Sonny

I’ve possibly mentioned him before. Have I?

He was such a mad dog. Mad in a good way. Ostensibly my sister’s dog, she brought home this ridiculous beast, still a puppy, but big with it, and named Popeye because of the patch around his eye. Well, that wasn’t happening! So we named him Sonny, after Sonny Liston, if I remember correctly. He was at least part Boxer, so it fitted.

Sis left the country shortly after so we all took turns at taking him out from our top-floor tenement house. Not often enough though and probably not far enough. Sonny took it upon himself to run away at every opportunity because we were so lax in our duties, but he always came back. Until one day he didn’t. Days he was gone, and we were all inconsolable, until the knock at the door. A policeman carried him in and laid a very sorry, quite badly injured Sonny on his blanket. Dad must have asked about him at the police station or something? I don’t really know. He was by now dad’s dog of course, but we all loved him and I’m sure there were inquiries made at the Dog and Cat home, that kind of thing.

I don’t know what had happened to him and we’ll never know, but there was a huge wound on one back leg. It took ages to heal and might well have required stitching but who had money for vets in those days? Maybe they did take him to the vet? I don’t know. Suffice to say he was coddled and petted and spoon-fed for a couple of weeks. Carried downstairs for his business and carried back up until he was his old self again and back to eating like he’d never had a meal in his life, chasing his plate across the floor and wolfing it all. Every time!

While still young, he was badly mauled by a much bigger Boxer while I had him on the leash. He hated that dog forever and was totally cowed by him. Another giant black Labrador at the end of the street hated him and would take every chance at getting him, his owner holding desperately onto his leash and being pulled along. It wasn’t always fun to have poor Sonny out on the leash. It wasn’t that he was aggressive, just that other dogs hated him for some reason. So it seemed.

One early Christmas he found my presents before I was up and my baby-doll lost her hands and was left with punctured arms before I even saw her. Dolly sits on top of my cupboard yet, gloves hiding her damaged arms as a reminder of Sonny. Not sure they bother her. Dad tarted him up with a bow-tie at New Year and he seriously liked it, showing off to all first-footers. Although it might have been because they gave him treats.

He loved going on holiday and I have memories of running up the hills with him in Burntisland, Sonny way ahead. We walked the whole place together then, day after day. Along to Petticur Bay and back too. We were always out and about when over there. He’d go racing through the bracken on the hills and disappear for ten minutes, coming back with a stick far too big for comfort. He sent me flying, one day on the links. Right up in the air I was, landing with a thump on my tailbone. Pest was licking my face and still jumping around, not realising I was crying and in pain. He’d come firing into me from behind, just trying to catch me.

We were still not the best at walking him in town, but for a couple of years, he was my passport to getting out at 9pm when the news came on. J would be waiting downstairs for me as Sonny waggled downstairs as fast as he could, peeping all the while, to get out and lift a leg before he couldn’t keep it in any more.

There had been talk of getting shot of him. He hadn’t been the best behaved, having practically eaten two brand new mattresses, and witness, Dolly. He emptied the bin at regular intervals and you basically couldn’t leave him alone so, he got his own ‘room’. Forget getting rid! A box-room, storage with an old tea chest and blanket for him to lie with. It got so he liked going in it every night for bed and knew to remind us he was there of a morning. The door had deep scratches from his early days in there, but it was only locked when he would otherwise be alone. He honestly didn’t mind. We got him a cat, my cat, for the company and after a while, he didn’t really need to be in there at all, but it was his night-time spot. Until we moved out of town.

My 9pm slots were history, but that’s another story. For Sonny, it was paradise. He was out in the country now. Who needed walked? Dad would just open the door and say ‘come back in half an hour you!’ and he’d take off. He became well known around there and he wasn’t so much a stray dog as a local dog. He became well known at dad’s local too, where he’d get a half pint in a bowl and a packet of crisps just for him. He came home with evidence of a fight often enough, but still knew where home was. I wasn’t there much but it was my bed he slept on when I was. Wasn’t allowed, but rules were for other dogs. He guarded me and a friend one time when we were out with him and approached by a creep. Threatening to set Sonny on anyone would keep the worst away for sure. Despite his silly black eye and the one brown patch on his white back, and his ridiculous wiggle to wag his roughly docked tail, this boxer/bull terrier cross was all muscle and loyal with it.

I made a proper birthday cake for J one day – a work of art, iced properly and all -  and he was coming out to our place for his tea. A rare occasion. I met him off the bus and when we got in, Sonny was on the table, demolishing the cake and looking more than pleased with himself. A whole cake! He did the same with Easter Eggs one year if I remember rightly. Just a few bits of cardboard and chocolate all over his face as evidence they’d ever been there. The dog was a hoover, a mincer, a grinder and a garbage disposal on legs, with teeth! He may or may not have had stomach problems with his penchant for eating stuff that really wasn’t good for him, but if it was more than gas, it never really transpired.

After I left home, and took my cat with me, it came about that a family with kids just down the street were enamoured of him because he just inveigled himself into their home. They knew he was ‘our’ dog and would bring him home to start with, but dad was sick and mum had her hands full. She knew it was nice for him to have kids around. He so loved kids. So, still our dog, he more or less lived with them. He didn’t seem to like going in to see dad, knowing he was sick, but would come and visit and hear dad give him a ‘ya bah!’ and leave again. He barely stayed in our house now.

The weekend dad died, Sonny was off on his holidays. A caravan with the other family. They later said he’d been pining and out of sorts all day and at one point had started howling. They hadn’t been able to console him so had had to bring him home. He’d known. How, we’ll never know, but he’d known his man was gone and he was upset. He came in, sniffed around, and promptly sat at the door to get out again. Never lived in ‘our’ house again and lived out his days with the family up the road.

I was about 25 when he died and he’d been around since I was about ten so when mum phoned to tell me, even though I hadn’t seen him in years, I was well cut up. I have very few pictures of him, but his image is branded on my retinas and I won’t forget him. Pest of a dog, he was the best. Always licking himself and making a horrible noise doing it, and grossing people out with wind at inappropriate times (when you were eating!) but he gave the best welcome home ever and never once growled at us or any other child.

It’s funny how we remember our pets. Sonny is still a huge marker on my early life at ‘home’ and I know other people have similar memories of growing up with a favourite. We had lots of pets throughout the years but he (and my cat, his companion) were my proper initiation into the world of animals. Rodents and birds don’t count as much. Horses didn’t either. Just Sonny.

We didn’t have a dog all the time our own kids were growing up, for various reasons, and it wasn’t until the girls left home that we took on a rescued dog which, again, changed our lives. For the better, for sure. It’s what they do. We should have had them when the girls were small. We had two more after her, all female, (sorry Sonny but you put me off boy dogs with the licking!) and they were a joy, an enrichment in our lives. No question. None now though, you are freer to travel when you want, without a pet… and man, they do die on you, which kills you.

So, Sonny. I’m sure he had no idea the kind of mark he made on us. On me anyway. Never properly trained, he preferred just to trail you behind him on his leash. His best trick was sit and give a paw, which, after all, ain’t much. He understood dad’s gibberish commands though, no doubt, and did listen when he spoke. The connection there was more than just ‘man and his dog’ – they did win a prize as ‘dog most like his owner’ once! – and we, all of us, were just extras in his whole theatre production. I like to think he had a good life with us, after his bad start, whatever it was that put him in the shelter to start with. Well, I know he did. He only moved on when there were none of us around to coddle him. He needed that coddling and just went and found it for himself. Like any smart dog would.

And he was smart. Not annoyingly smart that you could show him off, but street smart. The best of dogs. Our dog. Sonny.