Stories Of London

This is a photograph of Poor Toby.  I say ‘Poor Toby’, as he died recently.  He, being an outside dog would taste everything within reach in the garden.  Sadly, one day he ate something disagreeable and died two days later.  He was an awkward dog with huge paws and was very rambunctious.  Still he was loved and is sadly missed by all who knew him.  He was lain to rest in a quiet and shady part of the garden where he can be visited and remembered by those who loved him.

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Naturally we were not always as lucky with some of our other dogs as we had been with the Fidos.  Although most were nice friendly creatures with none being mean or viscous, they were not Fido(s).  But why would any of them be mean?  After all, there they were living with The Pied Piper of Dogs!

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In 1953 we moved from the Pie ‘n’ Mash Shop.  The long hours and the responsibility of running The Shop had taken its toll on the lives of my parents.  My father had taken to drinking more and more and sadly had displayed a total lack of responsibility when my mother was taken to hospital as a result of severe Hypertension and Gall Bladder problems, both of which were major problems in those days and which required in-patient treatment.

During my mother’s stay at Bethnal Green Hospital, my father was left to run the shop on his own and also to tend to my needs, both of which he failed miserably to fulfill.  He occasionally had a retired man come in to collect the used plates left on the shop tables and wash them, but he was somewhat unreliable and also enjoyed his alcohol too much to be depended upon.

Bethnal Green Hospital

After eight weeks in hospital, where as a result of her anxiety, the medical staff were unable to treat both my mother’s elevated Blood Pressure and Gall Bladder problems.  As a result my mother discharged herself and came home.

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Our doctor, Dr. Liebstone, a very kind and considerate man, advised my parents to give up The Shop, and stated quite clearly that unless my mother stopped this work, she would be carried out of the shop in a box.  In those days, physicians gave their advice in a clear manner, unlike today, where recriminations and the fear of being sued, have limited what they may say to patients.

My mother believed that there was little point in seeking advice from an expert unless one was prepared to take it.  As a result, we moved to a flat in the heart of Bethnal Green, where we lived for almost three years before moving out of London to Langley, which was in Buckinghamshire at that time.

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Paradise Row, Bethnal Green
Top Right: Number 8, my home between 1953 and 1956
Bottom Right: Number 3, once home of Daniel Mendoza (1764-1836), pugilist & author

With the move to a small flat at the top of a house overlooking St. John’s Church and the parks that once formed part of Bethnal Green, we were unable to take all of our furniture with us and also Nelson, my Scottish Terrier (see Part Four, My Dogs, of this series).  I was very upset at the thought of losing Nelson, but it was soon evident to me that one could not house a dog, no matter how small, at the top of a house in a small flat.  So Nelson went to live with people that lived in the country and who had a large garden where I am sure he spent a happy life.

We lived in this flat for about two-and-a-half years before moving to Langley.  Here, we had a garden, which although not large, was where my father began to spend much of the free-time.  Unfortunately for us, with time, his free-time began to be taken up more and more with drinking friends that he discovered first in Slough and then in Langley.

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We had not had a dog for about four years when one of my father’s drinking companions easily managed to persuade him to take a dog that his family had grown tired of.  Although the family did not say this, it soon became apparent when my father and I went to collect the dog.  I have to point out that my mother was not in agreement that we should offer a home to this dog.  She said that nothing good could come from his drinking pals.  Sadly, my mother was proven right in her prediction.

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The dog was a true Mongrel and we were not able to tell her dominant breed.  The owner, a postman, had told my father that his family was very upset to give the dog away, as he put it, and that they were all filled with sadness.  This was an obvious lie, as the son of the family was dancing around the house while telling everyone who would listen to him that he was going to get a cat now that the dog was going.  So much for being upset at the loss of the family dog!

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Although I was young, I could see that this dog was not going to be suitable for us.  The dog was about a year or so in age and totally unruly, obviously having had no training whatsoever.  The dog jumped and crashed around the sitting room of his soon-to-be former owners.  The family tried to make little of the behaviour of the dog and pretended that her prancing and jumping were uncommon practices.  It did not take me long to realise that that they wanted most was for us to take possession of the poor dog and leave.

I was horrified to note that the postman removed the dog’s collar and had expected us to bring one along with a lead.  When he realised that we had not brought either, since one generally expects the former owner to include both accouterments in the transfer of ownership.  Begrudgingly the postman allowed us to take both collar and lead, but did say that my father could buy his several pints of beer in payment for them.

