David of Seafield
by Glenn Muir
Genre: Memoir
Swearwords: None
Description: Memories of a much loved pooch.
Swearwords: None
Description: Memories of a much loved pooch.
When I wis seevin year auld my parents eventually gied in tae my endless pleading and bocht a dug. Since I cuid crawl my life’s ambition wis tae hae a dug for my very ain. Thir had been pets previously: oor Rab had got a hamster which he had, wi great originality, ca’d Hammy. A mair appropriate name wid hae been Houdini. Hammy wis for ever escaping and ending up wi Agnes, oor doonstairs neebour. We lived in the Tenement at Stewart Avenue in Lithgie across the road frae the Mains Park. We were the middle flat at the east end o the building opposite the McCabes. Auld Mrs Anderson wis in the flat abuin us, across the landing frae Phyllis King. Doon the bottom o the common close next tae the six lockups wis Agnes opposite auld Mr. and Mrs. Ure.
There wid be a chap at the door, Faither or Mither wid answer and their wid be Agnes , wi a mildly indignant, “Ah think there is something that belongs tae you in ma hoose.” Then somebody wid hae tae follow her doon the stairs and retrieve the nuisance. There wid be a lecture for Rab on his return frae the schuil aboot makin shair that the cage wis mair secure.
Ah cuid vaguely mind o Hammy but no Ginger. Ginger wis a magnificent marmalade cat that wis a great favourite wi the family until his “mysterious” disappearance. That particular mystery wis cleared up by ma faither quite recently. Apparently Ginger crawled hame yin nicht efter haen an argument wi some dug or ither, he wis in a real bad way and his guts were spilling oot aa owre the place. He ended up like Luca Brasi, mair or less, though the fishes that Ginger slept wi were in the Union Canal no the Hudson river.
Talking o fish we did hae the ubiquitous gowdfish bowl, sometimes occupied by a refugee frae the “Shows”. In they days the “Shows” plied their trade in the Mains Park in June tae coincide wi the Lithgie Mairches. They still gied oot gowdfish as prizes and yin or twa wid end up in oor hoose.
I can mind we were going up tae Orkney for a fortnicht and Faither had the brilliant idea o filling the bath in the toilet wi water and putting the twa current gowdfish intae it. He also decreed that they shuid be gien an extra helping o fish-food tae see them through the twa weeks we wid be awa. Naturally when we did come hame the gowdfish were totally broon breid .
Aa that is by the by, ma ambition wis tae hae a dug and eventually the day arrived and Faither drove us oot tae choose yin. Noo I had a picture in ma mind’s ee o ma perfect pooch, there wis a braw Border collie ca’d Laddie which roamed oor scheme and I wanted a doppelganger o him. Wi that thocht firmly in ma mind I sat excitedly in the back o oor Ford Prefect.
Noo these events happened mair than hauf a century ago and I must confess the actual location o the ferm we were tae get the dug frae remains a bit sketchy in ma mind. I can remember a nerra ferm road wi sheughs on either side. I remember seeing a couple o mallard drakes scurrying intae the sheughs as we drove intae the yaird.
The fermyaird wis populated by various domestic fowl – chickens, Muscovy ducks, geese and even some guinea fowl. There were several ramshackle oot buildings and a stane- built twa storey hoose. The proprietor o this establishment wis a lady ca’d Miss Pullar, a spinster in her late fifties wi blonde hair that wis turning tae grey. She wisnae whit ye wid ca’ fat, mair weel padded and she had warm grey een and a cheerie smile. She led us intae the kitchen whaur a pack o dugs noisily greeted us. There were a couple o westies, a miniature poodle, a black lab, twa yorkies, a Pomeranian and a gorgeous border collie. Naturally the collie wis the yin that I wis drewn tae. Problem wis that he wisnae for sale. Faither said that I could pick onie o the ither yins and Miss Pullar nodded saying, “Aye, son, you tak yer time and ye’ll find a nice wee dug tae suit ye.”
Resigned tae the fact that the collie wis oot o the question, I started tae pet a wee yorkie bitch. I wid probably hae settled for her if the ither yorkie hadnae snapped at me jealously.
“Sorry, son, Sam is awfie protective o Sherry,” Miss Pullar soothed. “Whit aboot this wee pom?”
The pom in question wis licking ma faither’s haun and appeared tae be smiling at him in an appealing manner. He wis cute, richt enough, mostly black in colour wi a tan breist and a tan ee broos. That was how David of Seafield entered oor lives.
According tae Miss Pullar, David had been raised by haun efter his mither and siblings had perished in a fire. Whether that story wis true or no it wis enough tae persuade the folks that this wis the dug for us. So we set of for hame wi Davie and a copy o his impressive pedigree.
