THE FAIRY GODMOTHER who stood guard over my cot when I was a baby, protecting and loving me in a way that only a dog can, was a gentle black Labrador called Chemmers. Chemmers was my first real experience of dogs, but I’m sad to report I have no clear memory of her. She died when I was three years old, but for those three years she felt her role in life was to look after me and my three older sisters, Libby, Lolo and Becca. Her main devotion was to Mum, who had been given her as a twentieth birthday present by a boyfriend she had before she knew Dad. In those young, single days Mum took Chemmers everywhere with her, including sailing down at Weymouth, which they both loved. Chemmers’ unusual name came from one of the buoys they had to sail round.
Luckily for me and my sisters, the boyfriend didn’t last long. However, Chemmers did, and when Mum met Dad it was a matter of ‘Love me, love my dog’. This wasn’t something Dad had a problem with, as he adored dogs from his own childhood days during the war, in particular, a Great Dane called John and a bull terrier called Barney. Sometimes Mum joked that he married her for the dog: that’s a long way from the truth, but he was certainly very happy to share her with Chemmers. They met in Cheltenham, where Mum was working as a teacher, and after they married Chemmers moved with them to the first farm Dad managed. When he got the tenancy of Bemborough Farm, where I was born and live to this day, Chemmers was very much part of the family, and because Mum was very attentive to her small brood of children, Chemmers joined in with her, treating us as if we were her own puppies.
It’s a pity that I don’t remember her, because according to Mum and my oldest sister Libby she was a truly wonderful dog: gentle, kind, well-mannered and everything that the very best Labradors can be. She accepted the rough and tumble of young children, the tiny sticky hands grabbing at her fur, the small, tottering steps taken by us as we clung to her back.
Mum got her into pup with a local dog, Barney, a promiscuous yellow Lab with a bit of a reputation as a Lothario; everyone in the neighbourhood with a female dog had to be on the lookout for Barney when their bitches were in season. He was remarkably agile, even jumping through an open kitchen window in pursuit of a mate at one neighbour’s home. On this occasion he was officially sanctioned to breed with Chemmers, and he made the most of it, fathering a beautiful litter of puppies.
People who don’t have Labradors are often surprised that when different coloured dogs and bitches are mated together, they sometimes produce litters with all three standard Lab colours – black, yellow and brown – among the puppies. (Incidentally, brown Labradors used to be called ‘liver’, but they were renamed ‘chocolate’ to increase their popularity.) I don’t want to get all scientific about it, but it’s down to genes. In the Labrador world, black is the dominant gene, but there are other genes in the mix, and depending on the combination different mixes of pups can occur. Nowadays breeders are able to have their dogs genotyped, if they are prepared to pay for it. Without the testing, the only things we know for sure is that two yellow Lab parents will always produce yellow pups, and a brown and yellow pairing will produce yellow or brown pups – sometimes both in the same litter – as will two brown parents. Pairings involving a black parent can produce a litter with all three different coloured pups in it, in all possible combinations. On this occasion, even though Barney was yellow, the pups were all born black.
Chemmers was an instinctively good mother to her litter. She was so relaxed that she accepted Libby curling up in bed with her puppies: like I said, I think she thought we were all her offspring, whether we had four legs or two …
When Chemmers died, at a good old age, Dad took Libby with him to see a litter and to help him choose another black Labrador puppy. He and Mum both thought that a house needs a dog to really be a home and they both loved black Labs. Besides, when you are living in a fairly remote farmhouse, even though there is a sheepdog in a kennel outside, having a house dog gives a great sense of security. Although Labradors are, on the whole, a placid breed, they have a surprisingly stentorian bark. A recent survey by an insurance company tested reactions to recordings of dogs barking and, without being able to see which dog it was, the one that was voted as having the scariest bark was to everyone’s surprise the Labrador, with more than half of all those canvassed guessing the Lab bark belonged to a Rottweiler. Next on the list of most scary was a Weimaraner, with the Rottweiler coming in third out of ten breeds that were tested.
