Our grandpuppy was quite possibly the most polite and kid friendly dog I’ve ever seen. He wasn’t at all pretty, basically a toilet brush that hated birds but he had infinite patience (and apparently a monster threshold of pain) around little kids, could be taught to do most things, except come back when he was in full flight after a cat or a bird, and for the last eleven years or so he’s looked forward to spending time visiting his grandfather (me) who he doted on.
He was also the only dog we’ve ever allowed to sleep in the house, and I shall sadly miss the quite thump of his tail on the timber floor as I wandered past him on my post midnight loo run. I’ll miss him sitting staring at me while I had my morning coffee, only too aware that he wasn’t to hassle me to go to the beach until it was finished.
On his home turf he’d occasionally escape, and do the rounds of the neighbours pets for ten minutes or so before wandering back to stand guard once again over his six and ten year olds.
Today he came back for the last time, dragging one leg by a tendon, ribs crushed and some missing, lung and intestines visible through a gaping hole in his chest where he’d been torn apart by one of those dogs that people have to show how tough they are. It seems that new tenants had arrived in the house next door, the giant mastiff who was his mate replaced by a pit bull who clearly wasn’t.
He shouldn’t have been there, no excuses, but I will never understand why anyone needs a dog capable of doing that. I wonder also what happens to the kids at the school opposite if that particular dog gets out too.