Strictly Come Barking: Life Among the Dog People of Paddington Rec

© 2009 Anthony Linick. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 12/10/2009

ISBN: 978-1-4343-0644-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4343-0645-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4670-1794-7 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

Introduction

Chapter One:

Chapter Two:

Chapter Three:

Chapter Four:

Chapter 5:

Chapter Six:

Chapter Seven:

Chapter Eight:

Chapter Nine:

Chapter Ten:

Chapter Eleven:

Chapter Twelve:

Chapter Thirteen:

An Index of

Paddington Rec Dogs

About the Author

Introduction

The same day that we returned after two months in California – having decided that we would not be moving back to the States at the beginning of our retirement – we took our property off the market … and ordered a puppy. Fritz the Schnauzer arrived a few weeks later and by the end of June, 2003, we had entered that unique society of dog owners who people London’s Paddington Recreation Ground.

This was not the first time that we had belonged to such a society, for Fritz was the third of our Schnauzers, having been preceded by his cousins, Bertie and Toby. But five and half years had elapsed since Toby’s passing, and in this time Dorothy and I had both left permanent employment. This meant that our trips to the park could now be more frequent, and that there would be no need to rush off after just a few minutes among the canines of Maida Vale.

The society in which we were now to take our place is a unique one, an ever-changing kaleidoscope of dogs and their owners. The dogs represent most of the popular breeds and many of the mutt-like mixtures – and so do their accompanying humans, who come from diverse nationalities and from many walks of life: professionals and job seekers, young and old, family members and loners. They are united in their love of dogs, and on the central green of the park, on its walkways and at the café where they gather after exercising their animals, they often let this affection for dogs carry them into friendships that transcend park life and involve many of them in additional social activities.

Fritz had been a member of the pack for about a year when one day I decided to keep a daily record of his antics and the folkways of the rest of the crew, human and canine. I have done so ever since. I reasoned that not only would this furnish us with an insight into the relationship of man and beast but that it would also provide a glimpse into London life as it was lived in the first decade of the 21st Century. Such a life, we know, is full of struggles and tensions and these are certainly reflected in the chronicle that follows. I have tried to make this record a candid and accurate one – even though I have the advantage of providing the only perspective.

I have used the names of the dogs, as I could divine them (though undoubtedly misspelled on occasion), and the real first names of the owners as well – except in the case of a few personalities who might be considered public figures and for whom a full name is provided. I have also adopted British spellings in this text but, as you will see, the same cannot be said for British punctuation. Many of the participants in this venture have provided photos and have, indeed, read this account and provided additional suggestions. I do thank them for their insights and comments. They, and perhaps you too, can check out references to specific dogs by referring to the index I have provided at the end of this volume.

Finally, I want to thank all those who help to provide and maintain the wonderful resource that is Paddington Rec. There are, of course, occasional conflicts, but we do appreciate the work of the civic officials, managers and park keepers, and the café staff who help preserve this treasured place as a sanctuary for dogs and their owners in London W9.

Anthony Linick

London

April, 2007

Chapter One:

May, 2004

Sunday, May 23

Soon after entering the park we encounter Sue Wilkinson and, trailing serenely behind, her little dog George. George is fourteen, a low-slung white terrier of eclectic lineage, Chihuahua uppermost, brown spots dotting his floppy ears. He is very slow and he struggles to keep up with us as we begin a lazy circle on the perimeter walkways. You would not think that such a docile specimen would require a muzzle, but this plastic object is George’s most distinguishing feature, a basket on a snout. George is muzzled not to prohibit the occasional sampling of some jogger’s ankle, but to deter the ingestion of odd bits of rubber, a near fatal passion that has required this brutal remedy for his own good. Other dogs are made uneasy by the muzzle and they sometimes succeed in taking it off with their teeth. I call George the Hannibal Lecter of Paddington Rec.

