Our dog Pepi the Pooch was a rescue dog. We decided to get a puppy for my eight-year-old son Owen one Christmas, and went down to the dog pound to find one. There was a group of puppies in one cage, all siblings who had been left there after the mother had been taken home.
When we entered the cage, all the puppies ran around barking. I bent down and one puppy came up and quietly put his head on my knee. That was the one we chose.
Owen named him Pepi after an orphan robot dog in a cartoon, so he explained. He certainly was a handful in the early days, very difficult to toilet train (we nicknamed him Captain Stinky), as his mother had left him to his own devices. He was also a great one for gnawing furniture, nipping feet, and chewing holes in woolen items (cashmere a special favourite).
Another infuriating habit he had was to bury any item he found particularly attractive (such as a washing-up sponge) in the garden, later digging it up and bringing it in covered in mud.
But we stuck with him, and thirteen years later, he’s still in good form – a little stiff in the limbs, but still incredibly lively, good natured, friendly, enthusiastic, funny, and adorable.