So Labs make really good house dogs, and police and insurance companies believe the presence of any noisy dog is a great deterrent. Certainly, owners of dogs make fewer insurance claims for theft than non-owners, and surveys of burglars (yes, some burglars do co-operate when asked what would deter them …) show that a noisy dog is top of the list of things they would avoid when sizing up a break-in.
The puppy Dad and Libby chose was named Tassle. The end of most Labradors’ tails has slightly longer hair with a twist in it. This particular puppy had a very long twist to the end of its tail, like a little tassle, hence her name. Libby, who was six years older than me and nine at this time, adored her. Sadly, like many other pure bred animals, Labradors as a breed have inherent problems. One of the most common with Labs and retrievers (and other large breeds like German Shepherds) is hip dysplasia: it is, in fact, the most common orthopaedic disorder in all dogs. It means abnormal growth of the hip, with the ball and socket less functional than they should be, the socket restricting the normal movement of the ball. Muscles and ligaments around the joint can also be too lax to support it, so eventually the joint becomes arthritic and painful.
It’s very hard to detect this problem in a small puppy, it only becomes obvious between six and 18 months old, and sometimes much later. Some dogs with dysplasia don’t have much pain, but their legs are stiffer and they may become lame. Others, sadly, are badly disabled and in constant pain, irritable, not wanting to exercise. They can be treated with physiotherapy or anti-inflammatory drugs, and as an extreme resort, surgery, including hip replacement. Nowadays responsible dog owners only breed dogs with good hip scores. The score is a system of assessing the hips, and allocating each with a number. A perfect 0:0 is not very common in Labs, but the important thing is to keep the total as low as possible, with each hip being more or less the same as its pair. The highest score is 53 each side, so a total of 106, but this dog would probably be chronically disabled. The average total for both hips in Labradors is 12.
The score cannot be done until the dog is at least a year old, when a vet will X-ray the hips, and then a good breeder will decide whether the dog can be used for mating. Hip dysplasia is largely inherited, so scoring the parents is the only good way to avoid it. There are other factors, like how overweight the dog is (and Labradors never stop thinking about their stomachs and will eat everything …) Of course genes are tricky things and a puppy whose parents have great hip scores can still have dysplasia from a throwback gene. However, responsible breeding means that the number of dogs with lifelong debilitating conditions is being reduced.
The British Veterinary Association and the Kennel Club – the organisation dedicated to promoting the welfare of all dogs – jointly introduced hip scoring in 1984, quite a few years after we got Tassle, but it was already well known that breeding from a dog with dysplasia was irresponsible. Sadly, Tassle became lame and Mum and Dad decided to have her X-rayed. It was then that it became apparent that she was suffering from mild hip dysplasia and they knew that they would never allow her to have a litter because of the high risk of passing her problems on. With that decision made, it was sensible to have her spayed. After all, they didn’t want an enthusiastic rogue like Barney coming in pursuit of her …
This is where the story becomes very sad, especially for my sister Libby. At the age of three, Tassle went to the vet for a routine spaying op, which obviously meant a general anaesthetic. Tragically, her heart gave out under the anaesthetic and she died on the operating table. In retrospect, perhaps it was for the best: the dysplasia would have eventually caused her pain, and she clearly had a heart problem, too. However it’s impossible to be that rational about the death of a much loved family pet. I was only six, so any memories I have are brief snapshots, and not many of those. But for my sisters, especially Libby, this was terrible news, and for a few days the whole household was cast in gloom. Tassle may have died young, but she is remembered as a gentle, loving dog who fitted in with the family very well.
Labradors were now well and truly established as a Henson family institution, and the next one that came into the farmhouse was an older, well-trained gundog called Trudy. Along with a springer spaniel called Ben, she came from a mate of Dad’s who was emigrating to Australia. The friend, a Mr Hidcote who lived near to us at Hawling Manor, was a shooting companion of Dad’s, and when Dad heard that the dogs might have to be put down when he left the country Dad offered to have them. Trudy was five at the time, and in the prime of life, and Ben, a liver and white springer, was 11, so already an old boy. Mr Hidcote was convinced the dogs would not take to anyone else as he had bonded so closely with them. It took quite a lot of persuasion on Dad’s part for him to agree to let Dad try. The dogs were duly delivered to our farm, and in a moment of inspiration Mr Hidcote included his own old shooting jackets and waterproofs. He was roughly the same size as Dad, and when Dad wore the clothes the dogs trotted happily at his side, quickly becoming completely devoted to him.
