Puppies

Last Friday I went to see Mary's two and a half week old puppies on my day off. They are Samoyeds, Siberian huskies, with a pedigree miles long. Their parents were show dogs, their mother, Kimi, won Best of Breed at Crufts, so Mary proudly informed me. I don't know how she keeps the dogs' long snow white coats so clean. They are beautiful, but they don't look doggy enough for me. Apparently they don't smell doggy either.

The puppies' hair was only just starting to grow. They lolled about in their pen, trying to walk, tumbling over and immediately falling asleep. The tiniest of the puppies, although Mary insists he wasn't the runt, refused to feed at birth and was half the size of his chubby siblings. Mary was feeding him with a dropper and she let me have a go. It felt strange holding that tiny scrap of life in my hand. So vulnerable, so dependent, and faintly reminiscent of holding my babies. I wanted to take him home with me, but along with his brothers and sisters, he's already sold.

I christened him, Scrappy, much to Mary's displeasure. Not realising my gaff. You don't call the descendant of pedigree show dogs Scrappy. On Tuesday at Tai Chi she told me that she'd christened him with some very grand name that I can't even remember. He's Scrappy to me.

Copyright © 2007 Barbara Attwood