For the Love of Daisy

By Cas Peace

A tale of love, courage, determination and inventiveness, this book will have you laughing and crying in equal measure. Daisy was a unique and special Dalmatian who refused to give up on life. Her owners found that they couldn't give up on her, either.

A touching tribute to a much loved and great-hearted dog, this book is a must-have for any animal lover.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cas Peace
• Release date: Jan 22, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452309989

Cas Peace

Hi, thanks for viewing my profile, I hope you will buy and enjoy 'Daisy'.I love animals of all kinds, but especially dogs and horses. As well as being a writer, I am also a horse-riding instructor who enjoys both riding and driving horses.I also write fantasy and am thrilled that US publisher Rhemalda Publishing have taken the first trilogy in my Artesans of Albia fantasy series. Book One, 'King's Envoy', was published on August 15th 2011. Book Two, King's Champion, was published on August 1st 2012. Book Three, King's Artesan, will be out on August 1st 2013.See www.rhemalda.com or my website for more details.Other hobbies include my rescue dogs, folk-singing, gardening, walking and growing cacti.

Book preview

For the Love of Daisy

My Dalmatian in a Hundred and One.

By Cas Peace.

Published by Can Write Will Write

Cambridge Lodge

Wanstead England.

Smashwords Edition.

http://www.canwritewillwrite.com

Copyright © Cas Peace 2010

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to another person. If you would like to share this book with someone else, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cas Peace asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available in the British Library.

Typeface Georgia

12 Points

Forthcoming works by the same author.

‘Artesans of Albia’ A towering, triple-trilogy fantasy epic.

Proposed titles:

Artesans of Albia.

Book One: King’s Envoy.

Book Two: King’s Champion.

Book Three: King’s Artesan.

Circle of Conspiracy.

Book One: The Challenge.

Book Two: The Circle.

Book Three: Full Circle.

Master of Malice.

Book One: Scarecrow Roost.

Book Two: Scarecrow Vengeance.

Book Three: The Gateway and the Guide.

Please see

www.caspeace.com

Contents.

Appreciation and Dedication.

Foreword.

1. Ducks and Dragons.

2. Butchers and Breeders.

3. Dog Tails.

4. A ‘Messy’ Affair!

5. Charity Jumpers.

6. Firsts and Fears.

7. Name Games.

8. Hospitals and Housework.

9. Bitch in a Ditch!

10. Lifeline.

11. Diagnosis.

12. Dark Days.

13. Light in our Darkness.

14. Love is a Full Slipper.

15. A Vet on Our Side.

16. Harnessing Invention.

17. Overdose of Love.

18. Second Opinion.

19. Fusion Confusion.

20. Hot Dog!

21. The Gentle TTouch.

22. A Dragon Break.

23. Boots and Balls.

24. A Waterways Walk.

25. Triumph and Tinsel.

Author’s Note.

Contacts.

Author’s Request and Disclaimer.

Appreciation.

I would like to thank Barry Tighe for his editing help and Can Write Will Write for publishing this book. I must also thank George Netley for the stunning cover.

And my ever grateful thanks to Tracey Manning for the foreword.

Dedication.

This book is dedicated to my wonderful husband Dave and to my sweet little Pepper. I could not have done this without you. Also to my parents, Barbara and Dennis, for their love and support.

And to anyone facing a similar situation I would like to say this: Stay strong and believe in the strength of your love. There is help out there if you look for it.

Foreword.

This book describes an unfailing level of selfless dedication to a dearly beloved pet which I doubt in my career I will see equalled. For this dedication to be sustained there had to be a dog with an extraordinary temperament and owners with a phenomenal resolve to support that dog providing it was right for her.

It was a huge responsibility to be asked to pass judgement on the suitability of Daisy for ongoing treatment and she certainly forced me to ask myself a lot of questions.

For every case, whether it be medical, surgical or behavioural, there are so very many factors to be considered in formulating a therapeutic plan. Uniquely to the veterinary profession, in many cases an enormous consideration must be made as to whether any therapeutic plan ought to proceed at all. The condition the pet is suffering from and the pet’s nature and behaviour in different environments and circumstances have to determine the appropriate course of action, in combination with the sentiments and abilities of the owners to maximise the benefits of any recommended therapy.