His mistress is an attractive blonde woman, now 60, who once enjoyed a glamorous career as a London model in the ‘60s. She writes screenplays now, has published her own book of verse (Reflections of a Recovering Bimbo) and still answers the occasional photo call. In a recent article in the Sunday Mail magazine she has mentioned her energetic walks in the park, but this can be true only of her own perambulation, which includes stretching and bending at the odd piece of stationary gym equipment scattered throughout the park – George can’t do anything energetically any more.

Fritz, my thirteen month-old Miniature Schnauzer, races around the northern end of the two artificial football pitches and makes a dash for the village green, the great grassy circle that is the Recreation Ground’s heart. Already gathered here are half a dozen dogs, including Fritz’s great favourite, Charlie. At sixteen months Charlie is a York Russell, a cross between a Yorkie and a Jack Russell, a tireless scamp who is always game for a wrestling match or a good chase. His master, the Scottish Michael, is the king of the park – as far as the rest of us are concerned. He knows everyone and he has a marvellous memory for dog names – the names of the owners are often unrevealed.

Fritz lies in wait for his pal while I am discovered by Milly and Biscuit, Bunny’s Whippets, and a second Milly, Mel’s Norfolk Terrier. They know I carry treats in my pocket and they are eager to be noticed, climbing up my legs in hopes of a handout. Bunny has brought a squeaky toy and Fritz is entranced. Tanzanite, a Pomeranian, is lead onto to the green by Naomi, his mistress, and they are followed by Ronnie with Rosie, a portly ruby-coloured Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, who is three. Also present are two sisters from Glasgow, Jean, who has a brown shepherd dog named Billy, and Georgina, whose miniature Yorkie is named Pebbles. All these dogs know one another and the only sign of trouble comes when a stranger joins the pack; whoever it is, there has to be a period of growling inspection, and then all is peace again.

After half an hour or so in the warm sunshine, with Michael administering water from a small plastic bowl to all and sundry, the group repairs to the café where the owners drink coffee and the dogs feast on sausages and toast prepared by the kitchen staff. We are joined by my wife Dorothy and by Tanis (a former mayoress of our borough, according to Ronnie) who has brought a tan mongrel named Saffron. Tanis tells me that the American sports answer I supplied to a clue in her newspaper puzzle yesterday didn’t fit after all. We are having a jolly time when someone notices that Rosie is having a fit – having collapsed beneath the table with her legs twitching. Tanis picks her up and she and Ronnie rush from the park, leaving the rest of us in a sober anxiety. We make our way around to our favourite exits, preoccupied with the fate of the stricken dog.

Monday, May 24

The last of the navy-clad school kids has passed our corner on their way to the Essendine School when Fritz and I reach the park. An Irish woman with a docile Doberman follows us; she is interested in bird life and thinks she has spotted some finches overhead. We talk about magpies and she repeats all the folk tales she has learned from a very superstitious mother. If it weren’t for my pragmatic father, she adds, we kids would have been scarred for life by mother’s madness. The admission is an unusual confession to share with a complete stranger but such moments of instant intimacy are not surprising among us – the society of dog people, Paddington Rec’s confraternity of neurotic, obsessed, canine lovers.

It is again lovely and warm. We have virtually the same turnout on the green as the day before, except that this time we are joined by Scout, a young black-on-white French Bulldog who sometimes appears with her pretty red-haired mistress and sometimes with her master, a tall man from the Antipodes whose hair last saw a brush during the Thatcher era. Scout is wonderfully ugly and charming at the same time; she snorts as she runs after her ball on a rope and everybody likes her. I once asked her master if To Kill A Mockingbird was a favourite read in his family. He agreed, but cited another female Scout as well, the daughter of Bruce Willis and Demi Moore.

To our great relief Ronnie now strolls onto the green with Rosie, who seems to have recovered speedily from yesterday’s episode. Michael has already heard the good news, having made a house call the previous afternoon. Some of us are worried that the pooch should have been taken to the vet, her devoted owner in denial, but there is no doubt that he faces his own illness forthrightly – Ronnie, a former proprietor of jewellery stores in many a London location, has MS.

