My Dog [For Contest]

My sister is a big dog lover, ever since she was four- years-old and she first met our baby-sitter’s caramel Springer Spaniel, Ben, she has begged my mum for a puppy every Christmas and Birthday. Her bedroom used to be full of stuffed toy dogs, all with names, and the walls were plastered with posters of dogs, tongues hanging out playfully. When my mum married Simon, our step-father, and Alice discovered that we now had another dog lover in the family she was convinced she had won the battle, however, we had a beautiful old cat who we didn’t think would be able to deal with a mischievous puppy.1

It wasn’t until six years later, after our cat had been put down from a cancerous tumour and we had moved half way across the world (to Dubai) that Alice finally got what she wished for.2

It was a warm Saturday morning and I had just had a sleepover with two friends. We woke up to find that my parents had gone to the pet shop to buy some more cat-food (we were looking after some stray cats for a charity at this point). When they returned, cat-food in hand, Simon went to my sister and told her that he had forgotten something and wanted her to come back to the pet shop to get it with him.3

My sister, both suspiciously and grudgingly, complied and went to get dressed, her planned ‘pyjama day’ ruined. After my sister and parents left the house again me and my friends had our breakfast and began to wonder why they were taking so long.4

We were still sitting in the kitchen when my family walked through the front door, with a new addition to the family, tail wagging madly and tongue hanging out, on the end of a lead. My sister looked like she was about to pass out with happiness, laughing joyfully every time the little puppy barked, sniffed or jogged away to explore.5

The puppy itself looked as if it had never been happier. His tail had not stopped wagging since he walked in the door, not surprising considering he had four giggling girls delighted at his every move. His fur was jet black with a white belly and an incessantly wet nose. His ears flapped about as he ran around merrily and the shaggy fur, uncut by the pet shop, stuck out in every direction making him seem bigger than he actually was.6

When it came to naming our new family-member everyone had an opinion. My step-father was adamant that he should have a proper name, fair enough, we agreed, but not Hector as Simon wanted, after some historical war leader. My sister wanted something for a dog instead, like Duke. My mum wanted a nice name, Gregory or Henry. Personally, I had no ideas myself but didn’t think any of their names suited him. It was only when one of my friends piped up and threw another name in the hat (figuratively speaking), Jack, that we all agreed.7

Jack is now two years old and as energetic as ever. He lives for his walks, of which he has three a day, but, coming out of puppy-hood, has come to appreciate quiet time for nap, thank god. 8