Sandy

‘Isn’t she beautiful!’ People would exclaim, ‘She looks just like Lassie!’ to which I’d laugh and say ‘yes, he does a bit doesn’t he?’

I named my boy dog, Sandy, as a simple-minded 7 year old, thanks to the musical Annie which I had watched the day before we brought him home. Annie’s dumb dog who followed her home was called Sandy, so of course, became the name of the greatest friend I ever had.

I grew up with a dog who was bright, intelligent, incredibly hairy, gentle but with an independent spirit. In some ways he could be more cat-like, he could be loving and playful one moment, the next he’d either nip or stalk off in a huff for no apparent reason. He loved to be taught tricks, and I took that up as a very important job. I taught him the standards, sit, down, stand, shake paws. I got inspired by the dancing border collies on Crufts, and taught him roll-over, play dead, weave between my legs, jump over legs or through hoops, and twirl. He was a good student, and learnt them fast, and was always willing to participate in showing off to friends and family. The only thing he was rubbish at doing was staying on command. He didn’t see the point of that one. He’d sit for a few seconds watching you abandon him, then follow you. It either drove me mad, or made me laugh. I gave up on that one in the end.

Sandy had the most glorious fur coat. It was a deep ginger colour, with some softer biscuit beneath, a huge white mane that Gandalf would have been jealous off, dainty white feet and a black spot on his tail. His coat had this lovely, warm, musky doggy smell, which provided great comfort when sobbing into his fur. His feet had the best smell of all, I could sniff them all day if he’d let me. He had soft, oval shaped brown eyes, which had the look that he could understand everything you were saying to him. His ears were a little lopsided, one flopped downwards while the other stuck upwards. His muzzle was far too long, he was constantly banging it on lamp posts, chair and table legs, the floor when he sneezed and human legs, and when you threw toys at him, they usually bounced off his nose and bonked him on the head instead. He really was useless at catch.

He was a smart little fella, and taught himself the Happy Birthday song. We always used to ring up some family members on their birthdays to sing to them down the phone. One day, apparently, Sandy decided he was going to join in, and barked along in time to our singing. After that, it became a tradition to always have him there to sing along, whether it was in person at a party or down the phone. If it was us getting sang to down the phone, dad put it on speaker phone just so Sandy would join in. It was a cracker and our family loved him for it.

He loved to go for long walks, but was not fond of other dogs, or in some cases, a little too fond of them. He either blanked them completely or stalked them until he was able to hump them, quite often getting lost in the process! We could spend hours searching the park for him, only to get home and discover him on the doorstep already with an expression of ‘I’m sorry, I got carried away, please love me!’ It was hard to stay cross at his face.

As I grew up, my relationship with Sandy grew stronger. He was there for me when I was being bullied, and he stood there and barked at the girls who were picking on me, not friendly at all. They poured juice all over him once, and he ignored it. I had to wash him when I came home, I couldn’t believe they’d do that to him. He was stoic and strong, and he taught me to be the same. But with people he knew I loved, he was friendly and playful. When I first met my partner, Sandy charged up to him, bushy tail over his back, and with a joyful bark, he thrust his head into poor Chris’s crotch, causing him to double over and put his arms round Sandy’s waist in a hug to save himself. After that, Sandy always greeted Chris in the same way. It sure made me smile.

At Christmas, he was just as excited as the rest of us. He had his very own stocking, which we stuffed with presents. He was very careful with unwrapping so as not to damage his new things, pulling the paper off gently until he got to the present. One year we had some people round on Christmas Eve, and wondered where the dog was as  he was rather quiet. We went into the back room and found he had helped himself to one of his presents which we’d left under the tree as it was too big for the stocking! This amazed us because he always had such restraint and never made attempts to steal food even if it was right under his nose. We let him off for the present, after all, it was his, and it was Christmas! You certainly couldn’t fault his sense of smell…

He really was a great dog, full of affection. He’d nudge your arm if he wanted a fuss, especially off my father, and sometimes he’d climb on to your knee but kept his back legs on the floor because he knew he wasn’t technically allowed on the furniture. I could lie on the floor and pat it, he’d flop down beside me and curl up there, gnawing my fingers gently and making funny grunting noises. If he felt you weren’t giving him enough attention, he’d give sharp, quick barks. His tail would swish from side to side furiously if you’d been gone for a while. When he got old, he never noticed if you left the house as he was always in bed asleep, and we’d come home to find him in exactly the same position, with his biscuits under his nose where we’d left them!

I couldn’t have asked for a better childhood best friend, and I was incredibly heartbroken when one morning we got up to find he couldn’t rouse himself from his bed. He’d wet himself too, which was rare for him, and was staring blankly into the distance  as though he wasn’t there. We took him to the vets who said that he was weak and tired, and there was nothing more he could do for him. Sandy sat up then, looked at us straight in the eyes, making our hearts skip, but then slid back down, back into his stupor. We made the tearful decision to let one of the biggest members of our family go. He’d clearly looked at us to say ‘I’m done, now, guys, I want to go.’ I’ve never felt grief like it, the tears that spilled when his last breath escaped. We took one last whiff of his beautiful fur, held his sweet paws, kissed his muzzle, and left. Leaving him was the hardest thing we ever did.

His ashes are buried in our garden now, by the kitchen window, with a plaque my dad made with ‘Sandy’ carved into it. Gone, but never forgotten.