Davie, as we ca’d him (his Sunday name was still David but we dropped the “of Seafield”) was aboot a year auld when we got him. He wisnae very big but he had an enormous personality and yin or twa quirks and foibles as weel.
He wisnae a total fyke aboot his food, unlike some ither pedigree pooches, he wid happily scoff onie o the leftovers that fund thir way intae his bowl at teatime. Naturally we did gie him tins o dug meat tae. He didnae like Pedigree Chum or Lassie, he wid only eat Kennomeat, onie ither type wid be left untouched.
These days it is a weel kenned fact that chocolate is poisonous tae dugs but back then we were blissfully ignorant o this fact. So when Duncan’s ice-cream van was in the vicinity it became standard practice tae treat Davie tae a wee cake o Cadbury’s Dairy Milk chocolate. Yin day wha ever had been sent tae the van had forgot tae get the dug his chocolate bar and boy did he ken it. Faither wid be getting tore in aboot his “crunchie” and he wid notice Davie sitting wi his back tae everybody.
“Davie, Davie,” he wid say.
Davie’s reaction wis tae turn his heid roond, gie a scathing look at the company, point his nose tae the ceiling and then pit his face tae the wa again. His huffy attitude wid last until the next mealtime.
Noo Davie wisnae big on walks, taking Davie for a walk usually consisted o him walking a hunner yairds, collapsing in a heap and then he wid hae tae be carried back tae the hoose.
Despite Davie’s bad diet and aa the titbits he mooched, he wis relatively healthy. He did occasionally hae problems wi his een and mither wid bathe them wi cauld tea which seemed tae work the oracle. Later in life he developed a bit o a dodgy ticker (probably due tae him being a bit on the podgy side).
He didnae really get on wi ither dugs, being quite jealous natured. His pet hate wis a stuffed koala by the name o Cuddles. Cuddles belonged tae ma sister, a gift frae her fiancé wha wis in the merchant navy. Faither wid pick up the koala and talk lovingly tae it jist tae annoy the dug. Davie wid growl and yap for aa he wis worth makin it quite plain that he wisnae happy and if that damned Cuddles wis doon at his level it wid get ripped tae buggery.
When ye get richt doon tae it Davie wisnae really ma dug, being a Spitz type he wis a yin person dug and his loyalty wis tae ma faither. That micht explain why I wis less upset than expected when we had tae hae him rehomed. We were flitting frae “the Tenement” tae yin o the new Vennel flats in Lithgie High Street and at the time there wis a strict nae dugs or cats rule in force there.
Luckily Miss Pullar wis happy tae tak him back when asked. He had been wi us for nine year and there wis a certain degree o sadness when we said oor last goodbyes tae him but we kenned that he wid be weel looked efter in his Autumn years which salved oor collective conscience.
There wid be a chap at the door, Faither or Mither wid answer and their wid be Agnes , wi a mildly indignant, “Ah think there is something that belongs tae you in ma hoose.” Then somebody wid hae tae follow her doon the stairs and retrieve the nuisance. There wid be a lecture for Rab on his return frae the schuil aboot makin shair that the cage wis mair secure.
Ah cuid vaguely mind o Hammy but no Ginger. Ginger wis a magnificent marmalade cat that wis a great favourite wi the family until his “mysterious” disappearance. That particular mystery wis cleared up by ma faither quite recently. Apparently Ginger crawled hame yin nicht efter haen an argument wi some dug or ither, he wis in a real bad way and his guts were spilling oot aa owre the place. He ended up like Luca Brasi, mair or less, though the fishes that Ginger slept wi were in the Union Canal no the Hudson river.
Talking o fish we did hae the ubiquitous gowdfish bowl, sometimes occupied by a refugee frae the “Shows”. In they days the “Shows” plied their trade in the Mains Park in June tae coincide wi the Lithgie Mairches. They still gied oot gowdfish as prizes and yin or twa wid end up in oor hoose.
I can mind we were going up tae Orkney for a fortnicht and Faither had the brilliant idea o filling the bath in the toilet wi water and putting the twa current gowdfish intae it. He also decreed that they shuid be gien an extra helping o fish-food tae see them through the twa weeks we wid be awa. Naturally when we did come hame the gowdfish were totally broon breid .
Aa that is by the by, ma ambition wis tae hae a dug and eventually the day arrived and Faither drove us oot tae choose yin. Noo I had a picture in ma mind’s ee o ma perfect pooch, there wis a braw Border collie ca’d Laddie which roamed oor scheme and I wanted a doppelganger o him. Wi that thocht firmly in ma mind I sat excitedly in the back o oor Ford Prefect.
Noo these events happened mair than hauf a century ago and I must confess the actual location o the ferm we were tae get the dug frae remains a bit sketchy in ma mind. I can remember a nerra ferm road wi sheughs on either side. I remember seeing a couple o mallard drakes scurrying intae the sheughs as we drove intae the yaird.