Somewhat unsteady on his pins, Ronnie is usually the first to suggest that we abandon the green for our outdoor table at the café. He has taken Rosie off sausages and brought some slimming carrots with him, but Rosie would rather have sausages and Fritz eats most of the carrots. Our dog has had an egg yoke at home, now sausages, toast, carrots, and Sainsbury’s dog biscuits, which Ronnie also brings every day for the assembled menagerie. Today Michael finally accepts one of Ronnie’s cigars, puffing contentedly and even inhaling a bit. But Ronnie decides to take himself and his dog home without joining us in our last half circle. They both look tired.

Tuesday, May 25

The last of the Essendine scholars has passed through the park when Fritz and I make our entrance. Almost immediately, however, I have to reattach the dog to his lead for I can see a black woman pushing a toddler in our direction. To the great chagrin of the dog owners of Paddington Rec, much of the local black population and an even higher percentage of the ever-growing number of Middle Easterners, the chief clientele of our local schools, are dog haters. They recoil in fear and distaste if approached by our animals and it is therefore easier to avoid contact whenever possible. Love me, love my dog is the imperative among the dog people; a categorical rejection from others is therefore hard to take. Their distaste is a slap in the face – our feelings are hurt. We feel unclean and we are not unclean – the dog owners, as a group, are a vigilant and responsible lot; we never go anywhere without our poo-poo bags.

If you want a telling instance of cultural dislocation, consider this: recently I was bending over to scoop up one of Fritz’s contributions to the greensward when a black boy on a bicycle sped by; it is forbidden to ride a bike in the park but when he saw what I was doing he recoiled in disgust – in his eyes I was the lawbreaker, and in mine he was.

On the green I can see that Ché is back; he is a large dozy Alsatian, sixteen months old and still growing. He is a pussycat in his play and even Charlie, who barks hysterically when approached by most large dogs, is quiet this morning. John, Ché’s owner, is a hippy craftsman (antique dealer, motorcycle repairman and shaman) with several days of stubble and a ponytail erupting from the back of his Hard Rock Café cap. He has just installed an expensive marble fireplace and, to his disgust, the client now wants him to cover the beautiful surface with hardboard. In Paddington Rec you hear a good deal about the idiocies of the rich.

Georgina (just call me Georgie) is sitting on the grass with her sister Jean while Pebbles and Billy circle about. It is unusual to be able to relax in this manner, for the green is often a spongy mess, rarely dry enough to support this form of repose. Georgie has brought two squeaky toys, a Wellington boot and a chicken, and Fritz loves both, racing around with one or the other in his mouth, trying to get a rise out of Charlie.

When we get to the café we find Hanna at a solitary table. She has been here for some time, having vacated the green when the Scottish women, whom she distrusts, first arrived. The source of the grievance is pheromonal; when Pebbles was last in heat her owner failed to exclude her from park society long enough to satisfy Hanna, and the consequence was that the nasally sensitive Spadge, another Schnauzer, but an ancient one, whined in misery while Hanna fumed. Now, weeks later, the unforgiving Finn finds an excuse to separate herself every time Pebbles or Billy and their owners are present – which is much of the time. The contretemps has a dispiriting effect on the other dog owners who, per force, spend a great deal of time with the Scottish women, on the playing field and at table, while, at the same time, acknowledging Hanna’s position in park society. If Michael is king of the park, Hanna is its queen.

John has also taken a seat at our table and I know that Hanna, who has Spadge on her lap at a little table for one, disapproves of him too, that is she disapproves of Ché, who drinks from the communal trough with his foot in the water. Today, as on the last time that he was here, he also poos twice on the café flagstones, horrible messy rivulets which John dutifully mops up.