Advances in the veterinary profession continue with great strides, as does the inclusion of complementary therapies such as hydrotherapy, physiotherapy and acupuncture which is inspiring to follow. Of course, ever-increasing costs accompany this progression, and this opens up a big issue. I am convinced that pets are good for us yet they are increasingly perceived as too expensive to own and play second fiddle to twenty-first century ‘must-have’ commodities and ‘must-do’ activities. The only way forward is through education - particularly of our next generation - about the wholesome, simple pleasures of pet ownership, as well as its benefits in teaching young people about respect, responsibility and commitment.

Those of us who were closely involved with Daisy, whether on a personal level or in a professional capacity, were in awe of her spirit throughout her illness and equally in admiration of her owners’ commitment to her. I believe anyone who loves their pet will identify with so much in this account. To care for and know an animal and its ways can only enrich one’s life. For those who have not experienced the wonderfully consistent relationship one can have with a pet, I would urge them to read about Daisy.

Tracey Manning. BVSc (Hons) MRCVS

Hook Veterinary Centre.

For the Love of Daisy

My Dalmatian in a Hundred and One.

1. Ducks and Dragons.

It all started on the twenty-ninth of May 2004, although at that point it had nothing to do with Daisy. We didn’t know it then but her story had actually begun in April, with an innocuous visit to the vet to investigate a slight and intermittent limp. This limp had been manifesting itself over quite a few years but it only ever lasted a very short time. I had always put it down to a strain, or something sharp pricking Daisy’s foot, but lately I had found a hard lump on the side of her right front paw. Considering she was nearly ten years old, I thought she probably had arthritis. Following an initial consultation, Sarah, our vet at the time, thought this was quite likely so we made an appointment for an x-ray to confirm the diagnosis. We thought no more of the consequences other than probable pain relief for the rest of Daisy’s life. None of us had any inkling at that time what the future held.

So, on this particular weekend in May my husband Dave and I, along with Daisy, a Dalmatian, and Pepper, a blue roan Cocker Spaniel, were having a quiet break on board our narrowboat, ‘Dragon’. She was a fairly new vessel, just a year old, although she was not our first. We were very pleased with her; a well-known boat builder had built the steel shell to our specifications and this had been professionally fitted-out, also to our design. Fed-up with years spent doubled-over in cramped, cold and hard-to-reach spaces carrying out engine maintenance in both sailing craft and narrowboats, Dave and I had decided that ‘Dragon’ would have a proper engine-room, where brass could be polished and paintwork kept clean, and where essential winter oil-changes could be carried out in the warmth and comfort our rapidly maturing bones craved. The previous year – long before ‘Dragon’ was anything more than a concept – we had acquired a wonderful vintage engine, a Russell Newbery. Once installed, it thumped happily along in pride of place in the engine-room, the heartbeat of our boat.

‘Dragon’ was beautiful; the culmination of holidays on board other boats, both sailing and canal craft, and four years with our previous narrowboat, ‘Madrigal’. We had decided that at forty-five feet long, ‘Madrigal’ was just a little too small for comfort so we conceived the sixty-foot ‘Dragon’. Perfect for those longer holidays which would be possible once my self-employed husband cut down his working hours.

Oh well, anyone can dream.

On this particular occasion we arrived at the marina where ‘Dragon’ had her mooring on the Friday night. Those who needed to know knew where we would be and apart from checking for messages in the evenings, we intended to be largely undisturbed. We tried to keep the boat a phone-free zone as much as possible, although the nature of Dave’s international consulting business made a certain amount of accessibility unavoidable. However, ‘Dragon’ was our bolt-hole, our escape from the pressures of business life, and there really is nothing like the slow pace of a canal boat and the characteristic measured beat of a Russell Newbery to ease away modern-day stress.

Narrowboats go at walking pace, perfect for watching wildlife and strolling with the dogs; and our two treated the boat as a second home as well as a convenient platform for duck-hunting. They viewed our different mooring sites each night as an extension of their own back garden and we were all looking forward to a peaceful weekend.

Saturday started out well enough; the weather was warm but not too hot, perfect for the jobs that needed doing. Although ‘Dragon’ had been professionally fitted-out – neither of us possessed the skills, or indeed the time, necessary to do the work ourselves – we nevertheless wanted to make our mark. Dave had already tried his hand at traditional narrowboat painting with some success; ‘Madrigal’ had sported decorative panels on cratch and hatches which he had designed and painted himself, and she’d carried Buckby cans on her roof which also showed off his talent.

