admit, when I look at the show world as a whole, I realize how
totally different it is, and appreciate that someone going to a
cat show for the first time might find it very odd.
Each cat is penned with his or her own white blanket, and a
white feeding bowl. Every cat must have identical equipment,
and the owners are not allowed into the hall while the cats are
being judged: so everything is completely fair. But the sort of
conversation that goes on would really strike someone not used
to cat shows as rather strange. At lunch-time we all pile back
into the hall after the judging to look hopefully for those big
rosettes that mean First. And that, these days, is very nice for
me: to be able to see the rosettes. I never could when I started
showing. I would get a friend to lead me up to the pen where
my cat was and I would feel round in the hope of a rosette. I
would say, 'Don't tell me. Don't tell me if there's anything on
the pen. Let me feel for it.'
These days I can go and look-and, of course, get the disappointment
that much sooner if there is no rosette. Yet,
although we have had our disappointments, the hall and livingroom
bear witness to the success of the cats, for there are scores
of rosettes all round the walls from all over the country. But one
rosette, a green and gold one, has pride of place, and it is the
only one that was not earned by one of the Siamese. It is
Emma's rosette, and every time I see it I still get a glow of
tremendous pride for her. It is a Cruft's rosette earned as a
Personality Dog of the Year in 1978, and you cannot be anything
other than a canine V.I.P. to gain this award, the highlight
of the show on its final day.
When the invitation to take part arrived from Cruft's I was
thrilled beyond belief. But as the day approached I became
obsessed with the idea that Emma had to do herself justice in
front of the crowds-and all the other dogs, of course, champions
included. It was her due, I thought, that she would be
not only a personality dog, but the star of the parade.
I07
a
I
'What can I do to make her look really nice?' I asked Don.
'She always looks nice,' he said.
'Do you think she ought to have a bath?'
'Don't mention that word,' he said quickly. But not quickly
enough. Emma's cars had twitched at an unpopular sound and
she took herself off into the kitchen with a very quizzical
expression on her face.
'Oh, I forgot!' I said. 'Well, what I'll do is to pretend that
I'm going to have a bath. I'll go upstairs and start getting all my
clothes into the bathroom like I always do, and run the water
and sing.'
'That'll put her off,' he said with a grin.
'No, no, you know what I mean-make her think it's me
that's getting into the bath, not her. She always comes and sits
in the bathroom with me.'
:I bet it doesn't work,' he said.
Oh, it will if I really pretend, really make it convincing,' I
said. 'I'll take my bubble bath in and make sure she sees me
do it.'
'I bet it doesn't work,' Don repeated unhelpfully.
I went off upstairs, ran the water and started to sing, throwing
perf'ume about, gathering clothes into the bathroom and hiding
the towels for Emma underneath them. Normally, by the time
the taps are running Emma is upstairs, curled up on the bathroom
floor. But this time there was no sign of her.
'Is she still down there?' I called to Don.
'Yes, in the kitchen, by the back door,' he shouted.
'Oh dear. Do you think she knows?'
I'm sure she does. You'll never get her up there.'
Well, we can't carry her upstairs, she's too heavy. See if you
can get her to come up. Try and get her into the hall.' At
the same time I started calling her. Don, I could hear, was
also calling. 'Come on Emma, into the hall, there's a good
girl.'
But nothing happened. Emma remained a chocolate-brown
immovable object by the back door, gazing up with an expression
which stated very plainly: 'I know what you want to do.
I came downstairs. 'What are we going to do about it?'
io8
'I've no idea. She knows you want to give her a bath, and she
knows you're pretending.'
Then I spotted the box of chocolate drops with added vitamins
that Emma loved and which she used to get as rewards.
I picked it ofi'the shelf. 'I wonder,' I said, 'If'greed will get the
better of her hatred of baths?'
Emma saw me doing this, and immediately became alert and
anxious all at the same time. Her nose twitched. I offered her
a chocolate drop. She got up and came towards me and took
it, munching thoughtfully and giving a small wag of the tail. I
retreated into the hall.
'Come on, Emma, another chocolate drop.'
I could see the thinks-balloon: 'What's this? Another chocolate
drop. Well ... why not? What does it matter if there i's a
catch ?'
She took it. I ventured to the stairs. Emma stood watching
me a little more warily. But she couldn't resist, and even though
it ended up with me putting a chocolate drop on every other
step, she was finally manoeuvred into the bathroom.
'I've got her,' I called down to Don, 'It's OK.'
