IT WAS CHRISTMAS 1974, and I was eight, nearly nine years old. My older sisters and I were, like all kids on Christmas Day, scarcely able to contain our excitement. As per usual in most farming households, we children had to wait for our present-opening session until Dad had finished seeing to the stock. Animals first: they had no idea it was a special day, and needed to follow their usual routine of being fed and checked to ensure all was well.
My sisters and I would often go with Dad and the dogs to help out. I am not sure whether we were more of a hindrance than help, but it was great fun and gave Mum some space in the house to prepare the Christmas feast. Once back, washed and changed, we would settle down to the main event. Not the big lunch, which was always great as Mum was such a fantastic cook but, of course, the presents. That year was a Christmas of special presents for all of us. Mum and Dad had decided to push the boat out and give us all a larger, more expensive gift than we were normally given. There was a bike for Libby – hard to wrap up so we had a good idea it was coming. Lolo got a flute, which she had been learning to play at school, and Becca a saxophone, as she loved Ska music.
As they were all oohing and aahing over their presents, I looked around the room wondering where mine was, but trying to be brave and not make a fuss. There was nothing left under the Christmas tree, and the room was awash with colourful discarded Christmas wrapping paper and the sound of the girls trying out their instruments. The only object that wasn’t normally in the room was a battered old tea chest in the corner – a big, square plywood box, bound on the edges with metal. The top was covered with a sheet of bright red Christmas paper.
‘And here’s your present, Adam,’ said Dad, a broad smile on his face. I went to the chest, not sure what it could possibly be, tore off the wrapping and there, nestled at the bottom on an old blanket, was the best present I could have dreamed of: a small liver and white puppy, looking up at me with as much wonder in her big brown eyes as I had in mine. As we looked at each other I felt a rush of love for this tiny creature, and I believe she recognised it and felt the same. It was love at first sight for me.
She was eight weeks old and tiny: probably the smallest from the litter. Mum and Dad knew I wanted a spaniel, because I’d always said I liked them and I still do: they are fantastic dogs.
Dad was very fond of his aunt Benita, so in honour of her, and partly for Ben, his old spaniel, Benita became the puppy’s registered kennel name, but she was always known as Nita. I can still remember the moment when Dad lifted her out of the chest and put her into my arms: she instinctively snuggled against my chest. Later I had to be reluctantly separated from her to join in with the traditional Christmas lunch, but no amount of crackers, turkey and pudding could distract me from her, and as soon as was decently possible I left the table and joined Nita on the floor.
There were strict rules in our house about dogs: they were not allowed on the furniture and they were definitely not allowed upstairs. Only one dog was ever allowed to break this rule – Nita. On the first night, when she was bedded down in the kitchen, I reluctantly went to bed. But I could not sleep for thinking about her, and when I heard her whimpering, I sneaked silently down the stairs, took her in my arms – whispering to her to keep quiet – and carried her up to my bedroom. She was soon snuggled up next to me and we both fell fast asleep. Mum found us the next morning, and I pretended to be asleep in fear of getting told off. She didn’t have the heart to lay down the law thankfully, and neither did Dad: from that moment on, when I was home from school, Nita shared my bed. Dad pretended to be disgusted by a dog on a bed, but he always let me get away with it.
I’d been at boarding school for a year by the time Nita came into my life, and although I hated leaving my family at the start of every term, I was growing more used to it and had settled into the life of the school. But leaving Nita was agony, and I extracted firm promises from Mum and Dad about how she was to be looked after while I was away (as if they needed any advice on caring for dogs!) Phone calls home were always peppered with questions about her, and the most thrilling dates in the school calendar were the rugby fixtures when Mum and Dad came to watch me play. Of course, I was delighted to see them as I missed them badly. But I was delirious with happiness when they brought Nita with them. It was wonderful to see her on the touchline.
I know Nita loved and bonded with me above all others, but I also know that when I wasn’t at home – and there were long spells when I wasn’t – she was happy with Mum and Dad and my sisters looking after her. But when I was there, it was my legs she snuggled against when I sat down, and at night she took up her usual place at the bottom of the stairs, waiting to be invited up to share my bed, which she always was.