He had received many admiring comments on these from passers-by as we cruised the canals, and ‘Madrigal’s new owners had kept the panels for they complemented her overall look. So it was natural to want to decorate ‘Dragon’ in the same way, and as I had designed and made a stained-glass roundel depicting a dragon head which gazed proudly out from her prow, Dave was keen to add his touch to her panelled side-hatches and doors.

The marina was a good place for painting. There was a firm pontoon running down one side of the boat, sturdy mooring ropes to keep her steady, and relatively still water so as not to rock the boat. When passing moored boats canal etiquette states that you slow down to tick-over speed so as not to make wash, which could be very dangerous to those in the moored craft, especially if they happened to be cooking. A speeding boat can also rip out mooring stakes, setting craft adrift, apart from being downright inconsiderate to those hoping for a peaceful afternoon. As in all walks of life though there are those who flout the rules and to whom courtesy is an alien concept. The marina was a convenient spot for us to stay and paint in peace.

We were in the newer part of the marina, which had been extended over the previous winter, and it was quiet. The dogs could amuse themselves, either lazing about on the boat or laying on the sun-warmed pontoon watching the hopeful ducks that plied the marina. This was Pepper’s favourite pastime and she could lay statue-still for hours at a time, just watching the ducks float by; but woe betide the bird that was confident enough to haul itself out of the water for a siesta! Then my soft and doe-eyed Spaniel would transmute instantly into a rabid killing-machine and would charge the offending duck, sending it squawking for its fellows in a flurry of wings and webbed feet. Fortunately, she never caught one.

However, you could say that a duck once caught Pepper, much to her indignant disgust. Back in 1997, when ‘Madrigal’ was new, we were asked to show her at a popular boat show which used to be held on the canal every May. We moved ‘Madrigal’ to a different mooring to allow the public access, and this site was too close to the towpath for the dogs to be left free to roam. So Daisy was confined to the stern of the boat and Pepper was on a long lead in the bows. It was a hot afternoon, all the crowds had gone, and the show was winding down. Pepper was lying on the pontoon next to the cockpit, which her lead allowed her to reach, watching the returning ducks. One of them, not noticing Pepper, decided to haul out on the neighbouring pontoon to preen and this, of course, was too much for my Spaniel, three years old as she was at the time. With a mighty leap, she went flying for the impertinent duck, which shot back into the water. Unfortunately for Pepper, her lead wasn’t quite long enough to reach the other pontoon, and she was snapped out of the air at the height of her leap and dumped ignominiously into the water, where she flailed and spluttered until rescued.

She stood dripping and shivering while raucous quacking laughter resounded round the marina. She never made that mistake again.

Having finished our painting for the day, we retired to ‘Dragon’s’ cockpit and sipped a well-earned glass of wine while we made up our minds whether to walk the ten minutes to the pub by the lock, or make our own supper on board. Dave reluctantly turned on the phone, not expecting to hear the message-tone. When he did, and accessed his voice-mail, I could tell immediately that something was wrong. I could vaguely hear the voice, but not enough to identify the speaker or understand the content of the message. I waited until it was finished, and then he told me the news. It seemed that his father, who was eighty years old, had suffered a collapse that morning and had been rushed into hospital. His mother had frantically been trying to reach us, as she was understandably distressed, and had left more than one message on his phone, as well as ringing my mother. That meant there were also messages on my phone, which I checked while Dave rang his Mum.

We learned that his Dad was comfortable in the local hospital and that he had suspected pneumonia. My mother-in-law, who was not in the best of health herself and who also suffered with depression, had calmed down by this time and our anticipated rush home that evening was put off. We told her we’d be home the following day, but although our minds had been put at rest as to their immediate welfare, we could think of little else that night.

We made our solemn way home the next day, worried for both of Dave’s parents as his Mum wouldn’t cope well on her own. It proved to be an apocryphal day, that sunny Saturday in May. Our peaceful weekend was well and truly over, as was an era in our lives.

2. Butchers and Breeders.

Let me tell you about our family and introduce you properly to Pepper and Daisy before the story gets too involved.

Daisy first entered our lives in September 1994 when we chose her out of a rubbery tumble of spotty puppies at her breeder’s kennels. It was my decision to get a Dalmatian, a fact my husband has never let me forget. He grew up with his parents’ dogs; first a Boxer called Toby, then a rescue mongrel, little silver Cindy; she was followed by a Labrador, Snoopy, and in latter years they had Cairns; Robin, whom they had from a pup, then two rescue Cairns, Pickles and Bobby.

