These are the lyrics I like to sing to her, to the tune of Norwegian Wood:
I once had a dog,
Or should I say,
She once had me.
She showed me her ears,*
Isn’t it good,
Snicklypud.**
* Or tail, paws, snout, whiskers…
**Or other terms of endearment ideally rhyming with ‘good’.
On the weekend it was Ochre’s 12th birthday; that’s 84 in human years. Long live the hound!
The family got her when I was in Victoria visiting nana (yes, at the now non-existent house). After the excitement of hearing the magical word “puppy” down the phone line, I got no sleep for the next three nights.
When I returned to Queensland I disembarked from the plane, collected my luggage, and waited for dad by the carousel, noting it was weird he hadn’t met me at the gate.
I eventually spied him hovering near the entrance, carrying a small backpack in front of him, the zip gaping open at the top. I strolled over and we hugged, but I wondered why he was being so quiet and careful.
He gave me a look of triumph, and gently placed the backpack on the ground. A brown and black puppy stepped gingerly out and looked up at me. I almost exploded with joy.
We drove home in the white van via the bakery, where we ordered 3 pasties, one each. No sauce for the dog, thanks.
She and I spent the next years together at home, sometimes in bed, sometimes on the couch, sometimes on a yoga mat on the verandah, sometimes eating sandwiches in the front seat of the second-hand car I bought to learn to drive in.
My photos are all in storage, so I don’t have any to hand of her as a small pup, but here’s one of her as a young thing that a lovely friend found for me when I was making a slideshow for the wedding.
And here’s a recent photo of her. Older, wrinklier, greyer, not the least bit wiser. She still likes a snooze with her front paws tucked under her.
I love that dog.
