For 85 years I have had an animal. A photo exists; me aged two, hugging a Jack Russell terrier. She obviously got there before I did. My young years with animals included chameleons, stick insects (not much fun) rabbits, hamsters, a dog, horses and tadpoles, minnows and sticklebacks from the brook. My father’s business was a dealer in foreign birds. I always had one on my shoulder as I fed the others, as I was good at handling them they were more valuable. They were sold, I cried, and Daddy did not give me a rake-off.

Our farming ‘business’ included chickens, pigs, cows, horses, and sheep. The second house, loads of space, had dog, cat, ducks, geese, a swan with a broken wing, and a goat. I love goats, but Billy was not popular, particularly when I took him into the local pub on Christmas Eve, boy did that animal stink. He got loose one day, butted a worker painting a machine, then decided to try the paint, goats, notoriously, eat anything. It was red, anti-rust, he was the only red-headed goat in captivity.

My father bought me my first horse when I was thirteen, not to indulge me but as an excuse to get away from my mother. They all, seven altogether, were dodgy, bought from market or unscrupulous dealers. We survived by pure luck. I gave up riding when I was 37, a customer had bought a horse to keep at livery, it had obviously been badly treated by a man, and would not let him get on. It was a real beauty, black, super ride until it started trying to shoot me off. Eventually it had to be put down, had a tumour on the brain, and was in pain. I decided as I still had all my bones I would call it a day on riding.

All our cats and dogs were ‘rescue’ animals, except two cats, who just walked in, and stayed. They were all hardened criminals. I swear cats handed on their devilry from where they were buried under the lilac tree. They stole, anything, one ate the middle out of a chocolate cake a son had made for school end of term. The cat would climb on the table, knock of a roast chicken and share it with the dog.

Loftus the Labrador would cross the road, dangerous, steal a Mother’s Pride loaf from the door-step opposite and bear it home. He departed this world. Straight to the RSPCA, where I fell for a pointer, daughter could not help laughing. His colour and nuttiness made him ‘Patch the Potty Pointer’. His first night, ensconced in our small conservatory, he demolished everything he could. Then, in the yard, he climbed a straw stack and on to the barn roof. We visited friends in Devon, and unwisely let Patch off the lead. He streaked off to Cornwall. Re-captured, back home, he was rushed back to the RSPCA, unsuitable liability. Are your animals well behaved models? 

The Gardener

A Moodscope member