Our family had never had a dog. We were most definitely not a dog family. We were a cat family, a rabbit family, a guinea pig and hamster family, even a goldfish family. We were a small domestic animal family, something that was easy to care for and largely contained. But then we got a dog, and we became the dog family I never thought we could be.
My mum had grown up in Hong Kong with retired alsatian police dogs, so the decision to have a dog was largely based on her fond memories. One midsummer day, we found ourselves driving to a breeder near Biggin Hill, on the outskirts of London, to pick up Max, the border terrier (family lore was that the early months he spent next to an airfield caused his lifelong tic of barking at aeroplanes). He was the pet I’ll never forget, simply because, to our family, it seemed as if he was the first pet that we had ever really had.
This was a pet with which we could share outings for the first time. We would spend many happy years going to the Jurassic coast together, feeding him ice-cream in the hot summer months (his favourite treat was a Mini Milk). He was a sociable animal, and he made us more sociable animals too. We became part of an ever-expanding local community of other dog “families”. Our dogs became friends, and we in turn became friends with their owners. It was a nice feeling, finding ourselves among the dog families. We suddenly realised what we had been missing out on, and I was grateful to Max for opening us up to this new way of being in the world.
It was not always plain sailing. Border terriers are notorious for being obsessed with anything small and furry, and several walks turned into whole afternoons spent chasing this manic small beast the length and breadth of various south-east London parks. He was also extremely greedy, and I never forget the time he ate a whole box of alcoholic chocolates and proceeded to run around in circles for two hours before collapsing in an exhausted but happy daze (although chocolate is poisonous for dogs, Max once ate an entire chocolate birthday cake and lived to tell the tale.) For all of this, he was instantly forgiven.
After 11 years as a family member, Max developed epilepsy and suffered a swift demise, which was painful to watch. He is buried in the garden of a house we once had in Dorset, under a wide old oak tree. We no longer own the house, or the garden, but it is by the sea, and I like to think of Max as sleeping peacefully with the sound of the rolling waves as backdrop to his dreams of endless squirrel chases and chocolate birthday cakes.
English (US)