Young David, the dog sitter who will look after Fritz in a few weeks, arrives to meet his client, and accompanies us on our last half circle. Behind us, Hanna, who is a great champion of every quirkish form of alternative therapy, complains to Dorothy that Ronnie, who has taken Rosie to the hair dresser on Finchley Road, hasn’t accepted any of her recent suggestions for his MS: these include Reiki (which she often administers to other dog owners while they sit outside the café, and to their dogs as well), Korean massage, or use of a laminated card that sends out rays when you concentrate for fifteen minutes a day. There is a kind of grass that the dogs like to eat on our return route: it is their alternative therapy.

Wednesday, May 26

As Fritz and I enter the Rec Hanna is walking with some park keepers, pointing out the damage caused to fencing by local kids. There are two new Spaniels in our group when we arrive for Fritz’s morning constitutional. They are named Domino, who is black and white, and Jake, who is brown and tan. They are accompanied by an American mom, a blonde woman in the livery of my former employer, the American School in London. She has ASL on the front of her sweatpants and Eagles on her bottom. Rosie has had a nice trim but the chief attention belongs to Tanzanite, who is one year old today. Naomi, whom Dame Edna would drolly describe as tinted, worked as a dresser on the set of Phantom of the Opera for five years; today she is accompanied by her Polish mother. We are all invited to a birthday celebration at the café, where Naomi buys us coffees and the dogs their sausage and toast.

The Scottish women have made special preparations for the Pomeranian’s birthday, planting a perfumed candle in a sausage, inserting a jewelled bow into Pebbles’ hair, and slipping a necktie over Billy’s head. We have a jolly time (Naomi and Jean discuss the opera and the ballet), and a number of us slip over to see Hanna, who is again cutting us dead. Hanna tells us that the neighbourhood kids got into such a fight here yesterday afternoon that the police had to be called (twice) and a helicopter was soon hovering over the green. There is a police car outside the gym now.

The park is full of teenagers, presumably here for some form of athletic activity. They are poorly supervised, seem to get no exercise whatsoever, and most of them slope off to buy snacks in the café instead. One cheekily pops his head over the fence and says, Smoking kills! Many of the dog people smoke.

I spot Clive Swift entering the café with two tennis rackets. He is a wonderful character actor who will always be remembered for his role as Hyacinth Bucket’s long-suffering husband, Richard, on Keeping Up Appearances. One thing he will not take on sufferance is the intrusion of Tanzanite, the birthday boy, who insists on darting through the open door of the café in pursuit of his mistress. Swift complains to the newest of the waitresses and later to Metty, the café’s owner. (Well, the real name of this hospitable Kosovan is Meta, but Metty is as close as the dog people get.) They now agree that the actor is justified in his outrage, but, since all of our dogs have managed to penetrate the café’s inner sanctum on more than one occasion, we find the actor’s behaviour a bit on the stuffy side. No one has ever complained in plumier tones, however.

Thursday, May 27

The weather has been going backward all week and the warmth of Monday’s sun is now only a bittersweet memory. Only Charlie is about and Ryan, the elderly black chubby half Rottweiler, half Doberman – who is accompanied by his equally grizzled master, the flat-capped Albert. There are a number of heroes in this park, the ever-cheerful Ronnie among them, but Albert must surely be one of the greatest exemplars of this category.

Now 82, Albert was 18 when he was rescued from the beach at Dunkirk. Sometimes I can get him to talk about the day, for he tends to dismiss most accounts of the event as overly romantic and he has a natural modesty about his own desperation and fear. He and a few companions found a small boat and rowed out to sea using their rifles as oars, a hopeless task, but they were lucky enough to encounter a French trawler, which took them to Dover. This was 1940 and Albert fought in a number of other theatres of war before the end. He is a very nice old chap and he always follows us into the café, sitting just behind our table and taking no refreshment.

Also somewhat aloof today is Hanna who, after I have pulled two tables together, goes to a small table of her own (even though the Scottish women are not present). When I protest she says she doesn’t like the noise and hurly burly of our large groupings or all the dogs milling at her feet when she eats her breakfast. She hasn’t brought Spadge today, having just administered a painkiller to the senior Schnauzer, who is having back problems. Don’t take it personally, she says, but in a few minutes three other people have pulled their chairs up to Hanna’s little table – so the Greta Garbo act hasn’t worked at all, nor was it intended to.

