DOGS HAVE PLAYED a big part in my life for as long as I can remember. They have given me so much pleasure for so many years. Of course, they can also bring terrible heartache. The trouble is, we can love them too much.
I grew up with dogs in our house in Edmonton, but the first one I ever owned was while I was touring with the American Red Cross. He was a beautiful big Alsatian. Tarzan, I called him. I loved that dog. He had such a calm, friendly nature. We were staying at a hotel in Romsey, near Southampton, putting on a show nearby, when one morning I took Tarzan out for a quick run. He was still a pup, full of life – I’d only had him six months. He was bouncing around, excited to be in the fresh air. As I bent down to attach his lead, he had other things on his mind. He wanted to explore, to enjoy his freedom. He darted across the road. It had been deserted seconds before, but out of nowhere a truck appeared. It was impossible for the driver to avoid the collision. Tarzan died there, right in front of me.
He was my dog. My responsibility. I have never truly got over that moment.
THE GOOD TIMES FAR outweighed the bad, however. Here you can see little Pepi, who is in the photo opposite, enjoying a spot of fishing with me. Mind you, the fish were not swimming scared when we had rods in hand and paw. Still, if you’re going to fail you may as well look good doing it – and Pepi certainly wears his rain hat with considerable aplomb.
RUSTY WAS NOT MUCH of a fisherdog, but that was about all he couldn’t do. He was a truly lovely fellow who performed all sorts of fantastic tricks. His favourite was to flip a biscuit off his nose and catch it in his mouth. I’m teasing him here with a pebble instead of a treat, and by the expression on his face he isn’t in the least bit fooled. He was smart was Rusty, clearly a lot smarter than me.
Rusty became such a master of the biscuit routine that I decided to try him out onstage, first at Babbacombe, where he grew used to having an audience, and then, SNAP! He was performing at the London Palladium.
AND THERE HE IS on that very stage. Rusty! At the Palladium! With me!
It was amazing that Rusty was able to do anything, given what happened to him. Penny and I had him while we were touring in our caravan. He had been a happy dog, running around full of life, until one day he just couldn’t walk. His back legs gave up on him. Penny and I were distraught. We had no idea what had caused this sudden disability. We called the vet, who explained that Rusty was suffering from suppressed distemper. ‘He will never again have the use of his back legs,’ we were told.
The situation became very distressing, watching our Rusty drag himself around the caravan. It was awful to witness – almost overnight he had become this pathetic, helpless animal. The only way I could take him outside for at least some limited exercise was to grab hold of his tail and lift his back legs up, allowing him to walk on his front legs with his back end sort of gliding along. This didn’t hurt him at all and he loved to be outside, but people in the street would give me filthy looks.
Neither Penny nor I was prepared to give up on him. There was no chance of that. On advice we began to massage his legs, trying to ease them back into action. I did what I could when not rehearsing or performing, but it was Penny who really took on the responsibility. She was determined to bring our boy back to his old self. This went on for some weeks, with pressure growing from various vets we visited to have him put down. Penny refused to give up hope.
One day while we were in the caravan, Rusty knocked over his bowl of water. ‘Oh, Rusty, you bad dog!’ I exclaimed. ‘Look what you’ve done! Come here!’
Then, very gradually, Rusty rose on all four legs and walked towards me. We could not believe it.
Now, he was never one hundred per cent after that, but he got around and went on to enjoy a good few more happy years with us. Rusty eventually died in 1962 and, although he was irreplaceable, we decided we wanted another dog in our lives. Enter Brutus, the Great Dane. With the emphasis on ‘Great’.
TAKE A LOOK AT him dancing with me in this photograph. (I’m certain his posture would have gone down a storm with Len Goodman and Bruno Tonioli!) That is one big dog. And one big softy. He really was. So gentle and so good with children and people in general. If there was a party on, you’d be sure to find Brutus mingling with the guests, a habit that ended up causing him a rather nasty mischief.
By 1964 Penny and I had separated and I was living in an apartment in Kensington. One day my eldest, Debbie, telephoned. The moment I picked up I knew she was very upset.
‘Daddy, Daddy, can you come home right now?’
‘Of course, darling, I’ll come immediately. What’s wrong?’
Through her sobs I managed to work out that Brutus was lying on the floor, foaming at the mouth. They didn’t know what was wrong or what to do.
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can. And in the meantime, call the vet.’
It was about a forty-five-minute drive to Totteridge, where the girls and Penny were living. When I arrived the vet was already there tending Brutus, who was lying just as Debbie had described, helpless, eyes streaming, mouth foaming. He looked like he was knocking at Death’s door.
Now, Brutus was way too heavy for one person to lift. On my arrival the vet suggested that the two of us attempt to get him to his feet. Straining between us, we managed to haul him up, then tried to encourage him to move. That seemed beyond him and he stood there shakily, still foaming and looking extremely poorly. All of a sudden, he sneezed. And from out of one of his nostrils, flying like a dart … a toothpick!
‘How on earth …?’
Debbie came up with the answer. ‘Well, a couple of nights ago we did have a bit of a party and there was food … with toothpicks.’
Brutus was such a large dog that he could easily rest his head on any normal table. You can see the proof in the picture with my daughter Laura, while she’s trying to have a meal. This must have been what he was doing when he hoovered up that toothpick.
Brutus made a full recovery, I’m glad to report.
