told me how different I had made their lives by telling them
what it was like to see for the first time, and how they themselves
now saw things with more appreciation. Whenever people
told me this I always thought of the time I was coming
back from London on the train one evening. It had been a
brilliant summer day, and as the train sped north to Nottingham
there was the most incredible sunset: great rays of red
and gold through banks of slate-blue cloud as we reached the
Trent, with dazzling reflections in the water as if somehow the
sun were submerged in the river like a great molten blood
orange.
There were five others in the compartment with me, all
businessmen. Three were asleep, one was doing a crossword,
and the other was hidden by his Financial Times. I wanted to
get on my seat and shout at them: 'Look! Wake up! Can't you
see what's happening? Isn't it marvellous! Why don't you use
your eyes for something important? Something wonderful that
will never ever happen again exactly as it is now!' But I just sat
there, and the eyes of those asleep remained closed, while the
man doing the crossword gazed up momentarily but sightlessly
as he pondered a clue and the other man stayed hidden behind
II4
his paper, and by then ~~.e were slowing up through the Nottingham
shuntiiig yards and the sun finally vanished behind the
great black ~.archouse ~vhlch housed the British Waterways, a
minute before drawing into Midland Station.
So many people don't really see what is going on around
them. They take their gift of sight so much for granted. They
look at grass and nex,er think, that's wonderful grass. If it
changed colour overnight they would probably never notice.
I was glad the people had written to me and said that my
description of getting sight had given them new eyes as well.
Apart from the letters there were innumerable callers. Particularly
on Sundays: children on the doorstep, old ladies,
entire families saying, 'We're sorry to bother you, but we've
read your book. Could we see Emma do you think?' At least
Emma didn't bark automatically every time the doorbell went.
When we first moved to the surgery the doorbell sounded like
the telephone back at the bungalow, and the telephone either
bleeped on a direct line, or buzzed when a call was routed from
the surgery. At first, for good measure, Emma barked at all
three. But within a fortnight she had learnt the differences. Who
says you can't teach an old dog new tricks?
But the publication of Emma and I was having another effect.
We were now getting cheques for royalties and foreign rights,
and each one brought a little more hope that one day, very
much in the future but one day nevertheless, we might realize
our ambition of buying our own boarding cattery and kennels.
At first I had intended simply to buy a commercial cattery as
a going concern and to develop the kennels later-although had
it not been for Emma the priorities would have been reversed.
I didn't think it would have been fair on Emma to have other
dogs around. When Emma was out in the park, or nosing her
way over the fields above our house where Don particularly
liked to take her, she loved it when she met other dogs. But if
we had friends in who brought a dog with them, then Emma
went all peculiar. The expression on her face said: 'What's this!
Another dog in my house!' She didn't do anything, nor make
any sign of aggression; she was even polite to them, in a distant
sort of way, but she would not play with them however much
they woofed around her and lay doggo pleading: 'Oh do come
II ri
and play.' Emma always remained aloof, and the look on her
face also meant when she glanced up at us: 'I don't mind
whether you have babies, or cats, or as many people as you
like-but, please, not other dogs in here. Please.' So that is
why, although the desire to run a kennels of my own dated
back to the years when I was a girl, unable to see, getting
weekend jobs at local dog establishments round Nottingham,
I originally gave a greater priority to buying a commercial
cattery.
So for a long time the idea of, ultimately, owning kennels was
something even more remote than the cattery-and of course
for the offspring of my own cats. But gradually Don and I came
round to the view that eventually, when we had the money,
Emma would probably not mind if she remained the centre of
attention in the house and there were dogs boarded in whatever
new establishment we could buy. At the same time it never
entered my head-or Don's for that matter-to have another
dog in the house. We both worshipped Emma, and any permanent
intrusion would seem such an affront to her. Or so we
thought.
But one evening Don was sitting watching television and I
was reading my favourite part of the local newspaper-not the
news columns which are invariably miserable and depressing,
but the 'For Sale' section. I lapped up every detail of 'Garden
Sheds œ2o o.n.o.' or 'Ford Cortina. As new', items that did not
remotely concern me in my day to day existence, but which on
the closely-printed page somehow acquired a magical attraction
that compelled me to read about them. I got to the 'Dogs'
column. I always read the 'Dogs' column, not particularly
because I wanted another dog, but I was very interested to
know about the dogs for sale, what breed they were and how
much owners were charging. Suddenly something seemed to leap
out of the page towards me. It was something I had never seen
advertised before. I couldn't believe it. 'Chocolate-coloured
Labrador,' it said. 'One year old.' I read it again. Sure enough,
my eyes had not deceived me. 'Chocolate-coloured Labrador.'
