As you might expect the park is constantly populated by dogs and their owners. Of every size and colour, dogs and owners alike.
The dog is, surely, the only animal that displays the same variety of physical attributes as we humans. Chihuahua to Pyrenean Mountain dog, pygmy to Tongan. Today I almost suffer bouleversement as the result of near entanglement of my legs by a yappy little overcharged terrier.
I detest small, yappy dogs almost as much as I do cats. But having restored my equilibrium, physical and mental, as I resume my walk I was led to remember the dogs of my life.
Ironically, the first was a terrier. On his return from service in the war with the Desert Rats under Field Marshall Montgomery, my father found work at George's Brewery, at the time a well-known and respected company based beside Bristol bridge. Although lorries were the predominant means of delivery by the time Dad joined (1946), I clearly remember gripping my Mum's hand tightly when she took me to the brewery one day to see the magnificent teams of shire horses that delivered around the city centre, groomed and shining, awe inspiring in size and power, towing great drays loaded with barrels (all wooden) and crates. And Dad's job was as drayman, accompanying the driver around local towns and villages to assist with offloading and deposit in cellars. Custom was that driver and mate were offered a drink on completion and Dad often came home, by bicycle, the worse for wear and was subjected to an ear hammering by Mum. I think this must have led to an ultimatum and in due course Dad moved to work as a fitter at a local factory of Bristol Aeroplane Company, one of the first and most important aircraft manufacturers in the country. But he returned from George's one evening with a bundle of fur that nipped my ankles, drew my mum's snorts of disbelief and became a treasured member of the family. Sally lived for many years and was much mourned on her demise.
During my first marriage we kept no dog and indeed, towards it's end we had a very hairy tabby cat, despite my mistrust and apathy towards the species, which was named Sam in tribute to the by that time much admired (by me) Beckett of the same name. Sam came to my parents with me on my return with my daughters after my first wife deserted us and he lived for a couple of years. The next dog to enter my life I met on the evening of my first encounter with my second wife Pauline. After one abortive attempt, I finally turned up at her cottage on the other side of Bristol to find, behind steel railings at the end of her garden, a large, black, and loudly barking Labrador. My nerves were quelled when Pauline came to her door and assured me of the dog, Dina's, basic docility. When we married, Dina became a loved companion to everyone. She had not been spayed so was kept close and attended when on heat but when we moved to our second home, she escaped and became pregnant. She gave birth to one dead puppy and the vet found another still living male inside her, which he removed before Dina expired.
New born puppies require feeding at four-hour intervals so Pauline and I became nursemaids to the new member of the family, rising to the peals our alarm through the night to feed him with a syringe and he duly became a fit, boisterous and intelligent young dog, enjoyed by all. Unfortunately a puppy without the oversight of a mother to scold and nip him during his early months is unaware of the acceptable limits of behaviour and Sam (so named for the same reason as the cat!) became a danger to children when reacting in play situations and after he bit a neighbours son, we were advised by our vet that his instincts now were fully formed and could not be changed. So, we regrettably had him put down.
Pauline in particular was most upset at the circumstances and shortly afterwards a friend she had known from the road where she lived when we met alerted her to the availability of a litter of border collie pups and we went to see them. We particularly liked two of them, a wholly black and white one called Diana, after the recent addition to the Royal family and one with some brown patches called Dusty. Pauline/ we could not choose so I suggested we buy both. Which we did, changing Diana to Lizzie and they fitted into the family very well and became much loved companions, particularly for the children. They had quite different natures, Lizzie being quiet, shy, a little timid while Dusty was more eager and vital although looking her directly in the eyes did not reveal much brain activity. But they both had their breed instinct and when we had chickens, if they escaped to the unfenced part of the garden, both dogs rounded them up like sheep.
I had always wanted to own a standard poodle. The breed, described by the Encyclopaedia Britannica as 'the most sagacious of dogs', had always appealed to me, not clipped into the freakish caricature seen at dog shows! A couple of years after we acquired Dusty and Lizzie, Pauline found an advertisement in a local paper advertising some black puppies and we went to investigate. One of them, a male, had a tiny, almost invisible, area of white hairs on his chest and as a result would have been unsuitable to show which meant the breeder was almost dismissive of him. But we could have him half price if we wanted and as we wanted a pet and not a pampered show dog, we loaded him into the car and took him home.
What to call him? I have, since my teen years been a great admirer of the Russian author Dostoevsky. He had been arrested for his connection to a subversive magazine in 1849, he was sentenced to death, led out and blindfolded and actually heard the rifles cocked before his sentence was commuted to a long period in a prison camp. His epilepsy became much worse from this point and in the prison, he found himself without friends. Not being of the peasant or working classes, he was shunned by his fellow prisoners. But he was befriended by the prison dog, Sharik, who became his daily companion. So, our new dog was Sharik.
He was a lovely dog. Highly intelligent. Very alert and bouncy. Like many big dogs, and even by normal standard poodle standards he was BIG, he had dysplastic hips, the ball and socket not interlocking properly and after we took him with the other two for a walk, he would lie on his bed resting, then squeal in pain when he stood. He had a very friendly nature but also a loud, deep bark that frightened postmen and delivery drivers and, hopefully, thieves and ne'er do wells. Everyone loved him but he became 'my' dog. In those days I frequently went to London by train and Pauline would collect me from the station. Sharik would accompany her and I would lead him along the platform whilst Pauline carried my briefcase and I remember those occasions with great fondness. He lived to be thirteen and died suddenly during the night unexpectedly.
At that time Pauline and I often went out to dinner at the weekend, either to a restaurant or to the homes of friends. We would arrive home late at night to find one of our sons and his friends in our large kitchen, drinking and snacking and chatting and these sessions led to Sharik becoming 'one of the boys.' (The dogs' beds were in the kitchen.) So when the news of his demise spread among them, there were a number of saddened young men.
We never replaced him. Or the others when they died. But plenty of happy memories. And photographs.