Down memory lane

Joe always went ‘potty’ when there was snow on the ground, said Marjory. He would clamour at the back door to be let out to play in it, and once outside he’d rush around in frenzied circles, barking at it. Not that it snowed much during his lifetime, she added. Twice, she thinks. But each time, Joe’s excitement had made it a memorable event. When it snowed this year, he went spare as usual, she said. When she let him outside to play in it, he became so excited he had another epileptic fit, then a heart attack and he died, lying on his side in the snow, on Christmas Eve.

Old Joe was a likable chap, and because Marjory was becoming frail, I used to take him out for walks. We walked the same route, more or less, about three times a week for a couple of years, and I like to think Joe enjoyed my company as much as I did his. Between residences at the local animal refuge, he’d had two previous owners in his long life, both elderly, both female, both of whom he’d outlived. Then he’d gone to Marjory, who was no spring chicken either. And between you and me, she can get on your wick very quickly. So I think he appreciated, finally, at the end of his life, a bit of male company for a change, and being taken out for a decent walk, and not being continually nagged with imbecilities.