Once, when I lived in London, I splashed out and bought a
pair of Italian leather burgundy-coloured shoes, the kind with wooden heels that tap when you
walk in them. They were expensive, but I wanted shoes that would do
me for special occasions and for strutting about the town like a popinjay. One
day, shortly after Rothko, my part Labrador, part setter, part who-knows-what rescue hound arrived in my home from the dog pound, he got into the cupboard when I was out briefly (I
mean, I had only been gone twenty minutes) and, using his powerful doggie
teeth, tore my glorious Italian footwear into flitters, while leaving untouched the maggoty green-stained runners that I cut
the grass in. I came home to what was to become a typical
scene: Rothko, tail wagging, eyes gleaming, sitting on the carpet with, between
his outstretched paws, a treasured possession demolished beyond the ability of
the most skilled craftsman to repair. Quality socks were his favourite: leave
the laundry basket unattended for even a few seconds, and he struck like the
Day of the Jackal: nose into the clothes and out the back door with a clean
sock hanging from his mouth and me in hot pursuit. Of course, no human can
catch a dog in full flight, so after chasing him around the garden for a bit, I
would give up and he’d be left triumphant with his booty. He would
follow me back inside, sock left on the grass, as it was the game, the fact that
he was doing something naughty, that obviously amused his canine brain (such as
it was) rather than the prize itself. And I know that by chasing him I was
giving in and indulging the behaviour, but so what? A handful of socks is a
small price to play for my memories of him, which is all I have now that he is
dead.