Lizzie and Tim, wallpaper entrepreneurs, have brought Yoyo, a feisty black Schnauzer whose sharp white teeth shining in her dark face make her look like a devil dog. The topic, as often, is the behaviour of today’s youth – many of whom have been streaming into the park for some desultory athletic activity. One group of girls in red have already mocked the animals at play in the centre of the green by making yipping sounds as they march by. I am amused by this, but Michael has reacted with spirit, There’s no need for that kind of behaviour! Lizzie, who says that kids have made a specialty of tormenting the highly-strung Yoyo, says, They’re just hormone-ridden nincompoops. Meanwhile half a dozen newcomers in lemon yellow slickers have arrived for some form of indoctrination and there is speculation that this is a new group of security guards – whose presence has been promised. They inch around the park in a tight formation, treading so cautiously that they don’t inspire much confidence.

As Fritz and I exit the park I spot another hero, a young artist named Lucinda. Struck down by an automobile several years ago – told she would never walk again – Lucinda can often be seen gamely circuiting the green, her half-paralyzed body propelled forward slowly with the aid of a cane.

Friday, May 28

Fritz and I enter the park somewhat early this morning; Tia, who is usually gone by this hour, is still going through her paces excitedly. She is a sheepdog-like rescue dog – that is she was rescued, like many of the Paddington Rec dogs, from an animal shelter. Every morning at 8:00 her mistress, Trish, has Tia endlessly leaping over exercise bars that have been erected across from Morshead Mansions for trim trail enthusiasts. Tia emits squeaky barks of enthusiasm during this task, though I doubt that those trying to enjoy a lie-in across the street have any enthusiasm for this adventure. Tia also has a passion for balls and will drop her latest toy at anyone’s feet, hoping it will be lofted so that she can undertake a chase. For several weeks she dropped her ball at the feet of two life-sized male statues in the new Paddington Basin development, only giving up when they failed to respond even once.

Michael has the painters at his house today and has to leave with Charlie almost as soon as we arrive on the green. Fritz won’t play with Scout’s ball on a rope and makes only a half-hearted effort to catch his own tennis ball on the fly. More interesting is the appearance of Ember, a tiny Dachshund with a jewelled collar. Here Fritz has to be the boss, rolling the puppy over and growling manfully as he asserts his primacy in the pack. Ember runs after him for more of the same.

Without Michael, the dynamic of the group is disturbed and there is an early but uncoordinated flight to the café. The group today includes Janet, whom we usually see only on the weekends, and her Shih-Tzu Koko. I order a sausage and some toast when I get my cappuccino. Everyone is glad to see that one of the new yellow-coated Vista security guards is on patrol.

We discuss last night’s television; most of us have seen Gordon Ramsay’s Hell’s Kitchen. I tell Dorothy, who soon arrives, that we have a celebrity dog in our midst: the Scottish ladies have brought Bumble since Georgie is looking after this Westie for a neighbour, who is the executive director of the Canine Defence League (now called the Dogs Trust). Dorothy supports this charity and has no doubt seen pictures of Bumble in its publications.

Our group is small and eventually no one is left but Fritz’s owners. This gives Hanna, whose wish for privacy has been granted this morning, a chance to join us for some local gossip. A kid has kicked his ball into the path of a dog and then complained because the dog has played with it – whining that it is now covered with germs!

Saturday, May 29

No sooner have Fritz and I reached the green on a grey Saturday morning then a light rain begins. Hanna, Michael, George, Jean, Janet and I huddle together under the trees outside the caff and a decision is made to have coffee first and to hope for better weather later.