There’s a very special relationship between children and dogs, and I first experienced it with our black Lab Jemima, and then, in spades, with Nita. I’m not surprised that we hear so many stories of dogs helping children with problems, whether it’s conditions like autism, Asperger’s, family break-ups, or terrible traumas. You can bury your face in the coat of a dog and feel accepted and loved, whatever is happening in the rest of your life. Not that I needed Nita to make me feel loved, but I know that wonderful feeling of emotional completeness that a dog brings. Everyone has times of being sad, angry, excited, happy: a dog shares it all. Nita was my best mate, always enthusiastic about trailing around the farm with me, full of energy, but also there, cuddled up to me, if ever I needed reassurance.
Jemima was firmly established as the house dog when Nita arrived. After the usual stand-off between an older dog and a puppy, she came to accept the little one. It’s always difficult introducing a new puppy into a home with other dogs and even when they are bitches you should never assume that the maternal instincts of older dogs will kick in. The best advice is to monitor them, never force a puppy on another dog and let them establish their own relationship. After snapping at Nita once or twice to put her in her place and to instil due respect for her elder, Jemima and Nita settled down happily together.
Like all springers, Nita had an incredible energy and enthusiasm and a brilliant sense of smell. Once when I was in my early teens, I took a shotgun to go pigeon shooting. Pigeons can be a real problem on the farm, particularly when they eat young oilseed rape plants, and from time to time we try to deter them by shooting. Nita was never the sort of dog to sit patiently in the hide with me: she was so inquisitive that she couldn’t resist nosing around, which would scare off the pigeons before I had chance to take aim. So I left her at the farmhouse, shut into the kitchen. I walked half a mile down the farm road, then skirted around the boundary of several fields carrying my shotgun. I erected a simple camouflage hide, put out some decoy plastic pigeons to attract the real birds, and settled down to wait.
Looking back towards the farmhouse I saw an amazing sight. Someone must have left the door open, because Nita was out and she had one mission: to find me. I could see this small liver-and-white splash of movement. I watched her, nose to the ground, go out of the farmyard, down the drive, turn left at the gate, up along one hedge, round another hedge, along the top of a big field, following my scent. Then she was at the hide, and she knew I was inside despite the camouflage. She’d achieved her target, finding me, but I didn’t achieve mine: needless to say, I didn’t bag any pigeons that day …
But if she stopped me shooting the pigeons on that occasion, she was very useful on conventional pheasant shoots. I took her with me when I was working as a beater. She would flush the birds out of even the thickest of brambles and then retrieve them for me.
Nita actually spent more of her long life apart from me than with me. I was away at boarding school until I was 16, then I had two blissful years when I was studying A-levels locally, when she was welded to my side whenever I was out and about on the farm. I was no different from most boys of that age: I hated getting up in the morning. No longer at boarding school, I discovered the joys of beer and girls so, after arriving home in the early hours, I was even more reluctant to be dragged from my warm, comfortable bed. Nita was my ally. Whenever anyone came into the bedroom to rouse me, she would growl protectively and not let them near me. I owe many a good lie-in to Nita’s guard dog instincts.
After A-levels, I spent a year working on the Chatsworth Estate in Derbyshire. Then I was at agricultural college in Devon for three years, and only home in the holidays, and after I went travelling for a year with my good friend (and now my business partner) Duncan Andrews. But despite all these long separations, Nita knew she was my dog. She was fine with everyone else, and didn’t seem to pine for me, but the minute I was back she related totally to me. She lived with our separations, accepting that I would come and go, and adapted her life to my absences. Going upstairs to sleep on a bed only happened when I was home: she never presumed to try it with anyone else and accepted without question that she slept in the downstairs toilet the rest of the time.
The downstairs loo at Bemborough Farm always seems to have a dog bed in it, that’s why I point guests upstairs when they visit! There is a flagged passageway entrance to the farmhouse, leading into the kitchen, with the loo off it. When dogs track mud into the house (and they do all the time when you live on a farm), then the passage and loo are a good place to confine them until they dry off. Otherwise Mum would have spent her whole time mopping mud from the kitchen floor. Spaniels have large, well-feathered feet – in other words, very hairy, and a real sponge for picking up mud and debris. Nita was very used to plopping down on her bed until she had dried off, when she would be allowed into the kitchen.