The fermyaird wis populated by various domestic fowl – chickens, Muscovy ducks, geese and even some guinea fowl. There were several ramshackle oot buildings and a stane- built twa storey hoose. The proprietor o this establishment wis a lady ca’d Miss Pullar, a spinster in her late fifties wi blonde hair that wis turning tae grey. She wisnae whit ye wid ca’ fat, mair weel padded and she had warm grey een and a cheerie smile. She led us intae the kitchen whaur a pack o dugs noisily greeted us. There were a couple o westies, a miniature poodle, a black lab, twa yorkies, a Pomeranian and a gorgeous border collie. Naturally the collie wis the yin that I wis drewn tae. Problem wis that he wisnae for sale. Faither said that I could pick onie o the ither yins and Miss Pullar nodded saying, “Aye, son, you tak yer time and ye’ll find a nice wee dug tae suit ye.”
Resigned tae the fact that the collie wis oot o the question, I started tae pet a wee yorkie bitch. I wid probably hae settled for her if the ither yorkie hadnae snapped at me jealously.
“Sorry, son, Sam is awfie protective o Sherry,” Miss Pullar soothed. “Whit aboot this wee pom?”
The pom in question wis licking ma faither’s haun and appeared tae be smiling at him in an appealing manner. He wis cute, richt enough, mostly black in colour wi a tan breist and a tan ee broos. That was how David of Seafield entered oor lives.
According tae Miss Pullar, David had been raised by haun efter his mither and siblings had perished in a fire. Whether that story wis true or no it wis enough tae persuade the folks that this wis the dug for us. So we set of for hame wi Davie and a copy o his impressive pedigree.
Davie, as we ca’d him (his Sunday name was still David but we dropped the “of Seafield”) was aboot a year auld when we got him. He wisnae very big but he had an enormous personality and yin or twa quirks and foibles as weel.
He wisnae a total fyke aboot his food, unlike some ither pedigree pooches, he wid happily scoff onie o the leftovers that fund thir way intae his bowl at teatime. Naturally we did gie him tins o dug meat tae. He didnae like Pedigree Chum or Lassie, he wid only eat Kennomeat, onie ither type wid be left untouched.
These days it is a weel kenned fact that chocolate is poisonous tae dugs but back then we were blissfully ignorant o this fact. So when Duncan’s ice-cream van was in the vicinity it became standard practice tae treat Davie tae a wee cake o Cadbury’s Dairy Milk chocolate. Yin day wha ever had been sent tae the van had forgot tae get the dug his chocolate bar and boy did he ken it. Faither wid be getting tore in aboot his “crunchie” and he wid notice Davie sitting wi his back tae everybody.
“Davie, Davie,” he wid say.
Davie’s reaction wis tae turn his heid roond, gie a scathing look at the company, point his nose tae the ceiling and then pit his face tae the wa again. His huffy attitude wid last until the next mealtime.
Noo Davie wisnae big on walks, taking Davie for a walk usually consisted o him walking a hunner yairds, collapsing in a heap and then he wid hae tae be carried back tae the hoose.
Despite Davie’s bad diet and aa the titbits he mooched, he wis relatively healthy. He did occasionally hae problems wi his een and mither wid bathe them wi cauld tea which seemed tae work the oracle. Later in life he developed a bit o a dodgy ticker (probably due tae him being a bit on the podgy side).
He didnae really get on wi ither dugs, being quite jealous natured. His pet hate wis a stuffed koala by the name o Cuddles. Cuddles belonged tae ma sister, a gift frae her fiancé wha wis in the merchant navy. Faither wid pick up the koala and talk lovingly tae it jist tae annoy the dug. Davie wid growl and yap for aa he wis worth makin it quite plain that he wisnae happy and if that damned Cuddles wis doon at his level it wid get ripped tae buggery.
When ye get richt doon tae it Davie wisnae really ma dug, being a Spitz type he wis a yin person dug and his loyalty wis tae ma faither. That micht explain why I wis less upset than expected when we had tae hae him rehomed. We were flitting frae “the Tenement” tae yin o the new Vennel flats in Lithgie High Street and at the time there wis a strict nae dugs or cats rule in force there.
Luckily Miss Pullar wis happy tae tak him back when asked. He had been wi us for nine year and there wis a certain degree o sadness when we said oor last goodbyes tae him but we kenned that he wid be weel looked efter in his Autumn years which salved oor collective conscience.
About the Author
West Lothian-born Glenn Muir is a fiftysomething postman working in Linlithgow. Previously a member of the West Lothian Song Writers Group, he is now with Quill, a poetry and writing group based in Bathgate.