So… I’m going to give myself precisely one hour (well, one hour and a bit) to write about our dog, Cedric.
Sorry to say it, but I’m not sure he deserves any more!
Also, it’s late and I’m tired… I’ve just spent three and a quarter hours cooking and doing the family laundry… and I want to get this over and done with so I can go and watch Season 1 Episode 5 of Sex Education (and yes, I am too old to watch this).
So… let’s get started. When Lizzie and I agreed to move to the country, we also agreed to get a dog. It was part of the deal. Lizzie and the kids had wanted one for ages.
Now, I didn’t want to get a dog. I’m just not a dog person. I don’t like the way they smell. And how you have to pick up their poos. I don’t even particularly enjoy stroking them. I find their heads strangely unstrokable (the skin over their hard canine skulls seems weirdly thin and over-stretched… and their eyes kind of bulge out when you do stroke their heads. It’s unnerving).
But, regardless, I agreed to take one for the team and go along with getting a pooch. To be honest, I’m amazed my family even felt like they needed my permission. They don’t usually care two hoots about anything I say.
In fact, surprisingly, after a while I even began to embrace the idea. Sort of. I mean, some of our friends’ dogs weren’t so bad. Maybe having a bouncy, friendly dog at home would actually be quite nice.
More fool I, for believing this!
I should have known something was up, when I first set eyes on ‘Cedric’ (named after a Harry Potter character, apparently, as were all the other dogs in Cedric’s litter), as we blithely went to the Dog Rescue in Evesham to collect him.
He was meant to be a puppy. But he was too big and gangly to be cute. Also, he didn’t look like a dog. He looked like a fox.
When I was growing up, one of my friends was obsessed with the legend of the ‘Dox of Bookham’ – at least in part because he grew up in Bookham, Surrey, on the road MADDOX LANE. Coincidence? My friend didn’t think so. And he’s always insisted he actually saw the creature, one terrifying night, lurking on the lane. Half dog… half fox… the DOX.
Well, if doxes actually do exist, it was pretty clear that Cedric was one. Here’s a picture of him when he was a little older, if you don’t believe me.
Don’t ask me what he’s actually doing in this photo. I don’t want to know!
To be honest, I didn’t really care that Cedric the dog actually appeared to be a fox. I’m not species-ist or anything! I was more bothered about the first thing which happened, when we met him.
Lizzie explained how important it was I hide my true feelings about dogs, in front of the rescue centre’s wardens. As much as anything, this was a try-out for us as potential dog owners. If it looked like we weren’t a perfect match for Cedric, there was a possibility they might not let us take him home.
Obviously, with hindsight, that would have been a good thing. But, at the time, I didn’t know any better.
And so, as we went into the room containing gangly, fox-puppy Cedric, I hid my true feelings about dogs under a benevolent, rictus grin. I LOVE THIS ANIMAL! I LOVE ALL DOGS! my expression said.
I kept going with my rictus grin, even after Cedric greeted us by doing a liquid shit all over his bed and the floor of the cubicle.
‘Cedric’s had giardia!’ the warden said, brightly, referring to the stomach bug caused by parasites… as if telling us this news made things better. ‘That’s why his tummy’s a little upset.’
‘But he’s getting better!’ the warden added, unconvincingly, as the dog’s diarrhoea kept coming.
My own stomach churned. Our family had had a previous experience of giardia when we’d all caught it from our au pair’s dog, years before. It had taken months to shake it off (the giardia, not the au pair’s dog). The experience had been ghastly… and messy. Were we really about to put ourselves in a situation when there was even the slightest chance we might catch it again, from another canine?
Even as I looked down at Cedric, however, I realised Lizzie and the kids were gazing at the compulsively-shitting creature with adoration. What gives? I wondered. They can’t love Cedric already. He hasn’t earned it!
But it was too late. The gangly puppy already had his hooks (or rather claws) into Lizzie and the kids. They wanted him, come what may, in sickness or in health. There was no going back now. I’d just have to accept we had a new member of the family. We were taking this pooch home.
I became aware the warden was looking at me. Will you love Cedric too? She didn’t actually say it, but I knew that was what she wanted to ask.
YOU’RE AWESOME! my strained expression tried to suggest, as I stared down at the animal… his liquid crap flowing all over the place.
Cedric stared back up at me. I’ve got you now… his sly expression seemed to say, to me at least.
As Cedric began to grow up…
… hold on, my hour (and a bit) is up. So I won’t be able to tell you about Cedric growing up, this time. About how he growls at just about everyone (the kids, the cleaning lady, Lizzie’s Mum in particular)… everyone, in fact, apart from Lizzie, whom he adores. He’s like her daemon.
And I don’t have time to tell you about how the kids still unconditionally love the hound – despite constantly being growled at themselves. Oh, hold on, I guess I just have told you about that, in the last sentence.
Anyway, there’s no escaping Cedric. He’s part of our lives now.
P. D. Clifton 
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