My parents never had dogs as my Dad generally regarded pets as a tie and a responsibility he didn’t need, but we did once have a puppy, albeit briefly. Our next-door neighbours at the time had a rather snappy and not very friendly Dachshund called Mitzi. She must have got out one day and inevitably fell into the clutches of the local stud. Astonishingly, one of the resulting puppies found its way into our house. I am not quite sure how we talked Dad into accepting Buster, as we named him, but the pup obviously lived up to his expectations because he was not with us for long.

My few memories of Buster consist of me sitting in the middle of the dining-room floor helpless with laughter as he chased his own tail, pushing him round in a doll’s pram (which he didn’t mind in the least!) and being met at the garden gate when I came home from school. However, with two young children to look after, an over-exuberant puppy was not what my parents needed right then and Buster was eventually found a good home with people who had the time to cope with him. I am sure I was upset to lose him but I was a little too young to appreciate the work a puppy needs. I do now!

I have always loved animals of all kinds, but especially dogs and horses. In the days of my young childhood, the 1960’s, dogs could still be seen roaming the streets and those I met in our road were thankfully all good-natured. There was Butch, the grocer’s portly Beagle who often visited our house; there were two mongrels whose owners and names I never knew but who became ‘Friend’ and ‘Pal’ to me; but best of all there was Sooty – or ‘Zoot’ as his owner often called him.

Sooty was never allowed to roam; he belonged to my Auntie Margery. Not a real aunt but my Mum’s friend who lived in the next street. I loved nothing more than visiting Auntie Margery for not only was there Sooty to play with and take for occasional walks, but there was also Diana Dors, the tortoise that Sooty used to love flipping over onto its back.

Sooty was a thick-coated black mongrel, probably Labrador/Spaniel, with a white mark on his chest. He was a loving and nice-natured dog but he wouldn’t take any rough treatment. I was never one for teasing dogs but I do remember one occasion when I must have done something Sooty didn’t like. One stare and a low growl was all it took, and we never fell out again.

He did once try to kill me, though.

Maybe that’s a little harsh; it wasn’t really his fault. Sooty was a level-headed dog with few hang-ups, but there were two things he couldn’t stand. The first, rather surprisingly, was the smell of the butcher’s shop. Sooty would haul you bodily across the road rather than pass the door of the butcher’s shop, something I always found hard to understand. Surely, you would think, dogs would like the smell of all that meat? Not Sooty; he couldn’t abide it.

The other thing that terrified Sooty was the dustmen. He just couldn’t stand the noise. On one particular day Mum and I were out for a walk and we had taken Sooty with us. We were probably on our way either to or from the moat around Fort Brockhurst, a wooded area where we could let Sooty off his lead. He loved the game of seeking Mum as she hid from him behind various trees. He would never look for me, though, much to my disgust.

However, there we were; it was a cold day and I was proudly wearing a new coat which Mum had made for me. A warm green cuddly coat, with large and shiny buttons. I was even prouder because I had been allowed to hold Sooty’s lead.

You can see where this is headed, can’t you?

So could Mum who watched in horror as we came upon the dustmen. Sooty took off in fright, galloping down the pavement and towing me behind him sliding on those shiny green buttons like a sled on snow. I couldn’t let go of his lead because he had been entrusted to me, so I just slithered along behind him, right towards the road.

I have no recollection of how or why he stopped, but stop he did. I wasn’t frightened or hurt, but those lovely shiny buttons were shiny no more, thanks to Sooty and his dustman phobia!

Far from being disillusioned by this experience, I grew up wanting a dog. As I got to know more dogs and learned more about them, I became particularly enamoured of the hound type. Due to my early experiences with the snappy Mitzi, and also a rather ill-tempered Peke called Tikki in the neighbour’s garden on the other side, I was put off the smaller dogs and definitely didn’t like anything that snapped, had unnatural legs or body-shape, or had a flattened face. That poor Peke could hardly breathe, and its bulbous eyes were constantly running with mucous.

I began to favour hounds because all their bits worked; they had legs of the right length, they could breathe properly, and they had normal eyes which always seemed kind and warm. I am sure that Bulldogs, Pugs, Pekes, Dachshunds and the like have their redeeming features and that lovers of these breeds could defend them to the hilt, but I can never see past the damage that pedigree breeding has done them and I didn’t want to endorse such ill-considered tampering.

