A number of criteria had to be satisfied before we were allowed to become Ernie’s owners. A date was arranged in order that an NCDL staff member could visit us to establish that our garden was secure; they are understandably anxious not to encourage any quick returns among the animals they release. I installed fencing panels at the back of our yard where before there had only been bushes. This dealt with security, but it didn’t make the place look any bigger, nor did it make it a garden. We were worried that we might not be allowed to take Ernie at all; we had been deliberately vague when certain questions were put to us at the rescue centre – we had allowed the impression to be formed that our property had some sort of adjoining land.
During the pre-homecoming period we visited Ernie twice more. On each occasion he was delighted to see us, though I don’t think he knew who we were, we were just humans. At this time it seemed to me that it seemed to him that humans were a good thing – they allowed him a break in his routine, they fed him treats, not to mention the fact that they gave him the chance to escape from his kennel mate, Martin. Martin was also a lurcher pup, this one a more typical brindle collie-cross, and a born pugilist.
On our second visit we shared some time in the common room with Martin and his new owner-to-be, and for a while Martin treated Ernie to the rough stuff. But, though Ernie was the embodiment of slightness (there seemed to be even less of him now than the first time we saw him), he did not take it lying down. His main technique was to shadow box, but occasionally he’d use his superior agility to go in over the top and sink his teeth into his tormentor’s neck. As a tough, he looked about as convincing as a sparrow, but as a dog he seemed more than capable of looking after himself.
Inspection day arrived. By now we were certain that Ernie was our boy (the follow-up visits only served to increase our initial affection for him). We grew anxious that our place would fail the test, that we would not be allowed to bring him home. ‘You can have a baby without going through this sort of scrutiny,’ we were neurotically saying, to anyone who might be interested.
Our yard has a single French window opening onto it from the dining-room, and folding patio doors which open onto it from a lean-to at the rear. We propped all these back, as well as opening all of the rest of the doors in the house as well, to try to create the illusion that what you had here was a huge space for a dog to frolic in. Just before the inspector was due to arrive, we put the coffee on, like estate agents advise. The woman came in, smiled at us, talked about the weather, ticked the box saying the garden was secure, and that was that. The whole thing was a formality (though she did nod in a significant way, saying that not everyone bothers to make the follow-up visits to the rescue centre).
She spent the rest of the time wondering which piece of furniture Ernie would choose to wreck first. She looked sadly at the dining chairs and even more sadly at a leather sofa. Other than that she talked enthusiastically about her own dogs, of which there were five, the most recent of which was a foxhound that had managed to make its way from Liverpool to Kings Lynn (she knew its provenance by the tattoo it had in its ear.)
‘I’d have them all if I could,’ she said, meaning that she’d take the entire contents of the dogs’ home back to her place.
‘Yes, me, too, so would I,’ Trezza replied, as the coffee was poured. I shut my ears to all this cracked talk.
Jack, my son, who was fourteen, came along to Snetterton to collect the new arrival. Jack had already been out with us on one of the visits. There was a cartoon aspect to Ernie – when he pricked his ears, which he did all the time, his eyebrows shot up. In this way he often looked startled, and bat-like. His Martin-fighting technique, which he interrupted with his wash-your-face routine, and his general Bambi-ness, together with the bat-like countenance, all led Jack to the view that Ernie was excellent. We paid the compulsory £75 contribution and some extra fees to do with insurance, and Ernie said goodbye to all his friends amongst the staff who seemed genuinely sad to see him go. He’d been neutered during the period we’d been waiting for the all clear (an NCDL stipulation), and one of the young girls who worked there had said that even the vet had been sorry to perform the operation, the implication being that he had good potential as a dad (or at stud, as we dog owners say). We took him across the carpark on his regulation-issue yellow and black NCDL lead and matching collar. (The NCDL has been re-named the Dogs Trust, incidentally – I much prefer the older title with its militant essence and its barmy note of ‘Freedom For Tooting’. The leads and collars are still yellow and black, though, and some people keep them for ever, as a code for identifying each other.)
Trezza had filled the back seats of the car with quilts and rugs and blankets for the journey back to Norwich. They’d told us Ernie was a good traveller, in the sense that he wasn’t car sick, and they were right, he didn’t throw up; neither did he use any of the quilts, rugs or blankets, choosing instead to remain safe on Jack’s lap where he sat looking very, very worried, as if he was too nervous to puke.
***
When I was a young boy in the early Seventies the comedian Benny Hill released a novelty song (the musical equivalent of a shih tzu with ribbons in its hair poking out of a bimbo’s handbag). Hill’s novelty song achieved the distinction of becoming a chart-topping number one hit single. As someone once said, ‘Nobody ever lost money by underestimating the taste of the British Public.’
Hill’s record was a tale about a milkman who is thwarted in love by a bread roundsman. The milkman’s name, and the title of the song, was Ernie. The chorus went: ‘Ernie [backing singer echo, Ernie], And he drove the fastest milkcart in the west.’
I had been singing and whistling this tune, complete with the backing singer echo, at regular intervals ever since we had been introduced to our new pet. The circumstances of his arrival at the Snetterton dogs’ home, one of the unnumbered, meant that his name had been given to him by the staff from their stock of off-the-shelf dog names. We were not satisfied with it. For one it didn't suit his personality, and for two my singing of the execrable song was driving the missus round the bend and was not good for my own mental health either. To avoid any extra confusion for the poor animal in his already confused young life, we searched for a substitute name that sounded similar. I was all for Bjarni, after one of my favourite football players. Trezza said I would feel differently once Bjarni had transferred from Stoke City to Sampdoria, and that additionally there was no way she was shouting that in the park.
And so, after various other unsuitable footballer’s names had been eliminated, along with other unsuitable sporting names (Me: ‘Desert Orchid’? Trezza: ‘NO’), or even the names that were unconnected with any significant sport, names that were good names, but not appropriate for him – Monty, for example – Trezza came up with the idea of calling him after a famous orphan, what with him being an orphan himself and all.
I’ve heard that there’s a musical called Oliver! If by any chance the production features a ‘number’ that goes: ‘Ollie [backing singer echo, Ollie], And he asked for more gruel, the little pest,’ I remain unaware of it because I loathe musicals (compilations of novelty songs) more than almost anything in the world. Therefore I won’t be seen singing and whistling an off-key version of any such unspeakable ditty.
The re-christened pup