Ten months ago, on a Sunday, our dog died at the age of thirteen and a half. Sigmund aka Sigi aka Smrdisaurus Rex aka a whole lot of other names of varying levels of daftness (no self-respecting Czech has less than half a dozen variants on their name, however prosaic it may be) was an Irish terrier. He cost 1000 Czech crowns and he repaid that a millionfold with all the pleasure and happiness he gave. He was exceedingly lively in his youth, in his old age he had a pretty powerful fragrance, he never got laid in the whole of his life, and he was greatly loved. It rained the day we buried him; it was a really bad day all round. Here he is:
A few weeks ago, some friends in the village called us. Did we want a dog that was staying with them? He'd been rescued from a guy who apparently just kept him locked up in a shed the whole time and they had hoped their own dog, an American bulldog bitch called Lara, would be happy to have him around as a companion. They were disappointed in that hope and now he needed a home. Initially we said no; we weren't ready for a new dog just yet. Then they called again; they'd advertised him and nobody had shown interest, so, with heavy hearts, they were going to have to take him to the shelter. We went round to their place 'to have a look' but it was pretty obvious what was going to happen from Lenka's first words when they opened the door: "Where's our dog, then?"
And so we are now sharing our home with Charlie, a two-year-old smooth-haired fox terrier (yes, another terrier). He cost nothing and so all the pleasure and happiness will be pure profit. He is exceedingly lively, with a Houdini-like ability to escape from the garden and a kind of four-legged pogo when he gets excited (which is often), and I don't think the neighbour's cat is ever going to come and visit again. We're working on the battery of nicknames; this is him.
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