Story: Losing a canine companion

We have just moved into a new house and while we were unpacking, my son came across a carefully wrapped, small blue jar. “I hope this isn't what I think it is,” he said. When I told him, yes, it was the cremated remains of our beloved dog, we both had a cry, and then a laugh remembering how, near the end, our cocker spaniel was so confused he barked at cupboard doors wanting to be let out. I had never wanted a dog; it was the children's idea to get one after our funeral for Sam, the pet rat. Where other gardens had tabs marked parsley, carrots and onions, ours was peppered with tiny white crosses with hand-printed eulogies. Here lies Goldy the Goldfish, a Pretty Good Swimmer, Hammy the Hamster 1987-1987, and Gertrude the Guinea Pig, Too Bad She Ate Her Babies. Everybody agreed that we needed a pet that would (a) never have babies and (b) live until a ripe old age.

The name game
One day we walked past the flower shop with a sign, “Puppies for Sale.” The florist turned out to be a breeder of repute and when the runt of the litter rolled over and we saw his ridiculously floppy ears and big, sad eyes, we fell in love. We bickered over the name. I wanted something literary, my spouse was keen on naming him after a Toronto Blue Jay, my daughter had named other pets, and that left my son who had just seen the movie Dick Tracey. A man's best friend shouldn't be named Dick. And so, as we drove to the pet store, the kids named our dog Dixie.