Nice Doggy

Alice Bell

One summer long ago when our children were very small, we went on a family holiday to a small town, through that's too big a word for a delightful little haven with its red pan tiled roofs, whitewashed cottages with royal blue paint on the doors and round the window and, best of all, and the thing now as adults our children still remember, the 'dancing ladies' as they called the flowers of the fuchsia bushes. Summer is a broad term in Scotland. It covers rain, gales, sea haar, midges and berry bugs and, as a treat on rare occasions, a heat wave. In those childhood days it always seemed to be sunny.

On this special day our four children, two girls and two boys, ranged in age between eight and three and so as we walked with out little troupe along towards the beach people would say, 'have you any more at home?' We spent the morning with buckets and spades on the sand while we sang along with the choruses of the seaside mission and the wheesebox tunes on the portable mini organ. We built sandcastles and paddled and suffered having our feet buried in the sand.

In the afternoon it was time to go to the play park. No one said, 'I don't want to go,' when swings were mentioned so off we went.

There were lots of wooden seats on the way, and there on them say an elderly man wearing an old sun hat. A glimpse of thin white ankle showed about his wrinkled woollen socks, and his shoes, long past polishing, were worn to comfortable shapes sculpted round his feet. In spite of the warm sunshine he was wearing a well loved old tweed jacket. Goodness knows what treasures lay deep in those sagging pockets. His yellow whiskers and gnarled hands hinted at perhaps a pipe and some tobacco, perhaps the stub of a pencil, a pocket knife, or some bits of string amidst the fluff. We soon found out that in one of them there lurked a surprise! It turned out to be.

There is something I haven't told you yet. Beside its master was an enormous Alsatian dog. It was huge and inscrutable. Was he looking at us or just minding his own business? It's hard for us to tell with Alsatians. 'Look Mummy nice doggy,' said one of the children, but the three-year old looking unconvinced. After all he was eyeball to eyeball with a huge hairy beast. Almost hidden under the old man's bushy eyebrows we could just make out a pair of kindly eyes crinkled by years of good humour and frequent smiling. 'Would your wee ones like a sweetie?' the old man asked kindly. How could I possibly say no when four little faces lit up?

My youngest gave that hopping dance of anticipation that only a three-year-old can perform with dignity. He seemed to have forgotten his sore knee and the big piece of sticking plaster he had been wearing with pride.

Out from the depths of the old man's pockets came a white paper bag full of sweeties. I saw with mounting horror that they were large, round, gob-stopping, old-fashioned peppermint balls. Not the sort of sweetie to give to a three-year-old. Too late, too late. My three-year-old had it in his mouth before I could say anything. My eyes, needless to say, never left his face.

The Alsatian, anxious to know if there was anything on offer, turned and licked my little boy's face. My precious son gasped, choked and turned blue. In a trice I turned him upside down and thumped his back.

One shot the sweetie like a bullet from a gun! The Alsatian quickly swallowed it and smiled. Nice doggy!

Certainly a nice doggy, and day, we will remember.