How about that? I thought. I suppose I had really come to
think that Emma was the only chocolate-coloured Labrador in
II6
the whole world. They were so unusual that I had never seen
another, let alone read an ad. for one, and I was resigned to
people coming up to me and saying, 'Isn't she lovely! What
breed is she?'
'Don,' I said, 'read that advert.' I thrust the paper under his
nose.
'Mm, what advert?' he said, not taking his eyes off the screen.
'Look, this advert. Read it. What does it say?'
He took the paper from me and looked rather blankly at the
page of ads.
'What do you mean, "What does it say"? Which one?'
I pointed it out.
'Read it to me,' I said.
He was still rather puzzled, but looked intently at the page.
'Chocolate-coloured Labrador. . .' he began, but by the time
he had got that far he was alive with interest and astonishment.
'One year old.'
He handed the paper back to me.
'Incredible,' he said.
'Yes isn't it?' There was a pause, and in the silence I thi
nk
our two minds were racing along the same lines. But it was Don
who beat me to expressing what we were thinking:
'I wonder what she looks like?' he said.
'Yes, so do I.' I suppose it never occurred to either of us,
having lived with Emma so long, that 'she' might possibly have
been 'he'. There was a further pause.
'Do you think it's worth ringing them?' I said.
'Well,' said Don, a little uncertain, 'you could ask them what
she's like.'
'Mm. I'm really intrigued. I just wonder how like Emma
she is.'
'I wonder,' said Don. 'You can't do any harm just giving
them a ring.'
I picked up the phone. Then, when halfway through dialling
the number given in the paper, a thought struck me. I put the
phone down again.
'What's the matter?' said Don.
'I've just thought. What do I say? It sounds a bit daft,
really . . . "Hello Mrs Whatever, I've rung about your
II7
cliocolate-coloured Labrador ... I don't want to make an offer
for her, but I just want to know what she's like because we've
got one as well . . ." She'll think we're barmy.'
Don burst out laughing.
'Go on,' he said, 'ring up and ask. They won't mind. We
could fix up to go and see her.' And he added: 'You never know,
we might like her.'
'Oh,' I said, 'I don't know about that.' It somehow seemed
terribly disloyal, what we were doing. Emma was curled up,
all oblivious, asleep in her usual place on the settee, dreaming
with an occasional little sound and a twitch of her forepaw. I
looked at her. There was really only one chocolate-coloured
Labrador in the world.
'I don't know,' I said again, and gave a sigh. 'I don't think
Emma would like it. And I think it would be a bit unfair to go
along and see the dog without any intention of buying.'
Don thought for a moment. Finally he said: 'Well, don't you
think Emma likes other dogs?'
'Oh, of course she does. But whether she would like another
one living here's a different thing.'
Somehow, without discussing it, we seemed to have got to
the possibility that we might-just might-consider buying the
dog, and that seemed even more underhand. I put the idea out
of my head.
'Well,' said Don, 'they won't mind you ringing up to inquire.
Ring them up and ask what kind of a price they're thinking of,
and then see where we go from there.'
'All right,' I said. It was curiosity really that got the better of
me. I so much wanted to see this other chocolate-coloured
Labrador. But I was quite determined that we would not buy
her.
I picked up the phone again. A woman answered. Yes, the
voice said, she (it was a 'she') was still for sale. 'Why do you
want to sell her?' I asked. 'I'm afraid I've got too many dogs,'
was the answer, 'and I've just had another litter of ten. They
all need hand-feeding and I haven't time to cope with the
others properly so I thought the best thing was to try and find
them good homes.'
'I understand. I wonder would it be possible for us to come
II8
an have a look? I'm not sure whether we want another dog,
and I'd really quite like to bring our dog to see her.'
This all came out with a bit of a rush, and judging by the
silence at the other end, I felt the woman was thinking I was
slightly deranged.
But, rather uncertainly, she agreed and we arranged to go
the following day. I put the phone down. Don was back watching
his programme and I didn't say anything to him. Thoughts
raced through my head. I sat on the settee beside Emma.
Another dog. Another chocolate-coloured Labrador. Emma
shifted in her sleep. I wonder if she'll look at all like Emma?