Hanna has at last assumed a seat at the same table as the Scottish ladies and for this we are all very grateful. Billy wants to pinch the ball from my pocket and after he has placed muddy paw prints all over my tan trousers I let him have it. Meanwhile Fritz has jumped into Michael’s lap and kissed the Scotsman’s face; when the dog departs there are paw prints all over Michael’s t-shirt – Are you doing laundry today? he teases me.

There is a mix-up over my culinary requests and I end up eating an unordered fried egg on toast while the dogs dive into their sausages. A police van races into the park again and everyone has a new story about the latest youthful outrage: more fights, a trespassing gang who climbed over the fence last night at 10:30, the bark peeled from a young tree, the stench of urine in the rose garden. Hanna tells us about the time she collared a policeman for driving too fast into the park with his sirens blaring and lights flashing. My partner had to use the loo, the officer responded sheepishly.

Dorothy arrives for her coffee and by the time she is finished the last of the rain has lifted and the dogs begin an extended play period in the centre of the green. Many of our neighbours are away on this bank holiday weekend but the dog people are out in force and at one point there are fifteen canines in the pack. Anthony, the bald self-confessed alcoholic with the black Staffordshire, Ty, arrives to complain about his hangover. Lost my mobile phone, too, he adds, fifth one this year. Also present is a senior dog named Piggy. She is accompanied by her owner, a redhead with Rasta curls and Piggy has these too, that is mangy tufts hang from her ears and other parts of her body. An owner arrives with two French Bulldogs, a brindled two-year old named Amalie and a black and white six-year old called Jasper. Jasper has a bad hip dysplasia and he manages most of his wheezy progress with the use of his front legs only. Still, he can get up quite a snorting pace and he seems to enjoy himself with the other dogs.

We walk with Hanna toward an exit opposite Morshead Mansions. Our route takes us past the bushwhacked tree and a blackened dead hedge that a tyke from St. George’s School set alight last year. Hanna says that on this stretch she once encountered a young lad who was attacking the woodwork with his baseball bat. Why are you doing this? she asked. Because I can, the enraged brat responded, because I’m English.

Sunday, May 30

Georgie is the one complaining of a hangover this morning. Michael says he can’t remember the last time he suffered from a similar condition and Georgie vows that this is her last time. Michael is a whirling dervish this morning, chasing the dogs, hurling balls and squeaky toys – including rubberised versions of a frog and a double cheeseburger on a sesame seed bun, even disappearing once to bring the white water trough from the café onto the green – Now there’s Sunday service, he says. Michael’s reward for all this extra effort comes when a newcomer, a Maltese named Archie, pisses on his jumper, which has been left untended on the grass. Archie’s owner is mortally embarrassed but Michael waves the incident off.

Archie is only one of a number of new characters on the scene this morning. Peter is here with a tan mutt named Holly; Holly runs around with a green tennis ball in her mouth and barks through this object, producing a sound between a croaking frog and a depraved whisper. Another mid-sized mutt, also mostly tan, is Paddy, who belongs to Kathy, who owns an interior design shop on Elgin Avenue. Paddy has one of those balls on a leather strap. He likes to take the strap in his mouth and whirl in circles, the ball flailing the air like a medieval mace. When he is tired of circling in one direction, he reverses himself and goes the other way.

Nelson, a three month-old Boston Terrier, bravely dashes into the melee, while his parents, an attractive young couple, smile beamingly. Although he is well disguised in stubble and dark glasses, Nelson’s owner, Ben Hull, is also a minor celebrity, having played a doctor on Brookside and a suicide on Holly Oaks.

Every now and then a completely strange dog runs into the circle – today it is a young black Lab with a red collar, followed by a chocolate cousin. Fritz takes exception to the latter and runs him off. Not venturing onto the green at all are Hanna, with the slow moving Spadge, and Sue, with the even slower George. Also, always on the periphery, is Ellen, who walks Jack and Sandy for an elderly owner who lives in Morshead Mansions. Jack, a Jack Russell, would probably like to join the pack but Sandy, a Corgi, is threatened by other dogs and snaps at them, so these two are rarely off lead. I used to think that Sandy was surely going to set a canine longevity record until I discovered that she was, in fact, the second similarly-marked Corgi her owner has called Sandy. The original Sandy was a latch key dog who used to spend much of the day sitting on the front stoop.

