My family had always wanted a dog. We had tried without success to take on a rescue, who had refused to be taken out for a walk and peed on the carpet in a powerful display of petulance. So when the elderly lady who lived opposite us told us that her dog, Flossie, an orange and white border collie cross, was pregnant as a result of what was described as a “street accident”, my then husband, two young sons and I said that the puppy might just be the pet we were looking for.
And so it proved. We all fell immediately for Flossie’s pup – she was an adorable little creature. But what were we going to call her? At that time, Shirley Williams, then the education secretary, had unveiled a plan to close down the small college of education in Scarborough where my husband was a lecturer. I no longer remember if it was he or I who suggested: “If we call the puppy Shirley Williams and train her, we can say that Shirley Williams does whatever we tell her to do.”
The name stuck. The puppy had black and brown fur, and was somewhat unruly-looking. It seemed a not inappropriate name.
We lived near the sea in a North Yorkshire village. Shirley developed a dislike for fishers in waders and would nip at their rubber-clad heels. On holidays in our favourite part of north Wales, we often tied her up to our windbreak to stop her from chasing fishers down the beach. She never did any damage, as far as I know. She did, however, have an annoying habit of chasing cricket balls at the local recreation ground.
Shirley was also a favourite with pupils in the primary schools where my husband was supervising teaching practice. I still have, somewhere, a picture drawn by one such pupil, with the title ‘I lac Shirley’.
We eventually moved to Wiltshire, where Shirley spent her final few years. Until our Yorkshire house was sold, we rented the caretaker’s house of a local primary school. We discovered that Shirley hated being left alone in the house, when we heard her howling as we came back from drinks in a local pub. From then on, she came to work with me and was happy to sit in the car while I got on with work in schools. Once we had bought a house not far outside Swindon, we enjoyed fields and countryside on our doorstep and she was happy to spend the days at home, with early-morning and late-afternoon runs.
Shirley survived to the good age of 17 or so. She lived through my elder son leaving home for university and his first job, and the end of my marriage. She died at home while my younger son was away at camp with the Venture Scouts. By then, I had another pet, a cat inherited from my elder son’s student house. But Shirley will always have a special place in our hearts.