I wonder if she has the same sort of temperament? No, not
possibly. Never another like Emma. What would Emma think
if we brought another dog home? Like bringing Kerensa home
... another child, another baby. Emma certainly had not been
too keen on Kerensa to begin with, but then had accepted
her as a person. Another dog would be worse. Or would it be
better? I decided not to worry about it. We would just go and
see her.
So the next day, Don, Emma and I, and, of course, Kerensa,
set out to have a look at this rarity, another chocolate-coloured
Labrador. When the breeder answered the door and saw Emma
I think she had a shock.
'Oh, I had no idea you'd got a chocolate Labrador already...'
'Yes, but we've never seen another, and we would very much
like to see yours ... I don't know whether we want to buy
another dog.' (I felt I had to be quite honest.) 'It all depends on
Emma, and what she thinks . . .'
The breeder was sympathetic. She smiled.
'I understand. Do come in.'
'Does she like other dogs?' I asked.
'Yes, she loves other dogs.'
'And what about children?'
'Yes, she likes children. In fact, altogether, she's really a
very friendly dog . . . anyway sit down and I'll go and fetch
her.'
We all sat down. I was feeling apprehensive, I don't know
why. What would this dog be like? Was I going to be disappointed?
What did I expect? To be honest I hardly knew.
iig
But before I had more than a few seconds to think, the door
opened and in bounded a shiny, young, tail-wagging chocolate
Labrador. In an instant my mind went back years: to the GuideDog
Training Centre at Leamington Spa, sitting on the edge
of my bed, the door open, waiting. My eyes had not seen anything,
but my mind had preserved every detail of that moment
as clearly as if it had happened only a second before. Sitting,
waiting, then hearing footsteps approaching down the corridor
outside, and hearing an even more magic sound keeping pace
with them ... the click and unmistakable patter of paws ...
Then I heard the trainer's voice: 'Here we are, Sheila ...
here's your dog. She's called Emma, and she's a chocolatecoloured
Labrador. . .'
And I had heard a tail swishing the air and the trainer leaving,
closing the door behind him. 'Emma,' I had called, and
immediately had been aware of a bounding in the room and
being nearly bowled off the bed, and then being licked all over.
'Hello, Emma,' I had said, 'hello.' And, as I felt a cold nose
pushing into my hands, I remember thinking that I couldn't
believe it. It was a dream. This was Emma, and she liked me,
and I had felt like dancing round the room.
And now, in this room, I could see something of what it must
have been like. And yet at the same time I knew it was just an
approximation, because the moment that Emma came into my
life was unique and nothing would ever match it.
However, in bounded Buttons, full of glee, full of excitement,
vigour and life, leaping immediately up to Emma and making a
big fuss of her before she even noticed that Emma belonged to
other human beings. When she had go
t over the excitement of
meeting Emma, she came over to us, tail going sixty to the
dozen, brown nose glistening, ears bouncing up and down, coat
so glossy and with all those different shades of colours that
Emma also had. I took her in at a glance and knew immediately
that she was not completely like Emma. She was different: she
was herself; yet alilte also, merely because of the fact she was
chocolate-coloured. I have to be honest and say that from the
moment she came in, I fell in love with Buttons and it did not
diminish one speck my love for Emma.
'Can I take them into the garden?' I asked. 'I want to see if
I20
she will play with Emma, and if Emma will want to play with
her.'
'Yes, of course.'
Emma was then thirteen years old and obviously she had
begun to slow down, but it was not until we met Buttons that
I realized how much. It is strange how you grow old with your
dog, and you expect them to do only what an older dog will do.
Emma was beginning to plod a little along the pavements, to
make her strolls across the park more leisurely, and to stop and
sniff a little more before moving on to the next bush or tree.
In the garden we let both the dogs off the lead. Buttons
danced about and immediately did the usual Labrador thing:
bottom and tail in the air, nose and front paws along the ground,
tail gently wagging, making those little snorting and snuffling
noises, the appeal of all these friendliest of all creatures: 'Come
and play with me. Oh do come and play.'
Emma's response was to behave a little like a shocked
Victorian lady who has had an improper suggestion made to
her on a park bench, her expression almost shrouded in lace
frills and disapproval: 'If you think I'm simply an ordinary dog,
you're very, very much mistaken.'
Then, all at once, the disdain and haughtiness vanished. She
changed utterly. Instincts and long-forgotten memories stirred.
It was as if, in a second, she shed years and years. She dashed
over to Buttons and then they took ofF, chasing round and
round, together, in among the flower beds, skidding over the
lawn, disappearing round a far hedge and reappearing time
and time again, until they both came to a stop in front of us and,