none too quick!
She was all paws, lolling tongue and excitement, I could see that, but others were not so easily convinced.
Grace was a dog true to her species, harbouring healthy dislikes for all things furry. Cats, squirrels, hamsters, even other dogs, particularly whippets; don't ask me why! She wasn't keen on children either. If one so much as looked at her, mistaking her for a doe eyed softy, she would give it an irritated snap sending the child running for its mum in hysterics. Most of my cousins were victims of Grace's intolerance, nothing serious, just a little nip here and there. So, along with her complete inability to resist a freshly cooked shepherd's pie resting on the side, or a homemade Victoria sponge straight from the oven, it won't surprise you to hear that my mum would exclaim on a weekly basis, "She's got to go!" Each week I would win her a reprieve with tears and promises until she went blind at the age of six when she could no longer see her tormentors.
Grace was my life. I could read her every expression and she could read mine. She was my best friend and confident, seeing me through some turbulent, teenage years. When I turned from an obedient little girl into an obnoxious little shit, when mother and daughter confrontations were in full swing, Grace would offer me her non-judgemental eyes, reminding me I wasn't really that banshee who was just screaming at my mum, provoking guilt and remorse which never failed to send me seeking an apology. No matter how bad it got, she was always there with those eyes. Even when they were cloudy from the cataracts I could still see their depth. Every teenager should have a dog; there's nothing like them for easing those growing pains. Unless you're allergic, then, even I have to admit, they'd be a pain in the arse!
I was on holiday when the vet diagnosed her with Leukaemia. My mum held off the inevitable until my return. She had lost half her body weight in the two weeks I had been gone; showing no signs of the disease before, the shock was unbearable.She tried to stand when she saw me but was too weak, she had to abandon the idea in favour of a soft wag of her tail instead. I spent the night on the floor, curled up next to her, praying she would die peacefully and spare us the agonising decision. But really, there was no decision to be made.
We arrived at the vet as three and left as two; distraught and inconsolable. I'm crying now as I type and that was nineteen years ago. She was thirteen. Ironically, it was during that holiday that my now husband stopped being a boyfriend and became a fiance. In that fleeting moment of my history, I gained a life partner and lost my childhood. Maybe that's why I didn't stick to dogs.
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