A Working Dog

Born on a ‘puppy farm’ and fed on cheap biscuits and disgusting leftovers, bulked-up with tissue paper. I still can’t help myself, I have to sneak out with any old piece of tissue, even if it’s in the she-minders handbag. Born the wrong side of the tracks, north of Breckland. I never knew my Dad. Mum told me about him though. He left her, ‘that way’. A one night stand, well probably less than that. He called her a bitch. I still remember her. She had white hair even then, and a few dull grey patches, on her poor old, withered flanks.  I’ve inherited them, but mine are black. Black like his. They called her a Springer. I hope that was a compliment. She shouldn’t have had any more of us. She was thin, painfully thin. Only two of us made it. I guess it turned out for the best in the end. But that old black lab would get the wrong end of my tongue, if he ever came my way. When the minders came, they said they wanted a ‘labcross’,  So I s’pose that sums me up. That’s what I am; for better or worse. Anyway, they said my brother was a runt. Despite that, I wanted out of there, and I was ready to take a chance on them. I s’pose that’s why I’ve never met anyone.  I don’t have that trust. But I’m not bitter. Over the years, we’ve had our ups and downs, but I don’t mind telling you. I’ve pretty much got them trained. I get him out, at least twice a day, in all weathers. That’s the beauty of having a thick coat. It certainly keeps me dry.  They look after the admin, the provisioning, proper water. They take care of the bills, especially, what they call the ‘vets’. I think they’re worth it just for that. Anyway, I’ve been a working dog pretty much all my life. But now I think I’ve earned the right to put my paws up for a while.