Jasper

I don't have a story today because I'm feeling pretty down. I've had to give up my dog to my parents because his arthritis has progressed to the point where he can't manage the stairs to my flat. So instead of a fictional story I'm going to tell you about my dog.

I have a Golden Retriever. His name is Jasper. He was born on 15th November 1997 on a farm in Wales. He's a registered pedigree dog with the most ridiculous Kennel Club name ever thought of: Moany Mondeo. For a start the adjective 'moany' couldn't be a more inaccurate descriptor. He's the happiest dog ever known to man. I know I'm his owner and I'm bound to say that but it is the truth. He's never been a great lover of other dogs; he tends to give them just a cursory glance when out for a walk, but people-oh my god!. Jasper loves people. He's a little unsure about young children but he loves older kids and adults. He makes a beeline for them whenever he sees them. He'll bound up to them wagging his tail, panting and staring up at them with his big eyes. Once he's been petted by them he's happy and will leave them alone, but he has to greet them. It's always a bit of a talking point as everyone I encounter comments on what a lovely dog he is. And it's true (although I am biased naturally). This trait comes as a bit of a surprise to me, especially given what Jasper and I have been through over the years.

Jasper was given to me at the age of twelve weeks by an ex-boyfriend as a valentine gift. I remember the very first time I saw him. I was sat in the living room of the house I shared with my boyfriend one day, watching TV. I heard the front door shut but then heard nothing. So I poked my head round the lounge door and there sat bolt upright in the hallway, bold as brass, was this little, fluffy orange-blonde blob. He had huge dark eyes, a rosy pink nose, fluffy, saucer-shaped paws. Being a huge dog lover I scooped him up in to my arms and sat him on my lap. I grabbed the phone and instantly called my mother.
"So what are you going to call him?" she asked.
"I've got no idea," I replied. "But he's funny and orange."
My mum pondered my bizarre description and said, "What about Jasper?"
Although she never explained why she came to that conclusion I always assumed it was an homage to Jasper Carrott (a famous british comedian from the 80s).
"Perfect!" I said.
That first night my boyfriend made him sleep downstairs. He baracaded the stairs so Jasper couldn't get up. It broke my heart as I wanted to have him in the bed with me. I knew that wasn't practical but as the night wore on and Jasper's whimpering didn't subside I gave in to temptation. I went downstairs, picked Jasper up and plopped him down on a rug beside me.
Our early life together wasn't rosy. When my relationship fell apart I found myself in a quandry. Jasper was mine, there was no disputing that, but I had to find somewhere for us to now live. As luck would have it, I managed to find a house share that allowed a dog. I moved out that day and moved, in about ten miles down the road, with a guy that had a large semi. But that situation didn't last. I came home one day and received a letter from my landlord asking me to leave. No explanation. I was panic-stricken. I scoured the papers looking for alternative accommodation hoping that there would be somewhere else we could go, but my search was fruitless. I found I had to do the unthinkable; I rang my ex. He agreed to take Jasper in until I found a more suitable arrangement. Had I known then what was about to happen I would never have taken him there, but I was desperate. I dropped Jasper off and moved myself out of the house share and into a bed-sit. I wasn't there very long before the flat above me flooded and I came home to devastation. My belongings were ruined and I had no insurance. I found somewhere else to live, luckily, but it wasn't the most ideal of situations. That, however, was the least of my problems. When I went to visit Jasper one day I was horrified with what I saw. My boyfriend had kept him locked in a back bedroom. The room was stripped bare: no carpets, no curtains. Jasper was living amongst a ladder and various other decorating equipment, paint pots, rollers, brushes and general domestic rubble. Jasper was so desperate to get out he'd been scratching the door. I screamed at my ex, demanding to know why he was treating Jasper this way. He offered no explanation but I was sure it was just to get back at me. With no plan in place I scooped my eighteen month old dog up and put him in my car. The only option I had was to call my parents.
I drove through the evening, two hundred miles up the M6 to Scotland, and tearfully dropped Jasper off with people I knew I could trust and rely on to care for Jasper. After my failed relationship and my disillusionment at living in Manchester I had already begun searching for work in Scotland (my intention being to return) and a few months after I left Jasper under the care of my parents I was reunited with him. I couldn't have been happier.

Ever since then Jasper has lived the life of a king. He's had a lovely house to roam about in, a nice garden to pee all over, woods and fields to gambol through, friendly villagers to pet and coddle him, mounds of soft toys to shred, numerous holidays that have taken him to Cornwall, where he was admired by an Italian woman who called him 'a little angel' in Italian (I had to laugh!), Wales, Skye, Loch Ness, Aviemore and the Lake District.

He has his dislikes: polished floors, long walks, pigeons. And his passions: my sofa, gouging out the eyes of his teddies, food, food and more food. Now I know that food is an obvious one. All dogs love food. But Jasper goes the extra mile in order to fulfil his craving and has gotten me into trouble on numerous occasions as a result of it.
For example my dad took Jasper for a walk one day and stopped to talk to a villager as he exited his home. Little did my dad know that Jasper meanwhile had snuck into the villager's kitchen, pulled out a shrink wrapped packet of raw chicken from his shopping bags and begun to chew on it. My dad was contrite and luckily the villager was a friend and found the incident rather amusing. But that's not the only ocassion Jasper has had his nose where he shouldn't. I found him on the road munching on a bread roll one morning. After a little detective work I found my neighbour had left her shopping bags by the steps to her garden. Jasper again had dug his nose into the plastic bag and pulled it out.
On another occasion my mum had taken some chicken thighs out of the freezer to defrost which Jasper had pulled down off the kitchen worksurface and gnawed on. Before my mum found out and had a hairy fit I rushed to the supermarket to replace the contaminated chicken but could only find chicken legs on sale. My friend was bent double in hysterics as she watched me hack chicken legs with a cook's knife to make them look like thighs. Luckily I did an excellent job (perhaps I should have been a butcher not a writer) as mum never suspected a thing (although if she reads this I'm sure she'll have something to say about it).

But Jasper hadn't always eaten edible things. I've sadly had him at the vets a few times after he'd eaten my mother's spectacles, and then on a separate occasion a pile of pig pellets which resulted in him undergoing an x-ray and a lengthy operation to remove the 'fibrous mass' from his intestine. The problem is he is a complete scavenger. In fact when I take him for a walk its a battle of wits as to whether I can keep him from vacuuming up scraps off the ground before he can find them.

For all his faults though I have put him through some trying times. Not least dressing him up for my sister's 30th birthday. The photographic evidence says more than I can ever say about that day.

So although he will only be five miles down the road from me. I'm going to miss him laying by my feet as I write my stories and farting indiscrimately!