As we head for the café we see Tanzanite enter the park: today Tanzanite has a Burberry collar and a pendant with a real piece of tanzanite in it. Also present is Alaska, a young Malamute, who attacks George. Jennifer, the owner of Giant, a curly-haired Bichon Frise, pokes her head over the café fence to report that Alaska has attacked her dog too.

Hanna is sitting at a table for two with Chris, who owns a delightful dozy black and white Staffordshire, the ever-smiling Roxy. At our table Georgie is complaining that the Sunday bells of St. Augustine’s are doing in her hungover head. Religious ceremonial is discussed briefly. Albert reports that when last he boarded the 414 he found the driver on his prayer mat in the central aisle.

Fritz sees off an innocent Dachshund and jumps again into Michael’s lap; Charlie does too, at the same time, and Michael has two fur balls with gnashing teeth as guests. When it is time to have our final walk Fritz also growls at a new Alsatian puppy – our dog is obviously going through the doggy equivalent of the terrible twos.

Monday, May 31

When we reach the green on a beautiful sunny bank holiday Monday there is no one about; another peewee cricket match is taking place between a mom and a toddler in the centre of the field, an area of the park that has received much care and attention – just no real cricket match so far this year.

I spot Hanna and Michael at the top of the hill and Fritz and I intercept them when they have descended this nicely landscaped summit, a wholly artificial but successful variation in the landscape which was added at the time of a major makeover in Paddington Rec in the late 80’s. Spadge, on painkillers, is much more active today and wanders around off lead. Charlie is being his usual disobedient self and has gone missing momentarily. When he is corralled by a disapproving Michael we do a half circle and return to the green, which soon shows signs of its usual life. A young tan Lab named Chino is here but Fritz resents the young dog’s nose up his bum and sees him off angrily on more than one occasion. Chino has the last laugh, leaving wet slobber marks all over the Schnauzer’s back.

Both Michael and I have brought cameras but it is almost impossible, even from a prone position, to capture the whirling dervish dogs at play. Albert arrives with Ryan who promptly squats, leaving a dollop of poo on Michael’s camera bag. The bag is taken into the loo for a cleanup and Michael returns, more worried that old Albert will be upset by the incident than bothered by the second assault on his property in two days.

Jean is on her way to Glasgow on the coach tomorrow and asks Michael if he wants some Scottish square sausage or some square bread. Michael admits that he has never heard of these delicacies but asks if she can bring back some whole mealy pudding. That must be an Aberdonian specialty, Jeans replies in some confusion, I’ve never heard of that.

Food for the dogs comes in six stages today. Hanna is already seated at one table, where she is joined by Frances, whose Jilly died earlier this year, and Farrah, who is accompanied by a shade-seeking mongrel called Poppy. (Fritz and I pass by Poppy’s house on our afternoon walk; there is a Beware The Dog sign out front but the sight of Poppy’s innocent old head staring serenely out the window somewhat lessens the effect.)

The dogs now beg for scraps from Hanna’s table, then Georgie distributes sausages, then Dorothy does the same, Michael offers them toast and first Janet and then Naomi distribute sausage titbits again. A grey-headed man in jeans and no shirt observes all of the activity from a nearby table. I had a dog once, he says to a neighbour, every time I touched the wife he bit me.

A couple arrives with the Alsatian pup again (Alsatianlike is perhaps the better word). Her name is Jody, she is four months old, and was part of a five day-old litter abandoned in Battersea Park. The creep who did this couldn’t be bothered to continue on to the Battersea Dogs Home, where the pups were eventually hand-reared. Everyone makes a fuss at the huge-pawed newcomer while Fritz’s contribution to this welcoming scene is to growl offensively. On the way home