Judith Summers - My Life with George

What I Learned About

Joy From One Neurotic

(And Very Expensive)

Dog

In loving memory of David Summers

and Udi Eichler

The alarm wakes me up at six thirty prompt. Not

It was 1998, and the first week of November. The

Following the two family funerals, I muddled though July and

On the following Saturday morning, Joshua and I were on

A few days later, I impulsively got on the phone

Joshua, I said, waking him up after Id parked outside

I was awoken at six oclock the next morning by

Despite this inauspicious start, I believed naively that it would

As a journalist and author, I knew about the importance

In March 1999, my sister decided to introduce me to

It was only natural that Joshua was upset by my

Christmas 1999 was the second wed spent without Udi, and

Immediately after Christmas, I wrote down the little I knew

Joshua was the first to discover it. He came home

On June 3, 2001, Tabby, Hannah, Joshua, Nathaniel, and I

Later that summer I met Alex on a street cornerour

By the late spring of 2002 Id come to the

A month later, Zach and I sat opposite one another

I was about to learn a harsh fact of life:

At four hundred and forty feet above sea level, Hampstead

The moment Sue hung up, I froze. Then I went

Back home, I let myself into the empty house and

Greg took one look at my distraught face and the

It was another Sunday, and one of those glorious Indian

Recently I took George to have his annual medical checkup.

T he alarm wakes me up at six thirty prompt. Not the clock on my bedside table, which is set for seven fifteen, but a piercing bark from down the hall.

I pull a pillow over my head and try to get back to sleep. Theres a fat chance of that, because the bark alarm has no off button. It repeats at thirty-second intervals until I feel thoroughly guilty. After all, its been shut up inside the house since midnight, and is probably desperate for a pee.

I roll out of bed, stagger down the hall, and open the study door. Eleven and a half kilos of Cavalier King Charles Spaniel is lying at the ready beside his basket, hindquarters splayed out behind him, tail swishing the floor like a starters flag. In a split second hes up and running, pushing between my legs without so much as a cursory glance at me. And instead of heading for the cat flap that leads into the garden, he runs upstairs toward the kitchen, still barking, with a victorious glint in his eyes.

George might be bursting for a pee, but what he wants even more urgently is his breakfast.

Furious with myself for having been taken in by the same stunt George pulled yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that, I head back to bed. But a minute later, a wet black nose appears beside my pillow, along with a pair of feathery white paws and a cloud of warm dog breath. Go away! I murmur, only rather less politely. Not one to give up easily, George keeps up a persistent one-sided conversation at my bedside. Theres only one way to get rid of him at this time in the morning, and thats to give in.

Upstairs in the open-plan kitchen-cum-living-room, he throws himself down as close to the refrigerator as he can get without blocking its door and stares at me with an unflinching gaze. I dole a generous portion of all-in-one dry dog food into his bowl and put it down on the slate hearthstone, but instead of jumping up to eat it, George doesnt budge an inch. He knows whats in therea rubble of round, brown biscuitsand they tempt him far less than the identical-looking rabbit droppings that litter Hampstead Heath. Loaded with meaning, his eyes roll toward the fridge door, then back to me. What George wants is sitting inside that humming metal box. And just to make sure that Ive got the message, he repeats the eye rolling a couple of times and licks his lips.

For an animal whose brain is the size and consistency of a mushroom, George has pretty effective communication skills.

Relentingafter all, I wouldnt want to eat those rabbit droppings eitherI open the fridge door and take out the carcass of last nights roast chicken. George dances a salsa of anticipation around my feet as I tear off a few morsels and add them to his bowl, and when I carry it to the hearthstone, he skids backward in front of me, unwilling to take his eyes off it for an instant. Even before it has hit the floor, hes dived into it. By the time Ive turned around, hes picked out every sliver of chicken and is already barking for more.

Sorry, kiddo, I say firmly, thats your lot. George is definitely on the chunky side. Hes been on a weight-loss diet ever since he recovered from anorexia, and Im supposed to see that he sticks to it.

He returns to the fridge and barks intermittently at its closed door. Doing my best to ignore him, I make a stab at clearing up the trail of detritus left lying around late last night by my seventeen-year-old son: the discarded sweater scrunched up between the sofa cushions, the mobile phone on the draining board, the poker chips on the mantelpiece, the open carton of milk souring on the coffee table, the three sneakers (why always three?) strewn treacherously across the rug, just where Im most likely to trip over them. Eventually George stops barking, leaps up onto an armchair, and glares at me sulkily. Slowly but surely, his head droops. Hes accepted that hes going to get nothing else to eat in the immediate future and settles down to his favorite leisure activity: deep, comatose sleep.

At eight fifteen, having roused my son from his comatose sleep and packed him off to school, I wake George. Since he knows whats next on the days agenda, he raises his head with great reluctance and looks at me with dread. Intent on getting my own back for being woken so early myself, I cry Walkies! in my most enthusiastic tone, hook on his leash, drag him off the armchair, and pull him out of the front door. With a wistful backward glance at the house, George trots down the road beside me, wagging his tail at every parked car in the hope that were going to get into it. Walkies in the carthat is, sitting upright in the front passenger seat and staring out at the passing sceneryis Georges favorite form of exercise, which is why he has a weight problem.

I stride firmly past the cars, while my recalcitrant Cavalier lags further and further behind me on his extendable leash. This is just for starters. When he sees the Heath looming in front of him, he digs in his claws and grinds to a complete halt. I give the five meters of cord that now separates us a gentle jerk, but George doesnt budge. I try coaxing him, Come on, darling! but when he still doesnt move, exasperation breaks through: Come ON! George! Heel! HEEL, I said! DO AS YOURE TOLD!

George plants his large posterior four-square on the pavement. Like gangsters at a showdown, we glare at each other along the leash. I remember what the pet behaviorist I consulted told me: that I must show George whos top dog, and never let him get the better of me. Okay, I say, as calmly as I can. Thats enough! Turning away from him, I carry on walking, and since George refuses to stop his sit-down protest, hes dragged along behind me on his bottom. His collar works its way over one ear, and like the drama king that he is, he starts to cough and choke as if hes being strangled.

Oh, look at that poor little doggie!

A group of children on their way to the local primary school take pity on him, so Im forced to stop. They surround George, crying, Oh, hes so cute! Fluttering his eyelashes, George jumps to his feet and snuggles up to them as if chocolate wouldnt melt in his mouth. But as their mothers approach, he moves to one side, arches his back, and