I loved my dog, Petra (pictured here with a slightly younger me), and she would accompany our family on holidays all over the country. We used to drive to Devon, and I remember stopping at a pub called the Pig and Whistle (I have no idea where it was, but somewhere between London and Devon, and there was no motorway in those days). This pub was just over a bridge by a river - and the bridge was about 20 foot above the field and water below. I was in the field, and my brother on the top with the dog. Petra jumped! I can still remember it now - a flying dog. Amazingly she didn't hurt herself. Another time after we'd left the pub, my brother said 'Can we have the dog in the back please?' (in a big old Humber Super Snipe there was room front or back for her). 'She is in the back'. Oh dear.... we turned around and drove back to the pub to find her sitting patiently by the bridge, just waiting for us. She'd jumped in one open door, then straight out another!
Petra had a best buddy, my cousin's dog Dusty. She was a black mongrel (where have all the mongrels gone?) and was probably a distant relative of a Labrador somewhere along the way. Her claim to fame was thinking that seaweed was grass and sinking in surprise into a salty lagoon. No harm there either, thankfully. Petra used to go to the pet shop in Whetstone High Road on her own - travelling there from our house by going up the road, across on the zebra crossing, and then back down to the pet shop where she would get a doggy treat. In those days you let your dogs out on the street, and dog poos dried in the sun in the gutter to a chalky white.
|Chizel and I |
(Photo by Hannah)
Liked this? Try: