Finding Fleur

Katie hadn't had a good night. Excitement had robbed her of several hours sleep and when she had dozed it had only been in brief snatches. Waking early, she came crashing into my room with all the enthusiasm that only a seven-year-old can muster.

“When are we going mum? Can we go straight after breakfast please?”

I glanced over at the clock on my nightstand. The illuminous green LCD told me that it was six twelve am. Katie’s eyes followed mine.

“Oh that rotten old clock is always getting me into trouble” she cut in quickly “It must be lying Mummy it can’t possibly be that time because I’ve been awake for hours.”

In the bathroom I heard her chanting “We're going to get Fleur. We're going
to get Fleur.”

We had been talking for some time about getting a dog. It was good for a child to have a dog and it was good for a dog to have a child. We had passed back and forth the possibility of several breeds, Paul and I fighting over our particular favourites. Katie however was above all arguments,

She knew exactly which dog we were going to get. A Fleur! Over breakfast she chatted happily about Fleur.

“Oh mum she’ll be my lickle baby, I’ll put her in my pram with dolly and take her out for walks, and I’ll brush her, and love her, and give her lots of nice things to eat.”

Giving up all thoughts of Afghan Hounds, and Rhodesian Ridgebacks. We decided we’d go to the local Animal Rescue to find fleur. We rang in advance to make an appointment and to tell them to expect a very excited little girl who was absolutely not allowed to come away with the entire range of dogs on offer.


A very robust lady with met us at the gate five minutes before the official opening time. She took us into the office and gave us a five-minute lecture on making sure we were emotionally, and financially ready for the burden of a dog. I liked her and her no-nonsense-attitude immediately. It was so apparent that a deep love of animals and a low tolerance of fools lurked beneath the stern demeanour.

Just when it seemed Katie could contain herself no longer it was time to go and look at the dogs. We walked across the exercise yard and were let into the dog’s domain. The smell of Jayes fluid and urine burst through the opening pen door in greeting. We walked into a long dingy, very smelly corridor.

It was four foot wide with cages six foot by four foot to either side. Although every care was taken to make the dogs comfortable, this was not a happy place for them to be. This was no home, merely a prison where the victims were incarcerated for the sins of the perpetrators. The lady explained that lack of resources meant that there was a limit to how much could be done for the poor unfortunates in her care.

The opening of the door seemed to be a signal for the choir to begin. The noise was cacophonous and echoed off the stone walls and floor to bounce back and deafen them. Soprano yaps, tenor howls, gruff bass baritone woofs. Katie placed her hands over her ears, and for the first time looked a little bit daunted.

All the dogs were given kennel names for identification purposes. They each had a spec sheet and these were slotted into a grid at the top of each kennel. The first cage to our left housed a black mongrel. ‘Bob’ was approximately seven-month-old. A collie cross who had been left tied to the rescue gate two months ago. He jumped up on the cage door scratching frantically for attention. I rubbed his nose through the mesh, and crooned to him softly.

“Come on mum. That's not Fleur.” Katie was already onto the next cage.

‘Sandy.’ Five-year-old ‘Westie’ bitch. Timid, not good with children or other dogs.
Ideally suited to pensioner. Sandy cowered in her bed at the far end of her kennel well out of reach of probing fingers. She watched us with mistrustful disdain. A low grumble warning us that we were “Quite close enough thank you.” This thankfully was not Fleur.

‘Tottie.’ Yorkshire Terrier bitch. Snappy!

‘Rebel.’ German Shepherd cross. Five-year-old. Good with children. Not to be trusted with other dogs.

‘Bindy.’ Greyhound bitch. Two-years-old abused and nervous.

‘Scamp.’ Twelve week old Terrier cross. Ideal family pet.

‘Misty’. Six month old mongrel. Good with children.

So the list went on. A multitude of soulful brown eyes, and needy yearning. Smooth coats, rough coats, matted coats. Cross breeds and unwanted pedigrees. Every size and colour of canine doghood.

I wanted them all! Katie however with steadfast fastidiousness, moved form cage to cage, giving each dog a cursory glance then passing them by. I began to worry that she had a picture in her head of Fleur and that nothing else would do. What if Fleur wasn't here?

