I first met our family dog, Sylvester, on New Year’s Eve 1990. I was nine years old. My mother took me to the local animal rescue centre, just to have a look at the dogs we could adopt. The moment Sylvester saw us, his whole body started wagging, not just his tail.
He was a mongrel who had been abandoned by his previous owner but it was obvious from the length of his body that one of his parents must have been a dachshund – and whenever he was excited, as he was that day, his whole body would waggle back and forth around his head with joy, in a sort of S-shape.
We were smitten and, despite my mother previously saying we were not going to get a dog that day, she agreed we could take him home immediately. It was her idea to call him Sylvester, because we had got him on Saint Sylvester’s Day. A long name for a long dog. It suited him.
It soon became clear that Sylvester was my mother’s dog. He adored her, following her wherever she went – and she took him everywhere: to the bank, to the post office, even to the library. He followed her unquestioningly, not needing a lead much of the time. He was her shadow.
His favourite activity was rolling a basketball around with his nose. Despite his small stature – the ball was at least twice the size of his head – he was lightning fast at rolling the ball in this manner. He could get from one end of the park to the other in seconds, but as he had no sense of direction, the ball would inevitably end up deep in a bush. He would then bark excitedly until my mother came over to tackle thorns and branches to get it out again for him. Then he was off again, the fastest footballer in the land.
My mother found this incredibly entertaining to watch. She thought he should be famous for this trick, describing him as “a circus dog” – a compliment that, she implied, denoted great intelligence. For years, she was desperate to find another mongrel like him, so she could breed him. As far as she was concerned, he was the best dog in the world.
He died about 15 years ago of natural causes, after a long and happy life. When my mother died earlier this year, I realised that one of the greatest gifts she gave me was my love of dogs.
During lockdown, thanks in part to my mum’s encouragement, I got my own dog: a cute little poochon called Rosie, who I adore. My mum adored her too, and, somehow when I snuggle up with Rosie now or give her a cuddle, I feel very close to my mum.
She and Sylvester taught me not only how to bond with a dog but also how to understand just how much love a dog can offer you in return, and that has been a great help for me in my grief.
When I think of Sylvester now, playing with his ball, I see in my mind’s eye my mum standing on the grass in the park watching him, her hands on her hips, smiling. I see Sylvester running far ahead of her on a country walk, then racing back to her side, barking an ecstatic greeting at her in the wind. I see him curled up at her feet, keeping her company, his tail thumping and thumping with delight that she is near. It brings me comfort. And it brings me joy.
