After a month slogging through dog-handling workshops, the fellow finally received his charge: an English Springer Spaniel named Winston. At three, Winston was already a veteran service dog, but with an unfortunate reputationthree owners down and a firm streak wider than the M25. Initially, the plan had been to send him off to a security checkpoint somewhere up north, but fate (and likely some office politics) dropped Winston into the hands of the trainee.
For reasons known only to himself and perhaps security office gossip, no one fancied keeping Winston around; he was, according to his legend, stubborn as an old boot. There was even talk of leaving him at the kennels, only letting him out for emergencies. However, both my husband and I come from long lines of dog peoplemy uncle even judged at Crufts onceso we reckoned we were up to the challenge. Those early days, mind you, I used a snow shovel just to slide his food bowl into his enclosure.
Yet, as it happens, a canine heart can melt after all. And Winstons certainly did. Fast-forward a year, and you wouldnt recognise the chap. My youngest, Archie, was eighteen months old, and on a blustery spring afternoon, I took him outside while I cleared away the winters debris. My daughter, Daisy, was off at nursery, so it was just me, Archie, and Winston.
Well, you shouldve seen the pair of them: Archie tearing about across the soggy flower beds, and Winston right behind him, trailing like a shadow. Every time Archie so much as tripped, Winston would gently scoop him up by the back of his coat and set him upright againlike Mary Poppins in fur.
Now, my husband, bless him, generally steers clear of strong drink, but one night the head of security was retiring and the pinot flowed like the Thames at high tide. My husband somehow got roped into standing guard duty and, ever the loyal sort, decided to stick it out till the bitter end.
By eleven oclock, there I was, sat on the veranda ringing his mobileno answer. I was having lurid visions of him attempting to cross the river, keeling into the water, only to bob up somewhere in Essex. But just as I was about to mount a rescue mission in my pyjamas, the garden gate creaked open. In stalked Winston, cool as you like, towing my husbandhalf-conscious, tie askewattached at the lead. Winston paraded him up the steps, deposited him gently onto the sofa, then turned to give me a look so laden with sarcasm I nearly burst out laughing.
I never really believed dogs could smirk until that night. To this day, I still tease my husband that Winstons not just mans best friendhes also an expert chaperone.
