Today I found myself reflecting on what happened at my beloved country cottage. There once lived an old lady, Mrs. Margaret Wilkins, and she had a grand young English Mastiff puppy. That pup grew up quickly, always on guard. She could devour a large bowl of food in a flash, scratched her back against the fence so hard that the posts leaned sideways, and even tried, with one playful lunge, to snatch poor Mrs. Wilkins as she walked by. Puppies like that need something to keep them entertained, even if only occasionally.
But then, sadly, Mrs. Wilkins passed away. It wasnt anything to do with the dogshe simply didnt make it to ninety. Soon enough, her children and grandchildren arrived at the cottage just outside Reading. And there, tethered in the garden, sat the dog. One look at her, and it was clearshe was rather pleased to see new faces. After all, its not every day such a stream of visitors comes bearing treats and a variety of food!
The family puzzled over what to do with the dog. It felt cruel to have her put down, but nobody was keen on looking after her, and simply letting her go wouldnt be right. The world shouldnt have to suffer such difficulties undeservedly. In the end, they decided the best thing would be to find her a good homeoffering to even pay someone for the trouble! Whoever was ready to take on such a cuddly beast deserved every penny.
Eventually, they found a chap, Mr. Peter Daviesa man who had always dreamt of feeding a big dog and scratching her behind the ears with a rake if necessary. People, honestly, have the strangest dreams. The family rang up a vet to help with the handover.
They made a plan with the vet. The idea was to give the dog a sedative and quickly move her to her new house. Everyone agreed not to forget a little prayer for Peterjust in case. Better safe than sorry.
At the appointed hour, the vet arrived, impressive tranquilliser dart gun in hand. All vets must be brave souls. The vet filled the tranquiliser gun and, with one shot, sent the dog safely off to the Land of Nod. They unchained her, hoisted her onto a tarpaulin, and carried her to the car.
They squeezed the dog into the back of an old Land Rover, boot and all. The vet sat up frontonly right that a professional travel in comfort. Peter, her new owner, drove. Mrs. Wilkins’s entire family huddled in the back. Off they went, chatting nervously, when suddenly, the dog began to come round.
She lifted her head and looked about with intrigue. People everywhereall staring right back.
The vets eyes were the size of saucers. Peters werent much smaller, and its a miracle he remembered he was driving at all! In truth, for that moment, he didn’t care.
How very interesting, the dog must have thought.
I wonder if theres a heaven? thought the family.
Without warning, the dog started climbing forward to get closer to everyone. Why wait? As Peter fumbled for the door handle, genuinely on the verge of leaping outbecause, really, who cares about driving at a time like this?the dog gave everyone one giant, slobbery lick. Grandchildren, children, new ownereveryone was included. After all, family is family. Even the vet, though hed shot herhe got a lick too. Not what youd call a hero, but not all bad.
Thats when everyone realised theyd been wrong about her. She wasnt a monster at all. For the rest of the journey, we were soakedfrom above by the dogs affectionate kisses, and from below by the whirlwind of emotions that swept through us when she woke up.
Its funny to think about it now, in this little diary of mine. My dear cottage and the old gardenlife there always brings surprises.