I know the smell on the clothes helped, but I’m not sure it is always as hard to rehome dogs as their owners like to think. We love to imagine we have a ‘one person’ dog, an animal that belongs just to us. And it’s true that sometimes within a family a dog will have its ‘preferred’ owner – the person it relates to best and feels, on its own terms, that it belongs with. But dogs are pragmatists, they have a strong instinct for self-preservation, and generally they will go with anyone who feeds and loves them. That’s not to say they will desert an owner for anyone who offers them treats: they are very loyal. But if their owner vanishes from their life (and, sadly, owners do sometimes die before their pets), it is, in almost every case, possible to rehome them.
A friend I know who works for a charity rehoming dogs has three dogs of her own, and she said to me: ‘I always imagined that if anything happened to me, two of my dogs would adapt and go to new owners. But my little Jack Russell, I was sure, would pine away and die without me. Now I have been doing this job for a few years I no longer believe that. Dogs do miss people, and sometimes they do become withdrawn and sad when they lose an owner. But with sympathetic treatment they can all be successfully rehomed.’
There are, of course, loads of stories of very loyal and faithful dogs, some who spend years waiting for their masters to come back to them. But their loyalty always also involves being fed and looked after. There’s a famous story about Greyfriars Bobby, a Skye terrier who kept guard over his master’s grave in Greyfriars Kirkyard in Edinburgh for 14 years until his own death in 1872. Bobby became a popular tourist attraction and was rewarded with a meal from a local café every day, the café benefiting enormously from the trade it attracted. But, of course, the dog knew nothing of this, only that it had a place to stay and food. How much memory he had of his master after 14 years, I really don’t know. But the public loved the story of Bobby’s loyalty, and there was even a statue erected to him after his death (although cynics say the real dog died and was replaced with a lookalike, to keep the tourists coming).
It’s a familiar story across many nations and cultures: dogs who wait by graves, or at the place they last saw their owner. Like Fido, a street mongrel from Italy who turned up at the bus stop for 14 years expecting the man who adopted him to get off the bus, when sadly he had been killed in a wartime air raid. Or Hachiko, an Akita, who made his way to a train station in Tokyo every day for nine years, at the time his master, who had died, would have arrived home. Like Greyfriars Bobby, these dogs have had statues erected to them as a tribute to their fidelity. And like Bobby, they were well cared for and fed; their devotion became part of their routine, and I suspect they would have moved on if nobody had been looking after them.
Ben and Trudy took to Dad and did not seem to miss their old owner – although, I daresay if he had walked back into their lives they would have been overjoyed to see him. Ben, in particular, became devoted to Dad, even following him up and down the rows when he was turning hay with the tractor and haybob. Old when he came to us, he grew noticeably older, as his gait stiffened and he no longer ran about the place. But he still loved being out with Dad, and one hot summer’s day Dad sat down at the base of a drystone wall to eat his lunchtime sandwiches. Ben came and lay next to him, his head on Dad’s legs. He fell asleep and he never woke up, dying very peacefully in the best place, in the lap of the man he loved and who loved him. If there is such a thing as a perfect death, Ben achieved it.
Although I remember Ben, I was still very young when he arrived in our household, and because of his age he was only with us for a couple of years. Yet I loved the look of him, that proud springer stance, his soft mouth, his unflagging enthusiasm. My parents noticed how much I took to him, and it put down a marker for my future …
Trudy was much younger than Ben, and she is the first of the house dogs of whom I have clear memories. I loved taking her for long walks and she was a perfect companion for a young boy. Most of all, I was really happy when Dad went pheasant shooting, and I was allowed to go along, holding on to her until the order came for her to retrieve. It was wonderful to be trusted to be Dad’s companion, and to spend time with him, and Trudy was the ideal gundog for me to learn with.
