Old tricks for a young dog

WE THOUGHT hard before getting a new puppy. Having owned Labradors for 20-odd years, we knew all too well what a tie a dog is. A cat you can leave to its own devices for a day or two; a dog cannot be left for more than a few hours.

After the demise of Zephyr, our last old-stager, the first dog-free months seemed a delightful liberation; but gradually we began to feel that an element was missing from our lives, and when a friend announced that her bitch was pregnant, our fate was sealed. The mother-to-be, a nice-looking pedigree black Labrador of medium build called Madhaid (Gaelic for "dog", pronounced "Maddy"), had never been trained as a gun dog, but we knew that she had a generous temperament. The father lives in Warwickshire, and during the pregnancy I took the trouble to drive up and see him, to make sure he was not one of those huge, bulky dogs that are bred more for show than for work.

Going up the Fosse Way, I kept thinking of Alan, a gamekeeper of my acquaintance, who once memorably condemned a show-bred Labrador that he saw on a television clip of Cruft's. "Bloody old gurl come on," he grunted. "Dog spruced up to buggery. You fire one shot, that bugger'd be gorn. Wouldn't see him no more for a week. Bloody useless."

I need not have worried. Man of War was beautifully built, strong, fast and agile, full of zip yet under perfect control. I returned reassured, and confirmed that I was in the market for a black bitch.

The litter arrived on 28 February: one yellow, six black. When they were a month old I went along and, having spent a few minutes watching them stagger about, picked one of the little bitches, which we marked with a dab of nail varnish on her claws. When she was two months old I returned to take her away; but at the last moment I treacherously changed my mind. One of her sisters, not yet bespoke, seemed even more attractive, and quicker in her reactions, so I took her instead.

Thus we acquired Jemima, with her big, soft, puddleduck paws, and within hours were forcibly reminded of the astonishing destructive power of a puppy. Forget the odd puddle or mess; that can easily be cleared up. Infinitely more damaging is her compulsion to gnash everything on which she can close her jaws.

Hide chews from the pet shop detain her for an hour or so, as do rubber balls that squeak like rabbits in their death-throes. Much more satisfying, however, are other objects. Plastic flower pots make a gratifying racket when hustled across flagstones. Old training shoes are tough enough to offer prolonged resistance; the pine legs of the kitchen table, on the other hand, are soft enough to yield satisfying chips and shavings, and every unsupervised session leaves them noticeably thinner.

I can forgive Jemima all this because she is irresistibly attractive: we have put in many hours getting to know each other, and my reward is that she follows me everywhere, going to sleep - for preference - on my feet while I am working. Besides, I detect in her the makings of a splendid gun dog.

I take it as a sign of intelligence that she likes to grapple with two different objects at once: to kill a plastic bottle and a knotted pair of old socks simultaneously is evidently more of a challenge than single combat with either. I rejoice in the speed with which she retrieves any portable object, and in the way she uses her nose, her chin furrowing the grass as she follows early-morning scents along the hedgerows.

At not quite four months, she has many hard lessons still to learn: that the cats have as much right to be indoors as she does, that chickens and alpacas are not for chasing, that sheep droppings are not on her menu, and that deep mining operations are not permitted in the vegetable plot. She recognises her name, but so far the only skills she has acquired are those of coming to the whistle and sitting when told. More complicated accomplishments must wait a few more months - and then I face the agonising question: should I train her myself, or send her away to a professional? Sixteen weeks' board and tuition would cost at least pounds 800, and during that time I would not be allowed to visit her. She might return performing brilliantly but having more or less forgotten me.

Meanwhile, I can only marvel at the power of such a small animal to provoke innovation and expenditure. Within hours of her arrival I had to build several sets of wooden shuttering, to blank off electric cables and prevent them being eaten. Outside, I blocked off the steps leading up from the terrace, to make a temporary pen - only for Jemima to jump out anyway.

She herself cost pounds 300, her compulsory inoculations more than pounds 50, a sag- bag pounds 35. I spent pounds 20 on reinforcing the farmyard gate with netting - whereupon she jumped straight through the bars above the barrier.

Yet she is about to provoke a far greater extravagance than any of these. The flagstones of our ancient kitchen are cracked and pitted, and lie directly on the earth with gaps between them, so they are hopelessly unhygienic, especially when under nightly bombardment. For this reason, the puppy has provoked us into ordering an entire new kitchen, floor and all, for which the bill will certainly reach high into four figures.