ANOTHER MARVELLOUS DOG WHO shared my life was Bothwell, a Yorkshire Terrier I gave to my second wife Anthea when we first got together in the early seventies. We called him Bothwell because of the character, the 4th Earl of Bothwell, played by Nigel Davenport in the film Mary Queen of Scots. We thought it was a very classy name.
Unfortunately I don’t have any photographs of bossy Bothwell, but he most definitely deserves to be included here. Bothwell was incredible. He loved to join me on the golf course, which initially did not go down well with the other members. But it wasn’t long before they’d changed their minds. Bothwell would never, ever walk through a bunker or run on to a green. If he went into the bushes, when he came out he would look around for me and as soon as he saw me he would cock his head inquisitively, asking if it was okay to come across the fairway. If one of my partners was about to take his shot I would motion for him to sit and wait. He always did.
On the way home to our apartment near Ascot racecourse, with Bothwell on my lap, we’d enjoy a singsong together. ‘We’re going hoooome! We’re going hoooome!’ I would sing, while he howled along with me. I don’t think you could call it a descant. You should have seen the looks we received whenever we stopped at traffic lights. They thought we were mad. Bothwell and I didn’t care.
Bothwell at home, however, was a completely different creature. He was Anthea’s dog through and through. He wouldn’t listen to a single thing I said. ‘Here, boy!’ would receive a dismissive flick of his tail as he wandered in the opposite direction. I must confess that I found this all very entertaining and would tease Bothwell quite a bit, crawling on my hands and knees towards his food as if I was about to steal it from him. He would defend his bowl manfully, growling and barking madly. I loved that little dog even though he once went for me while I was wearing a towelling robe, sinking his teeth into it and hanging there, refusing to let go. I probably deserved it.
He was a brave little soul, was Bothwell. He might have looked like a Yorkshire Terrier but in his mind he was a Great Dane.
As I mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, though, the joy that comes with having such wonderful companions always seems to be tempered with sadness. That is life all over, of course.
Anthea and I had two dogs: Bothwell and, a little later, Monty, a more timid Yorkshire Terrier but just as lovely. In 1975 Anthea and I moved to Wentworth in Surrey and it was there that Monty decided to go exploring and never returned. He was run over and killed at the bottom of our drive by a car being driven far too fast. Anthea was devastated. She couldn’t face the idea of Monty no longer being with us so we decided to erect a small tombstone in his memory in the garden. It’s still there.
Years later, in the mid-eighties, there was another dreadful occurrence. One that still saddens and angers me.
I was married to Wilnelia by then and we had two Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, Tess and Dakin, mother and son. Tess had given birth to a litter of puppies and one of them always looked so sad that we had to keep him. We were living in the house in Wentworth when both beautiful dogs were stolen during one of the golf tournaments. Dear Tess had a heart condition and required medication all the time. Whoever took her wouldn’t have known how to look after her.
I just cannot understand why anyone would do such a dreadful thing.
TO THE PRESENT DAY. Well, almost. This is a year or so ago.
It’s our little Yorkshire Terrier Lulu and Alsatian Mace, with the indomitable Cora, who runs our house for us. Lulu was given to me by my wife, Winnie, for my eightieth birthday.
I enjoy training dogs – I’d even say I was good at it – and felt I was coming along just fine with Lulu. Until Winnie and I were due to spend three months in Puerto Rico, where Winnie grew up.
‘Bring Lulu with us,’ she suggested. ‘We can organize it, and you can finish your training there.’
Foolishly, I didn’t think this was a good idea. ‘I’m not taking her all the way over there. I’ll be constantly worried about her. She’s just a puppy and might run off, or bark the place down and upset the neighbours.’
We leave Lulu with Cora. Three months later we return, and Lulu is no longer my dog. Lulu is now besotted with Cora. Lulu does absolutely nothing I tell her. Nothing. The only concession Lulu has made since then is to play one particular game with me. She loves to come up to our bedroom in search of my old slipper.
‘Where’s the slipper, Lulu? Who’s got the slipper?’ She’ll sit there, stock still, watching my every move. She knows I’m going to find that slipper, and when I do …
‘Ah, there’s the slipper,’ I’ll grandly announce, producing it with a flourish from its hiding place. ‘I found it and it belongs to me!’ This drives Lulu crazy. She’ll go for the slipper and when she gets her teeth into it there’s no way she’ll let go. She pulls and pulls until it’s hers, at which point she darts out of the room, slipper in mouth, while I scream after her, ‘Bring back my slipper! Bring back my slipper, you naughty dog!’ She loves that game. And so do I.
And then there’s my Mace, a lovely, lovely boy who was once trained by the police but was just too good-natured for that line of work. How Mace joined our family is rather shocking. Being a big golf fan, in July 2002 I was staying with Ronnie Corbett and his wife Annie at Muirfield for the Open Golf Championship and while I was absent our house was burgled, with Winnie, my son JJ and Cora inside. Cora was badly injured during the incident. I cannot tell you how traumatic this was to us as a family. I was determined to take action and decided we needed a big dog to help protect our property. We were so lucky when we found Mace. He was perfect. In every way.
Through his partial police training, Mace had become the most impeccably behaved and obedient dog I have ever owned. He was remarkable. All I had to say was ‘Talk to me,’ and he would reply, ‘Hello, Bruce!’ Something like that, anyway. Mace even gave Rusty a run for his money when it came to the biscuit trick. I used to tease him a little when I took his treat out of the tin, pretending it was for me. He used to whimper and give me a look as if to say, ‘Isn’t that biscuit mine?’ And of course it always was. He was such a good friend to me.
Mace died last year in 2014. I adored him and miss him every day.
