Dear Philippa

A few weeks ago my daughter, Helen, and her partner, Soren chose a black Labrador puppy from a litter of four and last weekend they collected him. Knowing from relatively recent experience how exhausting and isolating having a very young puppy in the house can be I nipped down for a few days to give a hand. “Down” being Quendon, a village in west Essex not far from Stansted Airport. It’s a very nice village but there’s not much of interest to tell you about it, except that the next village along is called Ugley, which a few decades ago hit the headlines when the Ugley Women’s Institute, tired of the sniggering, announced a change of name to put a stop to it. The new name, astonishingly, was (and still is) The Women’s Institute, Ugley Branch.

Anyway, I arrived to find Helen showing all the signs of post-natal exhaustion and, not having been out of the house for five days, suffering from cabin fever. There had been much discussion and consultation about a name for the dog, in which I was involved. Soren is of Danish origin and was anxious that they avoid a Danish name. Someone, a Dane thankfully, once said that Danish is not a language it’s a throat infection and I was afraid that with a Danish name there would be a constant problem that whenever anyone within fifty yards cleared his throat the dog would go running up to him. The name they really fancied was Oscar, but it turns out that one of Helen’s schoolfriends had earmarked it for the son she may have and ruled it out – I think she’s an intellectual property lawyer, so not to be messed with. The possibility of confusion in the future with two Oscars in a close circle of friends was a concern.

This would not be a big problem. I called my dog Rosie, which happens to be Helen’s family name given to her by her brother Edward who, when at nursery school, took a shine to a classmate with that name. There has been little confusion. If I say, for example, “Rosie has been promoted and given a pay rise”, or “Rosie is going to the vet next week to be spayed” only the feeble-minded would take it the wrong way. But you do have to be careful – I have avoided telling people about one of Rosie’s idiosyncrasies: “When Rosie has a wee on the lawn she likes to hold a tennis ball in her mouth”. Too much risk of misunderstanding.

They have called him Rufus, a name popular among the Scots on account of their ginger beards.

He’s an enchanting little thing and has settled in well. Toilet training is progressing well, when anyone says “Where’s grandad?” he looks at me, and by the time I left we had him sitting to hand and verbal commands, reliably coming when called, and managing most of the time to cross a room without falling over his enormous paws. Surprisingly he is barking; Rosie was a year old the first time she barked, and so startled herself that she didn’t try it again for six months. His most endearing quality, however, is that he instantly bonded firmly with grandad and loves nothing more than to chew my moustache. I’m going back next week for Easter when I am confident that I shall be able to teach him to do the Telegraph ‘Toughie’ crossword and smoke my cigars.

When I got home Rosie (the dog) sniffed me all over in a suspicious way. I’m going to have to be careful.

Regards

Howard