I lifted her into the bath. Poor Emma. She stood there looking
so dejected and woeful, but also resigned. 'I knew all along
this is what you wanted!' she seemed to be saying.
'I'm sorry Emma,' I said. 'I really am sorry. But you're
going to Cruft's, you know, and it's the biggest dog show in the
world, and you're going to be best dog there and the best
there's ever been.'
Perhaps it didn't make up for having a bath, but when she
was finally dried down and brushed she really did look
beautiful.
On the following day Don, Emma and I went down to
London on the train. When we go by train we have to find a
compartment with a carpet on the floor because Emma doesn't
like plain boards. After all, she is getting on in years, and she
does deserve her comforts. Once on the carpet, with the train
pulling out of Nottingham Midland, she put her head between
her paws and went to sleep.
'I wonder what she'll think of all the dogs?' Don said. 'She'll
never have seen so many dogs together.'
log
I
'No,' I said, patting her. 'But what will all the other dogs
think of Emma? They ought to realize she's somebody special.
After all, she's not just a show dog. She's a Personality Dog.'
And I leaned down and gave another stroke to the sleeping,
dreaming form at my feet.
When we got to Olympia we were amazed at the queues of
people waiting to get in. As we got into the bustle and noise
inside I turned to Don and said: 'There's a sort of smell in the
air.'
'You mean dogs,' he said.
'No, no. A smell of stardom and sawdust.'
&nb
sp; 'Emma's not like that,' Don said. 'She takes everything in
her stride. She's never changed since the book came out.'
'Oh, do you mean I have?' I said.
'No, of course not. But you know what I mean. It doesn't
matter what Emma does or where she goes, she's always the
same Emma, isn't she? Even if she is picked as Personality Dog
of the Year.'
Suddenly I felt a tug on the lead. Emma had spotted a
Weimerana.
'No, that's not Zelda,' I told her. Then she was distracted by
a bull mastiff on the other side. 'She doesn't know where to go
first, does she?'
She put her nose into the air, smelling in every direction. It
was so exciting for her. Sniff, sniff, sniff-what a wonderful
place to be!
We all gathered in a little room off the main hall, all
the owners and dogs that had been picked to appear in the
Personality Parade. The old English bulldog was there, the
Labradors from the Drug Squad, the police Alsatians-even
Kg was there, not a real dog at all, but the little mechanical
robot from the Dr Who programme on TV. I wondered what
Emma would make of him when she saw him.
We were then briefed for the Personality Parade, and I was
amazed at how much effort and organization had gone into
this one event. The Cruft's man responsible gathered us round a
blackboard. On it he had drawn the ring and I saw that there
were various numbers round a carpet, a red carpet this svould
be, stretching right across the ring. Everyone had a number, he
iio
I
I
I
told us, and we would all be called in by number ivheii our
time came. We were expected to walk into the ring, up the red
carpet and stop in the middle as the commentator gave all the
details of why our dogs had been picked for Personality Dog of
that year.
'There'll be a big crowd out there,' he said, 't~-ent~,I-five
thousand, and they'll all be 'nterested in what your dog does,
so you must stop in the middle of the ring while we commentate
and everyone can get a good look at your dog.'
Our number was twenty. When he got to that he said:
'They'll be interested to know why Emma is a Personality Dog.
~Ve normally have a guide-dog in, but then Emma has not
only been a guide-dog, she's also had a book written about her.
That makes her special.'
Later on in the afternoon we gathered by the ring for the big
moment. Don stood A,Itli Emma and me.
'I wisl-i you could come in tlicre with us,' I told him.
'Not likely,' lie said, 'svith all those lights and cameras and
people vatching. No, you and Emma go. You'll be all right
when you get there. You're used to this sort of thing.'
'Not this sort of thing,' I said apprehensively. But Emma
didn't seem to mind. She wagged her tail and looked up. 'Yes,'
I said, 'it is something special isn't it Emma? This is really your
sliow.'
'It's only what she deserves,' said Don, and added, 'Doesn't
she look marvellous after her bath? Stand up to any of these
champions!'
Then we were given our rosette. Each dog that appeared in
the Personality Parade got a big rosette. I gripped it tight as I
waited for the event to start. There was a fanfare of trumpets
over the loudspeakers, and the announcer came on.
'Number One,' he called. He went through a description of
each dog and what it had done throughout the year. I was so
nervous I had to listen really hard for our number. At last it
came.
'Number Twenty,' he called, 'Emma.' I was pushed into the
ring by one of the organizers. 'In you go,' he said.
