Our guard dog

Oliver grew and grew.  He grew a thick shaggy coat.  He grew a long bushy tail.  He grew pricked ears.  He grew a pointed snout and he grew a fearsome personality.  My father had consulting rooms at our house and as his private patients made their way to vist my father - for his solitious advice, I feel sure a fair proportion were in fear of their lives.  The postman refused to deliver and I was devasted when the boy I had a serious crush on decided I wasn't worth the effort of facing up to his fears -  death at the hands of our home grown 'hound of the Baskervilles.' Faint heart never won fair lady - sadly....

There was one positve.  We had a fair amount of fruit trees in our garden and my mother made all sorts of jellies and jams from them.  Every year we had a battle with the local 'bad boys' pinching the fruit, which quite infuriated my father - but now he had a weapon.  I remember quite clearly,  one warm and hazy sunny afternoon, sitting with him in our upstairs drawing room, on the window seat , his hand on Oliver's collar, secretly hyping the dog up to pounce.  Suddenly up he lept, 'go get him' he cried and no sooner said than Oliver was off.