Springers have a very long history as gundogs, and although they were not recognised as a Kennel Club breed until the early twentieth century, there’s lots of evidence that they, or very similar dogs, have been around for centuries. The name ‘spaniel’ is generally accepted to come from the word used by the Romans for Spain, Hispania, or perhaps the French term ‘chiens d’Espanol’, which means they almost certainly originated in the Iberian peninsula. But they spread across the globe long before anyone started to categorise dogs. There’s a reference to spaniels in the 1576 book The Treatise of Englishe Dogs, but it was not until 1801 that springers and cockers were separated into two types: ‘the springing, hawking or starter’ and the ‘cocking or cocker’ spaniel.
At that time there was no attempt to breed them separately. It was simply a matter of sorting through a litter and making the small ones ‘cockers’, their name coming from hunting woodcock, and the larger ones ‘springers’, who could spring and flush out birds to be caught by hawks or falcons, and later by men with guns. Nita was certainly a springy dog, always ready to jump up and take part in anything that was going on.
There are some highly questionable references to springer spaniels in history, including a tale that one travelled to America with the Pilgrim Fathers. I love the story that William Wallace, that icon of Scottish history played by Mel Gibson in the film Braveheart, had a springer by the name of Merlin MacDonald way back in the thirteenth century. But there’s no real evidence as to the type of dog he had (or even that he had one), and the film makers left Merlin out of their Hollywood blockbuster, much to the annoyance of some springer fans. But though the dog wasn’t in the film, I was. Dad was asked if he could provide some traditional-looking livestock for the movie, including a pair of longhorn oxen to pull William Wallace’s dead father’s body back from the battlefield. An old college mate joined me and, dressed up in kilts and ginger wigs, we worked with the actors to control the oxen, so my claim to fame is that I have been directed by Mel Gibson. You’ll have to look closely to spot me, but it was good fun.
What we do know, reliably, about the history of springers, is that when George Stubbs, famous for his paintings of horses and dogs, painted a ‘land spaniel’ at the end of the eighteenth century, the dog looks more like a liver and white springer than a cocker, although not quite the same around the ears.
There are lots of other variations on the spaniel breed, notably the King Charles and Cavalier King Charles (much smaller dogs bred by mating small parents, and for other distinctive characteristics like their flat noses). Others are known by their place of origin: Norfolk, Sussex, German, Russian spaniels, and Irish water spaniels.
Naturally, the type of spaniel that appealed to me – and to my dad – was a springer, because of their ability to retrieve, as well as to flush. They have beautifully soft mouths, like all good gundogs. This is important so that they don’t crunch down into whatever they are carrying, as often the shot prey is for human consumption. They have an easy temperament, are quick to learn and like working hard, all of which makes them the perfect dog for hunting with, but also a great companion.
As well as working as gundogs, the sniffing ability of springers, which I saw first-hand when Nita tracked me through the fields, has been recognised – alongside that of Labradors and other breeds of spaniel – and they are used by police forces and military organisations across the world in drug and explosive detection. Jake, a springer working with the Met police, was deployed to search for explosives after the London bombings in 2005. Another springer, Buster, is estimated to have saved more than a thousand lives in his work as an explosives detection dog, serving with the RAF in Bosnia, Iraq and Afghanistan, earning a chest full of campaign medals. I’m happy to say he had a happy retirement with his handler, and died peacefully at the age of 13.
Jemima died peacefully at a good old age and I think Nita missed her old house mate. Dogs are unpredictable when it comes to mourning their companions. Some dogs take the departure of a familiar friend without showing any sign of grieving. On the other hand, sometimes some dogs are so closely bonded that one deeply pines when the other dies, perhaps going off their food and becoming lethargic. I’ve known a dog lie on the bed of her departed friend for hours, a place she never previously went, and I’ve heard of a dog who escaped the garden of her home at every opportunity to lie on the front door step of the house next door, the place that her best friend had originally lived before being adopted into her family eight years earlier. She still seemed to believe he would come bounding out to greet her.