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This dog was a very rare dog since she did not immediately take to my father.  This was indeed an unusual dog.  Dogs still followed my father, but my father’s charisma totally escaped this poor creature!

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A Well-Behaved Dog – just as Big Fido was

Unlike Big Fido, this dog, as I had thought, did prove to be totally unruly.  One could not blame the poor creature, as time spent with her when she was a puppy might have caused her to grow into a more pleasant dog and one that was easier to handle.

After we left the house, the postman quickly slammed the front door shut and I could have sworn that I heard a loud cheer coming from behind it.

As we made our way along the street, the dog pulled and strained at the lead.  My father tried to control her, but to no avail.  He tried calming her by gently talking to her and by stroking her since I believe that he thought that she might choke herself with the twisting of the lead about her throat.  His efforts failed to calm her and he was forced to pick her up and carry her in his arms.  Since the dog was no longer a puppy, her weight added to my father’s difficulties in attempting to carry her, which  sadly proved to be no solution since the animal wriggled and barked her way free only to land on the ground in a winded state with her lead now twisted around her legs.  This dog, unlike Little Fido after a leap into the air, plopped to the ground with a thud since she lacked the grace of a Prima Ballerina.

With the dog pulling and straining at her lead and my father beginning to get very hot and bothered, we attempted to get to the nearest bus stop.   Unfortunately it was at this time, with him on the brink of losing his patience completely, that a host of dogs suddenly appeared and formed a parade behind him.

My father was now being dragged along the street with our wild new dog heading the caravan.  Included in the entourage following my father was a small Poodle who was bringing up the rear having obviously broken free from its owner, as it was dragging its lead along side of it along the ground.  This poor creature was running at top speed to keep up with the other dogs, but its little legs were having a hard time in achieving its goal.  This poor little dog was just the kind of a dog that my father disliked.  He always referred to such dogs as house flannels and poor excuses for dogs!

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Breeds of Dogs that were not entirely to my Father’s Taste
He was never in favour of any Dog Breed that could be described as cute.
He also was not fond of any poor Dog that was groomed in a fancy way.  
As a result, his taste did not extend to either  (Top Row, Left to Right) the Poodle, the Pekingese or the Afghan or to (Bottom Row, Left to Right), the Dachshund, the Cocker Spaniel or the Shih Tzu.

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The sight of my father leading a caravan of dogs along a street would have made for an amusing scene on any other occasion were it not for the fact that my father was getting more and more annoyed with our new dog and was being forced to almost run to keep up with her.  However, what actually did make the scene amusing for me was what was happening at the rear of the entourage.

The owner of the Poodle, a forty-something slightly overweight woman wearing tight-fitting clothes and ridiculously high heeled shoes, was clippity-clopping after her dog in the hope of retrieving it.  While moving precariously along the street, she made efforts to call after her dog, using a silly name, and also to gain my father’s attention in the hope of bringing him to a stop.

Eventually I was able to draw alongside my father and inform him of the parade of dogs behind him.  The owner of the Poodle arrived and scooped up her dog and began to give my father a piece of her mind.  Sadly for her, she had chosen to do this on a bad day for my father was in no mood to be polite and sent her off with a flea in her ear!  Lost for words, the woman, now clutching her dog, ran off home certainly feeling that she had never been so insulted.

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After this interaction, my father picked up the dog and held her in a vice-like gripe and we continued on our less-than-merry way.  By now I was literally choking with laughter, as I continued to enjoy the collection of names he threw at the dog.  I especially liked, for some unknown reason, his likening her to a silly mare!

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We had taken a bus from our home to fetch the dog, but my father thought that the animal would be controllable on the upper deck of a bus were we to take one home.  As a result, we suffered a long walk home in the hot sun with the poor beast pulling and straining on the led thereby forcing my father to pick her up periodically until her wriggling brought her out of his arms and onto the pavement whereupon the routine was started all over again.

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I laugh now when I think of this morning walk – hardly a scene from the Gainsborough painting!  I especially laugh loudly when I remember the various names that my father called the dog during our promenade!

The Morning Walk painted in 1775 by Thomas Gainsborough (1727-1788)

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Somehow we managed to get home.  We were hot and bothered and exhausted, but not the dog.  She leapt and cavorted as she scrambled around the kitchen.  My mother demanded that the dog be put into the back garden immediately!  I opened the back door and the dog shot off like an arrow from a bow and began racing herself about the garden.  The dog seemed tireless.  My mother watched her antics and declared her to be mad, which caused me to burst into laughter once again.  One look from my mother soon put an end to my enjoyment!

