My Best Friend

 

 

Gemma.  A perfect lady

 

 

 

I was there when she was born early one cold morning in March. I held her when she was just ten minutes old and I marveled at how perfect she was. 

I was there when her brother and her sister were born too, but something deep inside me told me that Gemma was very special. She lay quietly in my arms, her eyes tightly shut. Looking at the tiny creature I marveled at the perfection of her body and realised at that moment that we were destined to be very close indeed. 

Gemma was the absolute replica of her mother. She had almost exactly the same markings, even down to the white smudge over her right eye. When she was old enough to leave her mother, I proudly collected the Springer Spaniel puppy and bore her in triumph to her new home. Although she was surrounded by new toys and every care had been taken to ensure her comfort and well-being, the first two or three nights were traumatic both for the puppy and for me. Common sense dictated that I should let her get used to her new surroundings without interference but I was unable to bear the whimpering and went downstairs rather too frequently to reassure the little dog. 

As the clumsy puppy grew into a graceful dog, her true character emerged. From the start, she was potentially every inch the field champion that both her parents had been. When we walked together, she would scamper around with her nose stuck to the ground in typical Spaniel fashion. If I were to attract her attention and click the fingers of my left hand, she would take her place by my left leg and stay there as if anchored to me although she had never received training in that respect. She would sit, stay and fetch on command and had the eagerness to please which is so typical of the breed. 

Retreiving was difficult for Gemma, as she could never bring herself to pick up any bird. I hasten to add that the only birds I ever attempted to shoot were the wood pigeons, more than capable of stripping a whole field of wheat if given the opportunity. She would stand beside the fallen bird with the sorrowful expression that only a spaniel can achieve. However, she would joyfully chase and catch the water rats around the pond, and despatch them with enthusiasm. 



 If dogs are truly reincarnations, then in a previous existence, Gemma must surely have been a nurse. In the rambling old farmhouse where we lived, the stairs were quite difficult to negotiate. My grandson who was living with us at the time was a new but extremely proficient crawler. Ascending the staircase was an achievement that he found ridiculously easy. Getting back down was another matter. My attention was drawn to the fact that there was a problem of some nature by the frantic barking. Gemma seldom barked without due cause. On investigation, I discovered Jonathan poised on the top step. He had pulled himself to his feet by using the handrail and was swaying unsteadily from side to side. On the step below him, Gemma had blocked the stairs, effectively preventing him from attempting the descent. 

On the frequent occasions when Jonathan had some minor injury, the dog would fuss round him, generally getting in the way, but trying her best to reassure and comfort the child. The boy and the dog were inseparable and when Jonathan went to school for the first time, Gemma was inconsolable. Despite her strong attachment to my grandson, she remained very firmly my dog. For me and for no other, she would perform several tricks although I have never taught a dog to ‘beg’. Her favourite trick was to roll over and play dead if I pointed my finger at her and said “Bang”. 

Because spaniels and Springers in general are known to be avid hunters, it is common for people to excite the dog by excitedly saying “Rats” or something similar. I never used that word with Gemma. I realised, of course that such excitement is at times necessary for boisterous dogs so I used the word “Camel” in place of both rats and cats. It caused great amusement to our visitors to see Gemma, having been invited to ‘search for camels’ looking hopefully under chairs and sniffing excitedly at cupboard doors. 

She was very conscious of the inner dog and eagerly anticipated meal times. We fed the dogs at five-thirty in the evening. Co-incidentally, that was the time when the lady of the house settled down to watch a certain Australian soap. Consequently, the theme tune from ‘Neighbours’ had a profoundly Pavlovian effect on Gemma. Should anyone be forgetful enough to whistle the theme at an inappropriate time, there was a flurry of activity terminating with a Springer standing by her food bowl with a hopeful expression on her face and her ears pricked up. 

We rescued another dog when Gemma was six years old. She was a small puppy whose parentage would probably have occupied the resources of the Genealogical College for some months. My youngest son, then a teenager and totally smitten by a recruit to the Royal Family, decided that the newcomer would be known as Fergie. The new puppy was instantly adopted by Gemma and incredibly, was totally housetrained by her in a very short space of time. 



 When I set off on my forays across the fields, (I professed to be a farmer in my spare time) the two dogs always accompanied me. Gemma would trot sedately at my side and Fergie would trot beside Gemma. To better maintain her station on the older dog, Fergie would take Gemma’s ear in her mouth and the three of us would stride across the fields, inspecting our domain. 

As the years passed, Gemma’s passion for anything edible produced a certain comfortable rotundity and, as befits an older dog, she became less active. At the age of eleven, I noticed that she was losing interest in many of the activities that she enjoyed so much. The vet carried out an examination and diagnosed a type of leukaemia apparently not unusual in spaniels. A blood transfusion appeared to be the only solution. Fergie saved Gemma’s life by providing the vital fluid and Gemma was almost her old self again. 

To my immense sorrow, the ailment returned after about a year. This time there was to be no respite. Gemma died very peacefully in her basket during one warm afternoon in June. I constructed a box for her and we lined it with the blanket from her bed. I felt it important that Fergie should be aware of circumstances so she was allowed to investigate. We were deeply moved when Fergie fetched one of her own favourite toys and dropped it in the box with Gemma. 

I buried my old friend under a cherry tree in the garden the next day. 

Rest in peace Gemma.