Little Pip

Is that a halo above Pip's head?

It's been a long hot summer and now it's September and time to go back to school.  It’s an almighty transition.  Not easy for anyone.  Teachers, perhaps have my greatest sympathy.

It’s reminded me of Little Pip.

Little Pip was bought for us by my father for £5 - possibly the best £5 he ever spent.

She was supposed to be a Jack Russell terrier, but she never quite had the spirit expected of a terrier. He used to say, accusingly, that he thought she was more like a Corgi – our late Queen might have something to say about that.

Pip was an utterly sweet and gentle soul - almost to my father's sorrow.

He wanted a sharp terrier; keen to massacre the rat population on the farm. 

Pip just wasn't that kind of dog.

Yet she was always busy; she went rabbiting with my brother. She pulled a little cart for my sister, and for me.  She did cross country courses round the garden, jumping over little jumps - just like a pony.  

Pip was constantly on the go, gallantly fulfilling our individual fantasies.

No wonder she had such short legs; she was probably worn out.

She was the very epitome of a great family dog.

When it was my turn to go back to school, one September in the mid-seventies, Little Pip taught me something.

I was sent to a girls’ boarding school on the Suffolk coast – it was pretty grim.  My father said it was run by frustrated virgins.  They  certainly weren’t kind to us.  Amongst other tricks, they made us run along the prom in the winter, the howling wind off the North Sea gave us earache in one ear on the way down … the other on the way back.  It was painful, and nobody seemed to care.  We were certainly not nurtured.

Then a cold bath … joking!

 The first time I was leaving home, aged eleven, I lay on my bed crying because I believed I'd lose my identity – and perhaps I had a good point.

At home we were brought up in quite a strict manner - no dogs inside, certainly not upstairs.  Dogs were kept in kennels outside - it was a different era.

As I lay on my bed crying, I heard the unfamiliar patter of claws on the landing outside my bedroom - we had no carpets upstairs; it was quite austere in our drafty Suffolk farmhouse.

Pip came into my bedroom, which she’d never done before;

she’d never even been upstairs.   She crept across my bedroom; slinking along, trying to look invisible, and then hid under my bed. 

She wouldn’t come out.

I sobbed on my bed whilst Pip lay quivering underneath it.

That was perhaps the first time it became completely apparent to me that dogs know.  Of course dogs know - they are pure instinct.

Sending my love and empathy to everyone making a challenging transition this September.

AJK