The Story of Rupert

Rupert was a black and tan Welsh Pembroke Corgi. My first sight of him was sitting in a small fenced enclosure, side by side with a large, resigned looking grey rabbit. The rabbit’s head and ears were wet and sticky with what his breeder Brenda said was “puppy slobber”. She explained that as Rupert was the last puppy left, she had put him in with the rabbit for company. She assured me that they played together quite nicely. The rabbit’s dour expression indicated something different. . Rupert bounced up and down happily when he saw me, and I was smitten. I also felt I was doing the rabbit a favour.

My children loved Rupert and he loved them. He was a dignified puppy, easily housetrained, and very obedient and obliging. He was quite happy to be carried around our extensive garden, usually in an old shopping basket, by my younger daughter, who felt he shouldn’t exert himself too much, as he was a “growing puppy”. He went everywhere with the children, always part of their games and willing to do just about anything they asked him to do. My husband, who professed to only like big dogs, fell hook line and sinker for Rupert, and told everyone that he preferred larger dogs, but there was something about Corgis….

We also had an older red and white Corgi, Liza, and a huge, kindly Rottweiler, Prudence. They accepted Rupert with equanimity and taught him how to chase uncatchable squirrels and stalk the birds that abound in our garden. He was taught to bring the newspaper up from the gate, and always “asked” to carry our car keys in his mouth when we came home from an outing. Rupert was small for a Corgi, but his personality more than compensated for his small stature. Unlike our other dogs, Rupert never enjoyed travelling in the car, and if he saw his collar and leash being taken down from the hooks in the kitchen, he would silently and speedily sneak away to hide. He always had to be carried, outraged and stiffly resistant, to the car.

By the time he was five years old, we had lost dear old Liza, and two Scottish Terrier puppies, Dougal and Morag had joined the family. Rupert immediately took them both under his wing. Rupert and Morag had an immediate rapport, and loved each other dearly. Rupert was terrified of thunder and lightning, and Morag, sensing this, always cuddled up to him wherever he had hidden himself away, and gently licked his face in an obvious attempt to comfort him. His fear of thunderstorms increased as he got older, so my vet prescribed a mild tranquilizer, which worked wonders. Apart from thunderstorms, Rupert considered himself the equal of any Great Dane. I always thought that “Multum in Parvo” described him perfectly. He was fearless, but affectionate and kind, and we loved him dearly.

Rupert adored playing on the lawn with my son and a football. Bryan would kick the ball and the small black dog would streak after the ball, catch up with it and dribble it back to Bryan, pushing it with his chest. They played for hours until one of them, usually Bryan, tired of the game. The mere sound of even a tennis ball being bounced would have Rupert appearing suddenly from nowhere, prancing expectantly, eager for a game.

Time marched on, the children grew up and left home. Grandchildren came to visit, and were accepted with interest and affection by Rupert. Rupert’s shiny black coat became tinged with grey, and his eyes took on the blue sheen of those of an old dog. He found it difficult to jump on my bed at night, and had to be assisted. I became concerned that he was growing thin, had become listless and was not eating, so with a sense of foreboding, I took him to our vet, Bonnie. Bonnie had known Rupert from puppyhood, and always described him as a “perfect little gentleman”. His visits to Bonnie’s surgery for annual innoculations and the odd health problem always ended with Bonnie dropping a kiss on his head, and giving him a biscuit, both of which he accepted graciously, as was his wont. Her diagnosis was heartbreaking. She told me, with tears in her eyes, that Rupert had a malignant internal tumour. He was fourteen years old. Bonnie felt he was too old for, and doubted that his heart would stand the strain of an operation. He was obviously stressed and in great discomfort. There was nothing she could do for him. I had to make the final decision. I held him in my arms whilst Bonnie put him peacefully to sleep, and then I took him home. We buried him, wrapped in his favourite little blanket, with flowers and many tears, in the garden and under his favourite tree.

The other dogs, apart from Morag, accepted his disappearance from their midst without too much fuss. It took Morag months to accept his absence. She pined for him. It was upsetting to watch her looking for him in all his favourite places. She was quiet and withdrawn until the day my daughter brought home a tiny Scottie puppy as a surprise gift to me. Morag bonded immediately with little Taggie, and it was good to see her taking an interest in life again.

Two lines from Rudyard Kipling’s sad little poem “The Power of the Dog” come to mind:

“Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware,
“Of giving your heart to a dog to tear”.

But once a dog lover, always a dog lover. I cannot imagine life without a dog or two about. But I have never had another Corgi. Comparisons would be odious.