In my early adult life I was fortunate enough to own two lurchers, both rescue dogs whom I loved dearly. However, neither of them were puppies when I got them and they had both learned bad habits which were hard to break. So I really wanted the experience of training a puppy from scratch. I decided on a Dalmatian mainly because of their hound heritage, but also because I had read somewhere that their physique had not been much tampered with by man. This, I reasoned, ought to mean less in the way of inherited defects such as hip dysplasia, eye problems and the like. I knew about the deafness inherent in the breed and intended to take steps to test our chosen puppy, but in the sphere of pedigree dogs I hoped the Dalmatian would prove to be sound.

The other reason for settling on a Dally – and no, it was nothing to do with the film, there was only the original animated version when I bought Daisy – was the influence of an old children’s programme which I had always loved. Anyone of a certain age will remember ‘The Woodentops’ and Spotty-Dog was my favourite character. I once knew a girl who could imitate Spotty-Dog to perfection, both his ‘voice’ and his walk, and she was hysterical. That puppet show had imprinted on my mind the image of a friendly, intelligent dog and in that, I wasn’t proved wrong. Whatever other faults Daisy may have had, her temperament and intelligence never let me down.

So when Dave and I returned from three wonderful years living and working in Italy, we decided that I didn’t need to go back to a full-time job and we began our search for puppies. Dave wanted a Cocker Spaniel and preferably a blue roan, a colour I had never seen before. We knew even then about the temperament problems in the golden variety but had heard nothing bad about blue roans. We found a breeder in Kent who had puppies for sale, and after being given the once-over by her brood bitch and having been accepted, which I thought a very good way of vetting potential owners, we were allowed to see the puppies.

There were two bitch pups to choose from and both were adorable, but the markings on one appealed to us more than the other, so this was the one we chose. She was six weeks old. On the way home we chose her name – Pepper – because under her chin she had a sprinkling of tiny black spots that looked as if she had been dusted with pepper. Once her adult coat grew in they disappeared, but they could still be seen when she was trimmed really short for the summer.

We collected her three weeks later and immediately she began to live up to the nickname we later gave her: ‘the perfect Spaniel’. We took towels, water, tissues, polythene bags and a warm box with us, everything I thought we might need to cope with a frightened and possibly car-sick pup.

Pepper was lying peacefully in a puppy-pen when we arrived and the breeder opened the door. Pepper came straight into my arms as if she knew she belonged there. She lay down in the box by my feet in the car and proceeded to sleep quietly for the entire two-hour journey home. I was so astonished by her calmness that I had to keep checking her; I was convinced she was dead! When we got back, she strolled calmly around the house and quickly made herself at home. She virtually house-trained herself over the next few weeks and was never a moment’s trouble.

Oh, how different it would be when it was Daisy’s turn!

We had to wait to find a breeder of Dalmatians who had a litter planned that wasn’t already spoken-for. Coincidentally, when we did find one and booked the right to choose a pup, it would mean another trip into Kent. It was worth the wait; Dallies come in such a wide variety of spotting that we really wanted the chance to choose one for ourselves. We both favoured the black over the liver and we wanted a nice distribution of good-sized spots, with the overall look neither too dark nor too white.

We had also noticed that some dogs had narrower muzzles than others; thin and tapering noses that didn’t look quite right to me. I wanted one with a well-shaped head and ‘houndy’ muzzle and in that, we certainly chose well. Daisy matured into a particularly handsome bitch and received some very complimentary comments over the years; mainly from people who didn’t know her well!

When we went to select our pup we were faced with quite a challenge. There were about sixteen puppies in all, six weeks old, tumbling around our feet and generally making life difficult. However, nearly half of them were dogs and we wanted a bitch, so that whittled the numbers down right from the start.

We stood among the bundles watching what they did and slowly eliminated those whose spots were not quite right. In the end we were left with three; all sturdy, curious puppies with lively eyes and playful ways. It was almost impossible to choose between them but the task was taken out of our hands when one of the puppies, none of which had taken that much notice of us up until then, suddenly waddled up to me and began to chew my shoelaces. That did it, although perhaps I should have known better. I scooped the puppy up and from the moment she looked into my eyes, I was lost. The breeder applied a red marker pen to her tail and she was replaced with her litter-mates. We tore ourselves away and made the long trip home.

The choice of name was not as easy as with Pepper. I had made a list of various names I liked the sound of once we had decided on a Dally, but didn’t want to settle on one until we had chosen the pup. As with Pepper, we took photographs at the breeder’s so we could remember exactly what she looked like, and we had to wait to develop these before deciding on a name. How much simpler things are now with the advent of digital cameras.