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As I had thought, the dog proved to be totally and utterly unmanageable.  My father tried to train the dog to sit and remain still, but this failed; he tried to train the dog not to pull him along the street when out for a walk, and this too failed; and he also failed to train the dog not to leave her urine and feces in the house and relieve herself outside.  My father had obtained a special box filled with litter for her if she must do her toilet in the house, but this too failed.

Although each of these failures certainly did not cause us to warm to the dog, I think that it was her constant barking that almost drove us nuts.  The dog barked in the house.  She barked outside in the garden.  She never appeared to sleep and barked through the night.  My mother wanted the dog to remain outside especially at night, but this could not be done since her barking disturbed the neighbours.

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We had gone to get the dog on a Sunday morning and by the evening, we had had more than enough of her.  The next day, my parents went to work and I went to school.  We were unsure where to leave the dog during our absence and finally decided that she was to have the run of the kitchen and hall.  We thought that she could not do harm here.  How wrong we were!  When we arrived home, we found both the hall and the kitchen in utter chaos.

Unruly Dogs come in all sizes and shapes

The dog had dragged any free carpeting from the hall and the kitchen mats upstairs!  We had a large and heavy flower pot on a little table in the hall.  The dog had knocked the table over and the pot lay smashed on the floor.  She had managed to tear up the flower growing in the pot and trample the earth around the kitchen, the hall and up the stairs carrying some to the top floor.  In addition, she had torn to shreds the letters that the postman had pushed through the letterbox.  As I said, the scene revealed utter chaos.

My mother was furious; my father was furious; and I was somewhat bemused since I knew that this was going to happen.  My mother was angered as she had to clear up the mess helped by me once I got home from school.  My father was angered as he had to suffer my mother’s comments.  I became annoyed too since I got a smack for laughing about the incident!!!

My mother made it clear that she not been in favour of taking a dog from one of his beery mates, as she put it, and now she had been proven right!   She also made it clear that the dog had to go!   But where?

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The next day my parents tried keeping the dog in the back garden while we were out at work and school.  This too proved to be a disaster since several of the neighbours who remained at home during the day since they worked at night complained that they were unable to sleep as a result of the dog’s constant barking.  In addition, the dog had dug a number of holes and even found its way into a neighbour’s garden.  Thank goodness this garden was not well kept and so not too much harm was done there.

Large paws, great for digging holes in the garden

My mother gave my father an ultimatum: the dog had to go now ……. or else!!!  I never discovered what the or else was, but it was clear that the dog had to go.

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Over the next few days my father tried to find the dog a new home, but who would take such a creature?  No one apparently!  He went to the local Veterinary’s Office and asked them to find a home for the dog, but they refused.

Out of desperation, he went to the Police Station and they said that it was not their job to find homes for dogs no longer wanted.  My father was very angry with the Desk Sergeant and told him that it was not that he did not want the dog, but that the dog was uncontrollable!  The Desk Sergeant sniffed at this and told my father that he would receive a summons if he allowed the dog to run off and not retrieve it!  My father was most indignant at this and said that this was unlikely since although the dog pulled and strained at her lead, but when she broke free, she never ran off, but rather sat there for my him to come and pick up the lead again!  And with that he stormed out of the Station with dog in hand!

Who is taking Who for a Walk?

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I cannot say with certainty what the fate of this poor dog was.  I remember coming home from school one day the following week and not finding the dog in the house.  My father was working late shift that week and so did not go to work until 4 p.m.  I recall him being at home before I went to school and noticed the dog jumping around him.  I suspect that he took the poor thing out for a walk, somewhere in a wooded area, which were plentiful in those days, and conveniently lost her.  When I asked my mother what had become of the dog, she said that she did not know, which actually meant that she was glad that she had gone.

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After this tragic episode, my father never had another dog.  My mother made it clear to him that after this last debacle, she would not tolerate his bringing home another mad dog.  I actually felt sorry for him since he was such a dog lover and someone that dogs loved in return.  However, I could not blame my mother for her attitude.  My father had much, much better taste in dogs than he did in people and was easily led by others.  I am sure that his beery companions, as my mother called them, would have been able to convince him of practically anything and this would have resulted in his bringing home another unsuitable dog.

Although he never had another dog, dogs continued to love my father and follow him whenever he went out.  This continued until he died.

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Toby, Rest in peace

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PART FOUR: MY DOGS