And what a fabulous dog he is. A rescue boxer, dumped by his owner, frightfully thin, but otherwise perfect. Affectionate, trusting, handsome, friendly, he climbed obligingly into our car, with his few belongings, and has, in two weeks, charmed all of my visitors, Daughter and her dog, and the members of both a small and large orchestra. I couldn’t leave him, so I took him along, with the conductors’ permission, and he lay down and slept next to me and my cello, even through Berlioz. Miraculous. How perfect can a dog get?
But you can never please everyone. “For some obscure reason,” says Fielding snottily, “you feel you have to have a dog. It sounds like a rodent greyhound with a black head to me, from your description. I haven’t been around lately, have I? Guess why?”
He can’t help it. He’s just scared of dogs. And Rosemary is not mad keen, yet. The dog licked her ear in the car, and made her shout. But I feel confident that they will grow to love him and his adorabubble black velvety face.
I cannot recommend dog-rescuing highly enough. It’s not a breeze. You have to be strictly inspected by the rescue outfits, then wait for a suitable dog, which won’t take long, because there are thousands out there. More than 47,000 were abandoned in 2014-2015 and 5,142 were put down by local authorities. That’s one every two hours. I look at mine, and wonder how anyone could have thrown him out.
It’s a heartless world. Rescue a dog, and make it slightly less heartless. Go on.