Mostly, dogs appear to be able to move on without too much disturbance. Mum, though, missed her gentle black shadow and was very happy when Dad suggested we get another puppy. That’s how a bundle of black fur called Raven came into our lives. She was given her name while she was in the litter: the breeder insisted all the puppies born that year should have names beginning with the letter R. The Guide Dogs for the Blind Association, which is the world’s largest breeder and trainer of working dogs, follows the same rule, choosing names with the same initial letter for each litter of puppies.
Nita, by now a stately middle-aged lady, was a little bit apprehensive about the boisterous ball of energy who invaded her space, especially as Raven was allowed to sleep curled up in front of the Aga while she was confined to the passageway and loo. Not fair! And the new arrival seemed to be getting a lot of attention: there’s nothing cuter than a Labrador puppy, so there was a lot of fuss from visitors. Nita’s nose was out of joint at first, but she soon mellowed towards the puppy and accepted her into the family.
Raven grew to look like a replica Jemima, with a round body that looked podgy even though she was very fit, and she loved working as a gundog. All our house dogs are able to roam freely around the farm yard. We are lucky enough to live a long way from the road and they quickly learn to avoid tractors and other farm vehicles, so they are fairly safe. If we want them home, then shouting their name, or a whistle, soon brings them trotting back. Like Jemima, and most of her breed, Raven loved her grub to the point of being gluttonous, which sadly, led to her early death when she was only eight years old. While out and about around the farm buildings she unfortunately came across some spilt rat poison, which she snaffled down. Farms need to control vermin, but Raven’s death underlines how important it is not to leave poisons in an accessible place.
It’s not just poisons: there are lots of innocuous-seeming human foods that are dangerous to dogs. Most people know that chocolate, especially dark chocolate, should be kept well away from pets, and increasingly, more and more pet owners are aware that grapes (and raisins) can be a serious problem. A friend of mine had a greedy Labrador/springer cross that managed to eat half of a Christmas cake. If he hadn’t been very, very sick, and vomited the whole thing out, he would have needed to have his stomach pumped.
Other foods that are dangerous to dogs include avocados, coffee, alcohol, onions, garlic and the kind of synthetic sweetener often used in low-calorie chewing gum. Responsible owners have a duty to keep all human foods out of reach of their dogs, but these in particular. Even the best-behaved dog will be tempted if left alone with the enticing smell of something that is well within his reach.
I firmly believe dogs should be fed a very good quality food designed for them. I was fascinated to find, when I made a programme for Countryfile, that the first pet foods came on to the market in the 1860s. Before that dogs and cats lived on scraps and anything they could scavenge, and naturally their lifespan was much shorter. The first proper dog food was made by an American electrician called James Spratt, who saw dogs scavenging for food in the London docks when he arrived in this country. He realised there was a market selling food to the rich English gentry for their shooting dogs and came up with a complete dog food that combined wheat meal, vegetables and meat all bound together with beef blood.
Today the pet food industry is vast, with £3 billion spent in Britain every year. Dog trainer Richard Clarke demonstrated to me for the programme just how important it is to check the quality of the food we give to our dogs. He showed me a tin of appetising-looking meaty chunks in gravy, only to reveal that actually the tin contained 80 per cent gravy and a lot less meat than I expected from the picture. He also poured out a portion of complete dry dog food with bits in green, brown and beige.
‘Dogs are colour blind: the colours are designed for the owners, and the colours are artificial additives. The same additives and preservatives are in this food as are in a can of fizzy drink.’ he said.
We talked about how a poor diet can affect a dog’s behaviour, as well as its general health. Going to a supermarket and looking at the array of dog foods on sale can be, we agreed, a bit of a nightmare.
‘It’s about balance,’ Richard said. ‘The cheaper the food, the cheaper the ingredients. Look at the list of ingredients on the label: the one that comes first will be the one that accounts for the biggest proportion, so if it is cereal, avoid it.’
My dogs are a vital part of my working life, but I know that even if they were just family pets I would feel the same: I want to fuel them well. Just as I know my children need a balanced diet, so do my dogs. I also know the risks of feeding them titbits and extras: in a survey of 2,000 dog owners, Forthglade pet foods found that 60 per cent of owners fed their dogs part of their Christmas lunch, even though over half of all owners know that human food is harmful to pets.