I tried to talk her into a lovely little Lakeland Terrier Pup called Kali. She was gentle and affectionate, rolling onto her back to have her tummy tickled when the lady let her out of the cage for viewing. I thought this the ideal dog for us. Katie stroked her politely and called her a “Good dog.” She giggled when the little brown fur ball, jumped up and licked her nose. I congratulated myself on finding fleur . The two youngsters played for a couple of minutes, and seemed to be bonding well. The little dog was a delight, full of graceless puppy character. Katie calmed the little pup with
gentle patience and then bent to talk softly to her. “ I’m sorry darling. I hope you find a nice little girl to love you.”

Then she stood up; impatient for the hunt for Fleur to continue. I tried to convince her that the little brown pup was ideal for us, but she was adamant that the pup was indeed beautiful, but it was NOT Fleur.

We continued to look down the cages. More possibilities jumped to be given a brief stroke of love before being passed over again.

Suddenly Katie stood still. Her eyes drawn to a cage several places down on the right.
She let out a little “Oh” and moved down the line looking neither right or left. “Fleur” she squealed excitedly as she knelt beside the appropriate cage.

I stopped aghast and read the spec sheet.

‘Axle.’ Three month old Rottweiler. Good with children and other dogs. Good house dog. This dog needs a lot of attention!

“Darling, this is a boy dog. This isn't Fleur” It was a halfhearted attempt. I knew I was fighting a loosing battle.

“It is Fleur Mummy. It IS.” Katie's eyes began to fill with tears as she saw the risk
of her dog being taken way from her, thirty seconds after clapping eyes on it.

“Fleur come on boy. Fleur come.”

The huge puppy with paws like elephant’s feet and skin that was four sizes too big for him looked bemused. He took a second to adjust to being addressed in such an odd manner by the little human. Then took a step forward almost leaving his bed, but; just as he was about to leap forward his courage deserted him. He moved back again, wanting to come, but not quite daring. Indecision! He looked back at his bed and then to the little girl patiently calling him. Then he flopped back down in an ungainly heap, his stump wagging frantically against his rump. He licked his big chops three times and then yapped. The noise was too high pitched for his big frame, and he looked almost ashamed of his lack of a butch bark. We all laughed. This pleased him and he stood, bending himself almost in two in his delight at this captive audience. He did a little dance marking time with his front paws, his plump shiny black and brown body quivering with the expectation of having those loving hands all over him. If he could just pluck up the courage. He shook his comical head. Chuffed loudly. Telling her that he very much wanted to jump all over her, but just didn't quite dare.

Katie called “Fleur! Fleur!” It was all too much. He bounded forward. Almost collided with the open cage door. Braced his back legs and skidded comically into Katie knocking her onto her bum with a thump. The dog regained his composure before the prostrate child had a chance to find her feet, and leapt on her.

The ice was well and truly broken, all shyness forgotten. Puppy and child sprawled on the smelly stone floor. Each in its own personal rapture. A deep love was being forged.

‘Floyd.’ As he came to be known -It took some persuading, but we did it- is sitting on the settee. His big old legs splayed fore and aft. He is snoring in a manner known only to Nine stone Rottweilers. He's oblivious to the fact that soon he is to take his last ride in the car he loves so dearly.

He's thirteen years old now. A good age for a Rottweiler. His daughter ‘Fleur’ is seven, and in pup herself with a third generation. Floyd is tired. His rheumy old eyes tell us he's had enough. He has a long journey to embark on, lots of bitches to service. Lots of fields to run.

To Katie he has taken on many roles, horse, baby, protector, confidante and friend to name a few. He has stood beside her, watching the seasons turn her from child to young woman. He was guest of honour at her recent wedding. How Katie had wished she could be here today, but her first baby is due any day now and the long drive wouldn’t have been good for her.

Now its time to do the last thing we can for the old fella. I pick up the car keys holding back the tears. His head comes up instantly.

“Nothing wrong with the old ears eh mum?” He grins at me, his mind five steps ahead of his old body as he creaks rheumatically off his settee.

“ Come on fella, let’s go for a ride.”

© Sue Simpson September 1999

After reading your work I know that I need a lot more experience of writing. It was extremely good.

There is only one word to describe that work. "Beautiful" Exquisitely written and wonderfully paced. But...... How DARE you make a grown man cry!!!