A DOG NAMED CLEMENTINE

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January 2023, Mum sent a photo of two random dogs on a beach. ‘This little Retriever needs a home. She’s 11.’ She circled the Retriever to save any confusion. Another photo followed, it was the Retriever wearing a snowman headband, ‘Clemmie.’

Nobody believed Mum would go through with adopting Clemmie. We thought her dog days were over after being landed with the family westie, Duncan.

Duncan liked to bark at seagulls, which wasn’t much of a problem when we were in Oxfordshire, but Mum had moved to Cornwall, so it was a gigantic problem. Duncan wasn’t well-behaved. He couldn’t be let off a leash without charging off to find trouble. And he would plop his little white fluffy self in the most awkward places, like by the cooker when Mum was making dinner. His name was said in frustration multiple times a day. Duncan. When he died, Mum buried his ashes in a lavender pot, and then her lavender plant died. Duncan. That was Duncan.

Despite the white Westie trauma, Mum did end up adopting Clemmie. The next time I visited, an autumnal-coloured Retriever with a white face, was in the hallway, wagging her tail.

Clem settled into her new home with ease. She was an old, well-trained dog, eager to make you happy. I imagined her having this wise old lady voice. “Please, my dear, my ball.”

Mum found Ella, a young jewellery designer who would take Clem on extra walks. Ella and Clem would go down to the beach every day, come rain or shine. Clem’s favourite spot was the pool just before the sea, which she would trot into and had to be begged to come out again.

The other dogs respected her because she was old and gracious, in the same way we all respect Judi Dench. If a dog overstepped the mark (sniffed her butt), she would bark once, and they would leave her alone.

“Get off, you!”

Everywhere Clem went, she was adored. (Apart from a local man, who would walk by Mum and Clem with a pinched face. Mum still doesn’t know what she’s done to offend him). Apart from him, everybody adored Clem.

But nobody liked Clem as much as Mum. She had promised Rich she would be a strict dog owner, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t help herself. There were rules, like, “Clem is not allowed in the bedroom”, but often, Clem would appear in the doorway with a grin and a wagging tail.

“You know you’re not allowed in here, Clem,” Mum said with a smile.

“Sorry, yes, just saying, hi. Oh, and one last thing. If you, Ella, or anyone feels like a stroll along the beach, then I’m game. Just say the word, and I’m good to go….”

Whenever we went to the supermarket, I would find Mum in the toy section, contemplating whether Clem would prefer the squirrel or a weasel. At Christmas, she had her own pile of presents to unwrap. “Santa” brought her a yellow chick, which became her favourite toy. (Unfortunate for that chick). Mum also had begun making gravy for the dog’s dinner, pouring it in using the Sunday gravy jug.

“Mum, why are you pouring gravy into the dog’s dinner?”

“Just makes the biscuits softer for Clem.”

There was this bedtime routine called ‘Nom-Nom times.’

At first, I heard it happening, and then I was shown the live performance. ‘Nom-Nom times’ consisted of Mum giving Clem three treats, which she received one at a time. As she chewed on a treat, Mum would sing, “Nom…Nom…Nom…” until the dog had finished. Then, she would be given her next treat, and the singing would begin again, “Nom…nom…nom…”

As I stood there, watching this thing happen, Clementine glared at me as if to say, “Please give her a grandchild.”

In the summer, the dog groomer cancelled, leaving Clem looking a little ball-like. How hard can it be to trim a dog? We thought. Well, quite hard, it turns out. To Clementine’s credit, she trusted us. She sat in the sun as we snipped away at her coat. We thought we had done an okay job, until she got up and we saw how uneven she was. She didn’t seem happy about her new short-back-and-side-long-back-and-side… style.

“What have you done to me?” she gasped with big, round eyes.

Clementine’s age was catching up with her. Her back was sore. It took effort to stand up; often, she did so with a “huff.” By the end of the summer, she was significantly slower; sometimes, on our walks, it was like watching one of those donkeys in the Donkey Sanctuary charity commercial.

“Haha! That dog is so old,” A woman laughed.

“You’re not too young yourself,” Clementine muttered back. Or was it me? I can’t remember.

When Ella took her to her favourite spot, she no longer trotted into the water. Instead, she sat on the edge with Ella and watched the younger dogs charging back and forth like an old lady enjoying kids in a playground.

The last few weeks, Clem was coughing, her tail was down, and despite the hand-poured gravy, she was not interested in her dinner. Mum didn’t want it to be, but she knew it was time. Last Wednesday morning, she put Clem in the car and drove her to the vet. They gave Clementine a pile of treats, which she nibbled on before she fell asleep.

We’re not going to put Clementine in a lavender pot. (We learnt from the last dog not to do that). We will place her in the sea, where she once loved to play. Then, to the pub to toast our auburn-coloured friend.