I was shocked to be told that 15 per cent of all dog owners needed to take their pet to the vet, or get advice from a vet, on Boxing Day. Spurred on by this alarming statistic, I made a film for Forthglade to make owners aware of the problems their dogs face if they are too indulgent. It may feel like you are giving them a treat, but it is much better to be cruel to be kind, and ignore those pleading eyes. It is far better to treat your dog with an extra helping of affection and some play.
It’s also important to check that the food you give your dog is appropriate for its age: puppies, adult dogs and senior dogs have different dietary requirements.
If Nita felt a bit put out by Raven’s arrival in the family, another intruder, Tammy, caused a much bigger upset. Tammy was also a liver and white spaniel, although not identical to Nita because she had patches of ginger fur above her eyes. Technically, that made her a tri-colour spaniel. She belonged to my sister Libby, and was a bit of an impulse buy. Mum and Libby had been to visit our Auntie Nancy in hospital, and on the way back they saw a sign on a gate: ‘Spaniel puppies for sale’. On the spur of the moment, they made the rash decision that it was time for the Henson household to have another springer, and this time it would be Libby’s.
Tammy was a typical puppy, full of beans and into mischief, which didn’t go down well with Nita, who regarded her as a tiresome nuisance. The puppy was not particularly well trained, mainly because Libby soon went travelling and then worked in America. Tammy grew up to feel that she was in no way subservient to Nita, and the two jostled to be top spaniel. If I was around, the position automatically went to Nita, and then in my absence, when Libby was in residence, Tammy would strut around as top dog. There was no natural head of the pack, which normally happens when dogs live together.
The most difficult time was if both Libby and I were there together. On one occasion, the dogs started to fight, both determined to exercise their authority. Libby blamed Nita for the scrap and started shouting at her. This was a red rag to a bull for me, as I was definitely on Nita’s side. In the end, as Libby and I railed at each other, I settled the argument by picking Libby up bodily, carrying her out into the farmyard and dunking her in the water trough. Luckily, we can look back on it now and laugh, although I’m not sure Libby was laughing at the time …
When I returned from my travels with Duncan in Australia, New Zealand and America, which was the longest continuous time I was away from Nita or my family, the change I saw in her was dramatic. Within that year, she had aged: she was 14 when I got back, which is a good age for any dog, and particularly for a springer (their average age is 10, and only a few live to 14). Nita looked like a real old lady. I realised, with a lump in my throat, that while I was growing up, she was growing old.
She was thrilled to see me, shuffling to me as fast as her stiff old legs would allow, pushing her way to the front of the reception committee of family and friends who welcomed me home, and her tail never stopped wagging for the first couple of days. She followed me as I worked in the yard, always by my side, snuffling at the familiar scents, and brushing her unkempt coat against my legs every so often to remind me that she was there. I fondled her shaggy head, and made a note to myself to give her a makeover: I resolved to groom her and cut her nails. Her coat was duller and curlier than before, and there were grey hairs around her muzzle. Although she was slow and no longer had that spring that gives the springer its name, she was so happy to be with me, pottering about the farm.
One thing she could not manage on her arthritic legs was to come upstairs to my bed, and she accepted this, no longer waiting at the bottom of the stairs for my summons. So at times, as if to even the score, I got down and cuddled her on her bed. We both felt the same, unbreakable bond we made when our eyes first met as I peered into the tea chest. She was mine, and I was hers, but I realised sorrowfully that our time was running out.
Three weeks after I came home I found her one morning, peacefully curled up on her bed. She did not respond to the sound of my feet or my voice gently calling her name. I crouched down and realised she had died in her sleep: like Ben, she had the kindest and most peaceful death any dog can have. It was the perfect way to go, and I was grateful for it. She had lived well beyond the usual span for a springer, and it was as if she had kept herself going until she saw me again. Some uncanny sixth sense let her know that I was heading for home, and she waited for me. Then, having renewed our old, deep companionship, she allowed herself to go, happily and quietly.
The tears poured down my cheeks as I dug her grave at Buttington Clump, a group of trees not far from the farmhouse where all our family dogs are buried, and lowered her shaggy body into it. I knew I was saying farewell to the best and most faithful friend any young boy could ever have. I have now said goodbye to many wonderful dogs, but Nita was the first dog that was so personal to me, and I still well up when I think about her.