Emma and I walked into the floodlights to huge applause
and cheering. As we walked down the red carpet I could hear
I I I
the commentator reading passages out of the book, telling
stories of when Emma was a guide-dog, how clever she was,
and how she found me a phone-box when my usual one had
broken down. And suddenly there was the magic again, the
something that we had lost after I could see. I could feel the
tension on the lead as it used to be on the harness as Emma
walked proudly to the centre of the ring. Without me telling
her she just stopped and sat down and faced the commentator
and looked round at the mass of faces: thousands and thousands
of people all applauding and cheering her. It was incredible,
and such an emotional moment. I wanted to applaud with them
and shout and laugh because none of this was for me, it was all
for little Emma.
Then we had to walk off down the red carpet to our allotted
number which was painted on the floor. I wished I could have
watched it all from a spectator's point of view-each dog
coming in, stopping, going off to take their position so that
finally the ring contained a huge circle of Personality Dogs.
Emma, true to form, lay down and went to sleep: that is,
until she heard Kg, the last 'dog' in the parade coming in at
the opposite side of the ring. His hum and clicking noise woke
her. She sat up, ears forward, and tested the air. A strange sort
of smell was obviously coming from that thing. He got closer,
and Emma started to back off from the red carpet. As Kg
trundled and whirred past with his electrical lead she looked
up at me as if to say: 'Well, I thought this was a dog show.
What's that thing doing in here, then?'
After Kg had taken up his position, Emma lay down again
and went back to sleep. She stayed asleep, quite oblivious, until
the finale when we were all paraded again back up the red
carpet and out of the ring.
And that red carpet, I thought, as we passed from it and out
of the arclights, was the right setting for Emma, for ever. It had
been her greatest day, and as I pinned the great green and gold
rosette over our fireplace in the living-room later that evening,
and Emma was stretched in front of the fire as if nothing had
happened, I also thought: At last she has had her recognition,
her due, and her rightful accolade. Good girl Emma!
II2
CHAPTER TEN
I
BF,ING A Personality Dog of the Year, appearing on televillion
chat shows ' and being a star at bookshops all over the
country were the highlights of Emma's new career. But the
admiration at these events was more than equ~lled by fans
calling on her personally, and by an astonishing postbag. Scores
ot'letters began to arrive, as a result of the book. Some, mostly
from children, were addressed direct to Emma. These I always
read aloud, which may sound eccentric, but I felt it logical and
only right to pass on the praise to the right quarter when they
said how marvellous Emma was, how clever she was to find that
telephone-box on her own and so on. Emma knows when
approving things are being said about her and always sat beside
me on the settee when her fan mail arrived. Invariably her
response was one of those old-fashioned looks
meaning: 'Well,
what do they expect? I was a guide-dog, after all.' And I had
to smile. Sometimes at moments like that she reminded me of a
rather languid Hollywood screen goddess reclining while her
secretary dealt out the adulation from the correspondence: 'OK
Bculah, send 'em a photograph.' And, of course, if a photograph
had been requested, it was me that had to sign it and
send it off. By the third or fourth letter, however, Emma had
usually had enough flattery for one day, and I would hear the
unmistakable sound of her sliding down the leather back of the
settee, and a slight satisfied sigh before she put her head between
her paws and went to sleep.
There was one sad aspect of the letters, nevertheless, because
invariably they would ask, 'Is Emma still alive? How is she?'
It was fine then, and still is, being able to write back and say,
'She's full of beans.' But I know that one day I shall not be able
to do that; it's going to be heartbreaking to read letters with
those questions. One day perhaps I shall not be able to reply
at all. I don't know. I try not to think about it, but all the time
II3
I
I am conscious of how sad it is that animals do not live as long
as human beings.
The letters I liked best of all were the ones in which the writer
said that the book had not simply entertained them, but helped
them as well. I particularly liked one from a primary school
teacher who said that every morning at assembly she read out
a passage from Emma and I and never had she known the children
so quiet.
More seriously, I was most moved when a woman who had
undergone a really serious operation wrote to me: '. . . when I
came round from the operation I thought, I'm not going to be
miserable. But I can't get out of bed. What shall I do? Then I
thought about your book, so I looked out of the window and
counted all the different colours of all the leaves on the trees,
and that kept me occupied until I could get up and out of bed.'
I was so moved by that, someone who had gone through the
most traumatic experience being helped through it by what I
had written. It made me happy, too, because other people had