Finding Fleur

Finding Fleur

Katie hadn't had a good night. Excitement had robbed her of several hours' sleep and when she had slept it had been brief. She'd woken early and crashed into my room with all of the enthusiasm that only a Seven year old can muster. 'When are we going mum? Can we go straight after breakfast please?'

I looked 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's always getting me into trouble'
She turned it to face the wall. 'It must be lying Mummy, it can't really 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'd talked 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'd passed back and forth the possibility of several breeds, Paul and I
fighting over our favourite.

But Katie stood solidly above all arguments. She knew exactly which dog we were going to get. It was simple, we were getting a Fleur. Over
breakfast she chatted happily about Fleur. 'Oh I can't wait to get her mummy, she'll be my baby, I'll put her in my pram 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 shelter to find Fleur. With all of the neglected dogs in the country it was the responsible thing to do. We'd rung 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 robust lady met us at the gate, five minutes before the official opening time. She took us into the office and gave us a lecture on responsibility and making sure we were emotionally, and financially ready for the burden of a dog. I liked her and her no nonsense attitude. It was apparent that a deep love of animals and a low tolerance of fools lurked beneath the Kennel lady's stern demeanour.

When Katie could'nt contain herself any 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 dingy, 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. It wasn't a 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 unfortunates in her care.

The opening of the door was the 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 put her hands over her ears, and for the first
time looked a daunted.

The dogs were given kennel names for identification. They had a spec sheet slotted into a grid at the top of each kennel. The first cage to our left housed a black mongrel.

'Bob.' Seven-month-old. A collie cross who had been tied to the rescue gate two months earlier. 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 Kennel.

'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. Thankfully, This wasn't 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 from cage to cage, giving each dog a cursory glance then passing them
by. I was worried that she had a picture in her head of Fleur and that nothing else would do. What if Fleur wasn't here? She'd be devastated.

I tried to talk her into a 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 was 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 very soon.'

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. She
was adamant that the pup was beautiful but it wasn't Fleur.

Back at the cages more dogs jumped up to be
given a brief stroke before being passed over.

Then Katie stopped. 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 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 filled with tears as she saw that I didn't instantly recognise this dog as Fleur. The risk of her dog being taken way from her, thirty seconds after clapping eyes on it was too much to bear.

'Fleur come on boy. Fleur come.'

The huge puppy with paws like elephants 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 he 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 tail wagging frantically against his rump.

He licked his big chops three times and 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 the 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 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 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 that soon he's going for a ride in the car that he loves so dearly.

He's thirteen years old, 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 ahead, lots of bitches to service. Lots of fields to
run.

He's taken on many roles in Katie's life, horse, baby, protector, confidante and friend. He's stood beside her, watching the seasons turn her from child to young woman. He was guest of honour at her wedding.

How Katie had wished that 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. Her dad and I knew that in reality she just couldn't face it. I didn't know how I would.

It's 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.'