Before Trudy died, Mum and Dad returned to their first love, black Labs. They bought another puppy, Jemima. She was a very traditional-looking Labrador, with short legs, a barrel chest and an insatiable appetite. Labradors love their food, but it’s really important for their health not to let them become overweight. Carrying extra pounds creates all sorts of health problems for dogs, from arthritis to diabetes, through to breathing and heart problems. A study of Labradors over many years has shown that slimmer dogs live on average two years longer than their overweight peers, have fewer visits to the vet because of health problems and need less prescribed medication. The fatter labs have an average age of 11, the thinner ones of 13.
That alone is a good reason to keep their weight down. But it’s not just the length of life, but the quality of it. I feel so sorry for fat dogs waddling along with their owners. They are not enjoying life to the full, unable to run and jump, miserable on hot days because they find it harder to regulate their temperature and can struggle to breathe.
I appreciate how hard it is to keep the weight of some dogs down, and Labradors in particular have a well-deserved reputation for being greedy. But where throwing them a titbit when they look at you with those imploring brown eyes may feel like a kindness, it can actually be cruel. Dad always had a firm rule that dogs were not allowed near the table when we were eating. Our dogs were fed once a day and left alone to eat. This is especially important with visiting young children in the house, because even the friendliest of dogs can be protective of their supper and a growl can easily be followed up with a bite. I continue with the same rules in our house today. But even the most disciplined of owners can find their rules thwarted.
A friend of mine had a large extension built, so the builders were around for a few months. One young builder took a shine to the family Lab and was convinced the dog loved him above all others. What she actually loved was his sandwiches, which he shared with her every lunchtime. He also gave her chocolate biscuits until my friend realised and pointed out that chocolate can be deadly for dogs. In the time it took to do the building work, the Lab’s weight increased dramatically, and my friend was firmly told to get a grip on it by a tough, funny nurse at her local vet practice, who said: ‘That’s a dog, not a coffee table. I could balance my mug on her back, she’s so fat. Bring her back in four weeks to be weighed and if she hasn’t lost weight I’ll put you against the wall and shoot you …’
Of course, Jemima never got overweight, because life on a farm involves a lot of exercise. But we were all aware that, given half a chance, she’d be sticking her nose in the bin or a bucket of pig nuts, and if anything got spilled on the floor she’d be there licking it up. Not all dogs need the same amount of food. Of course, working dogs eat more than house dogs, as a rule. But even with two dogs of the same breed leading the same lifestyle, food has to be individually tailored, as one will be able to eat more than another without piling on the pounds.
Jemima was a great friend and companion for me as a young boy. I first went away to boarding school at the age of eight and wasn’t happy there. The school rules said I couldn’t contact home for the first three weeks – a rule devised to help new boys acclimatise. I felt bereft, away from my family and away from my beloved Jemima. She was high up the list of things I missed, along with my family and all the routines of the farm.
I never told Mum and Dad quite how miserable I was. I knew they sent me away to school because they wanted the best for me. I was the sort of carefree, distracted child who had not followed my sisters’ academic success at the local primary and they felt I would learn more in a more structured environment. So I never wanted to disappoint them, and they were right that being away from the farm made me concentrate on my studies more. But Mum knew, as she dropped me back at school in floods of tears, that I missed home more than I could say.
When I did come home for a weekend or for the holidays, Jemima seemed to sense that I needed comfort. I could bury my face in her shiny, black coat, stroke her silky ears and share all my fears and worries with her. She was an uncomplicated, loving friend: that’s the wonderful gift that a dog can give to anyone, but particularly to a young child.
It was my close bond with Jemima that made Mum and Dad aware that dogs meant so much to me and it was at this time that I started to ask them if I could have a dog of my own. Jemima was a brilliant companion, but she related most of all to Dad, and I longed for my own, special four-legged friend.