The Day of the Spaniel

Communist versus Fascist; Russia against America; the Labour/Tory divide; Gladstone and Disraeli; Manchester City vieing with Manchester United. These are nothing compared with that age-old endless debate: Spaniels or Labs?

Like living north or south of the Thames, every shooter, beater, and picker up is born either a spaniel supporter or a labrador lover. Only in matrimony may positions be compromised, where the household has to hold two or three of both. (Children are of course discouraged in such relationships, they are difficult in their eating habits, won't sleep in sheds, and cannot be thrown in lakes to retrieve the badly dropped pheasant.)  Out in the field the proud owner will stand back from the line, at his or her heels the chosen black or yellow (whatever happened to chocolate?) short or rough coats, sitting quietly and calmly, and looking snootily at the nervously shivering multi-coloured yipping piebald shaggy eared creatures who have dared to invade the field of dreams.  And as the day goes on, so does the endless argument, the bramble penetrating qualities of the spaniel ventilated against the gate scaling abilities of the lab, the anarchistic independence of the spaniel compared with the adoring loyalty of the labrador.

Your correspondent does himself have a firm preference, which he will not reveal for fear of death threats and sneering remarks (but he has a deep admiration for long floppy ears).

So last week, finding a Fellow Gun who had been allocated the family Golf so Mrs FG could take the Range Rover on a difficult and demanding trip to J Sainsbury, I naturally offered him a lift and was only a little taken aback when he opened the Golf front passenger door and a black and grey spaniel got out.

"You don't mind, do you?"

"Of course, not, wonderful dogs. Charming chap, what is his name?"

"SHE is Bonny. Twelve years old. I'm afraid she doesn't like sitting in the back, I'll keep her under my feet, if that's alright"

"Of course. What a lovely girl"

She was indeed a lovely girl and in spite of her advanced years sat neatly through each drive and dashed about in a very professional manner when instructed to find and fetch.  After each burst of activity she hopped into the front footwell and looked at me with those adoring spaniel eyes.  By the end of the third drive, and after the third sloe gin, I was wondering if I could get a dog basket in my tiny kitchen and what the boss would say to the odd yelp from under my office desk.

The final drive was on the very muddy bank of a winding stream and Bonny's owner was delighted to receive a pheasant from the reeds. He was not so delighted to find that his black and grey girlfriend now was mostly brown, including those big floppy ears. "Well," he said, "she's going to have to sit in the back now" and I slipped quickly out of the drivers seat and went round to the back door to clear a space and break out a cartridge carton for her to reside on.

"Oh Christ, out, out, Bonny" came from the front and I looked through just in time to see a whirlwind, an Amazonian storm, of hairy legs, heaving body, and flailing ears surrounded by a spray of wide splattering mud.

It is astonishing, the mud carrying capacity of spaniel hair. A liberal coating was applied to my beautiful leather seats, to the dashboard, to the windscreen, my multi-function steering wheel, the door panel, the audio unit. The valet company are taking the car in for the third time next week and this time hope to get the deep residue out ("Next time, try not to let it dry in, sir") . Not that I knew what post spaniel valeting would cost as I watched the Golf drive away, those loving spaniel eyes adoring me out of the back window.

 .