I had a great aunt who had died some years previously whose name was Daisy. I had always liked the sound of this, and also liked the idea of choosing names for our dogs which meant something. Dave had always favoured the name ‘Sam’ and had intended to attach this to our Cocker, but as we’d decided to have bitches it didn’t seem quite so appropriate.

Pepper’s name was chosen for the reasons already given but I tended to shy away from the obvious for a Dally. I was sure there were already too many ‘Dominoes’ or ‘Dotties’ or permutations of the same; I wanted our dog to have something different. So when I suggested Daisy and gave the reasons why, we found that the name quite suited our pup’s face, and so Daisy she became.

We brought her home two weeks later. At six weeks old she’d been a roly-poly spotted-dick of a pup and could almost fit into one hand. Two weeks on and what a transformation! Daisy was now a small version of an adult dog, quite different to what I had expected. I couldn’t get over how fast she had grown and as we filled in the papers she investigated at our feet, taking no notice of us as her new owners. At least everything worked though, especially her hearing, and I scooped her up in my arms to carry her out to the car.

At this point, Daisy began to show us her character and started as she meant to continue. She always had a fascination for ears, both canine and human, and she loved to both lick them and nibble very gently. She investigated my left ear thoroughly while I carried her to the car but unfortunately – and before I realised what she was doing – she also decided to eat my earring. It was a small gold stud in the shape of a flower with a topaz in the centre. I had had these earrings for quite some years and I still have the one she didn’t eat. We never found the other and yes, I did look for it!

In the car, I had taken the same precautions as for Pepper; a lovely warm and comfy box for Daisy to sleep in, towels, tissues, water and poly-bags. The pup was settled into the box at my feet and we began the two-hour drive home. However, Daisy had decided she was going be nothing like Pepper. She refused to stay in the box and as she was already much the same size as the two-months-older Pepper, it was impossible to get her to stay. Worried in case she clambered out and interfered with the controls of the car – we had to travel the M25 and the last thing we needed was a loose spotty cannon – I decided to carry her on my lap.

That met with more approval than the box as she wanted to see where she was going, but it still didn’t satisfy Daisy. She wriggled and struggled and wouldn’t stay still, but the whining and the squeaking were the worst problems. Anyone who has travelled with quarrelsome children in the back of a car will know how exasperating and distracting such constant noises can be, and Daisy had obviously taken lessons from a master. No matter what we did, she just wouldn’t shut up; nothing would divert her from speaking her mind. I suppose we were lucky that Pepper didn’t join in, but as usual she was being ‘the perfect Spaniel’ and was laying quietly in the rear of the car, no doubt wondering what on earth we wanted this noisy spotted thing for. At that point, so were we.

We made it safely home, thankful our nerves hadn’t been more severely frayed, and we could now introduce Daisy to her new home and playmate. Poor Pepper! She, I have always thought, would have been quite happy being an only dog; she is a very self-contained and laid-back character, quite unlike the un-ignorable Daisy. Although she appeared interested in Daisy and they had a sniff and a play, it soon became apparent that this spotted holy terror was not going to be a peaceful addition to our household. She was also determined to be ‘top-dog’ right from the start and although Pepper couldn’t have cared less about the hierarchy of their relationship, she still suffered the consequences.

Daisy had been brought up in a litter of many puppies. Pepper had been largely hand-reared as the bitch had had too many to cope with, and she had become used to sleeping on her own. She’d settled at night very quickly with us and had been largely clean throughout the night. Daisy on the other hand wanted to snuggle up, and she soon clambered into the basket where Pepper had retired for a nap. They were both much the same size at that time and Daisy wasn’t yet too heavy, but Pepper still appeared less than happy to be sharing her bed with Daisy. It wasn’t long before she removed herself, leaving Daisy in sole possession. That set the tone for the rest of their lives, Pepper giving way to Daisy in order to avoid being squashed.

This issue aside, they soon settled down together and began to forge a friendship. Pepper had started puppy classes as soon as her vaccinations commenced and I intended to take Daisy once my vet had checked her over. However, a problem soon presented itself when it became apparent that the sickness and diarrhoea she’d come home with, which I had put down to ‘new-puppy syndrome’ – from which Pepper, or course, never suffered – refused to go away. After a few tests, it was revealed that Daisy was suffering from salmonella poisoning and the incubation period indicated that she’d had it when we’d collected her from the breeder. My vet recommended that we ring the