My Dog Sunday

Leila, on writing the book:

Some time in the sixties I was wandering round Battersea Dogs' Home, jotting down notes for this story, when I was abruptly asked what I thought I was doing, told to stop doing it at once, that writing things down was not allowed, and that the Superintendent wanted to see me at once. I really felt I was going to be told to face the wall with my hands up while someone frisked me.

I was marched upstairs where a very military man ordered me to explain myself. I said I was simply thinking of writing a children's story about Battersea Dog's Home. "The Dogs' Home comma Battersea!" he corrected me. I stared blankly. He told me no-one could write anything about The Dogs' Home comma Battersea without his personal consent. Anything I wrote must be shown to him before anyone saw it.

To get out of the room, I evidently had to agree. I did manage to say, "But everyone calls it Battersea Dogs' Home."

"That is wrong," he said. "It is The Dogs' Home comma Battersea."

"But children would never say anything but Battersea Dog's Home..." He wouldn't have it, and I still had to get out of the room.

So I wrote the book, and politely sent the typescript to him. Evidently it was read, for it was returned full of corrections; and every time one of the children said "Battersea Dogs' Home," it was crossed out, and "The Dogs' Home, Battersea" substituted. It was definitely no use arguing. I just retyped it, putting everything back neatly as before, with the children saying "Battersea Dogs' Home". A strange story.

The incident with Jimmy hurling himself at Ben because Ben says Sunday is a dog, did actually happen. It was in a small nursery school I was running in our house on Streatham Common. That was before the tv ad that made Old English Sheepdogs so well known. At the time, in fact, the breed had become so rare there was an Old English Sheepdog Club in Great Britain to keep it going, and I think, though I can't now be sure, there were about five members.

Our house being on the Common, we could daily watch people exercising their dogs. Many did this by circling the Common in their car for a while; then, as they cruised along, they would open the door, the dog would jump out, and run after the car, and eventually be allowed back in. Dogs of every possible size and shape were involved. Great Danes, Afghan hounds, West Highland terriers, Newfoundlands, Dalmatians, Yorkshire terriers....I often wondered how a small child managed to accept that every one was a dog.

One day I introduced the new member of the family, Fred (not his pedigree name), to the nursery children. Several ran to the edge of the room. The others huddled together nervously. "What is it?" they wanted to know. "What do you think it is?" I asked them, beaming with happiness. They made several suggestions. Finally I had to say, cheerily, "It's a dog."

I was completely unprepared for Robert to hurl himself on me, fighting, biting, tears on his face. When I managed to disengage myself I said, "But Robert, it's true. Honestly. It really is a dog. I'm sorry."

An extract for you...

They were looking down an alley-way. At the end was a gate. It was painted green and white, with

THE
DOG'S HOME
BATTERSEA
on it in red letters. They had both somehow expected it to be very grand, made of iron, with large spikes at the top. But it was ordinary, like a workman's gate, the kind of gate that leads into a yard.

At the side of it was an office. Ben stood by the office door, and hesitated. "You can come in, if you like," he said at last.

But Kathy looked back at him, and he could see she didn't want to come, that she was frightened to come in. So rather than have her refuse, he said sharply, "No, you'd better stay outside. You look after Jimmy."

Inside the office there was a sort of counter, and a lady stood there, looking at a large book shaped like a register. She did not look up immediately, and this made Ben more nervous still. He had just decided to go through the other door and get his dog and go out again, when suddenly she said, "Good afternoon. Can I help you?"

Ben's hand was already on the door-knob. "I've come to get a dog."

"Oh. Do you mean you've lost one?"

"No. I've come to get one."

The lady regarded him.

"How old are you?"

"I'm eleven."

"I'm afraid we can't let anyone of eleven take a dog. We don't hand over dogs to anyone younger than eighteen. I'm sorry, but you're too young."

"I'm not too young. Jimmy Sanderford's got a dog and he's younger than me."

"Yes. But does your father know? Does he know you're getting a dog?"

For a minute, Ben thought of saying "Yes." He hesitated, then said, "No."

"Well, will he mind?"

Ben frowned.

"Will he let you keep him?" the lady persisted.