Dear Philippa,

 

A number of readers have remarked that I write too much about dogs, show photographs of them even, and that in revealing my fondness for them undermine the irascible “Victor Meldrew” persona that I have invented for myself and behind which I hide.  Sadly, not an invention, as my children with characteristic loyalty will confirm; bright as they are, and educated to the hilt, they seem not to have twigged that what I have become is to some extent their fault. Some might think – but not say – entirely their fault.

 

Anyway, about these dogs. A couple of weeks ago my daughter Helen brought her three month old Labrador Rufus for a sleepover with Rosie, still a puppy herself although two now. How we fretted. Would they get on? Would Rosie feel displaced and become depressed? Would she eat him in the night? All turned out well and they played happily together. There was a hint of jealousy occasionally, but I couldn’t help noticing that this was only when I was showing affection to either one of them. After they went home Rosie moped about and slept for the whole of the next day. So did Rufus. Keen to build on this early bonding between the dogs we made a return visit two weeks later.

 

How we fretted. Would they remember each other? Would the relationship progress? They greeted each other rapturously, Rufus even doing a little excited wee he was so beside himself. For much of the two days we were with them they passed their time play-fighting, with Rosie showing remarkable tolerance of the exuberant and clumsy Rufus who, when Rosie lay down exhausted groomed her with such skill that she closed her eyes and assumed an expression of bliss. She was a bit like an older sister, leading him around, occasionally correcting him, and when we went out for a walk she led him into a lake for a swim.

 

But it wasn’t only about the dogs. Rufus has taken a shine to my moustache and likes nothing more than to nibble at it; in his canine way he is expressing fathomless affection for me. Or so I believe. Others present insisted that he is rooting for debris from my previous meal, possibly the meal before that. There’s the loyalty peeping out again.  

 

So after a couple of nights that ended between four and five when I responded to dogs with full bladders and renewed enthusiasm for play, I was glad to get home, but not to an early night – I had to go to a licensing service (did I tell you that I’ve got a church in my garden?) that gives legal force to the appointment of the new vicar. It was a splendid occasion, packed out with the great and the good, gold chains and purple everywhere. It was conducted by the Bishop of Selby with whom as it happens we had spent an evening last week on the Derwent, stopping the boat by the ruins of Kirkham Priory for a picnic. The bishop was dressed from head to toe in camouflage combat gear, so I was a bit worried about what he would show up in for the licensing service. My concerns were groundless – he was gorgeously attired, as befits a Prince of the Church. He winked at Fiona from the procession as they paraded out of the Great West Door, which I thought was a bit much, and she blushed for at least twenty four hours. Mind you, I was winked at by a nun once.

 

Best wishes,

 

Howard