We always had animals when I was a child. Apart from the pigs and geese in the pen at the bottom of the garden, which were followed by the hens we kept for many years, there was always at least one cat in the house and, mostly, a dog.
I first remember a little brown terrier called Nipper who, sadly, died of distemper and was followed by a beautiful collie we called Laddie. He had been handed in at Church police station as a stray, was obviously a trained sheep dog and was too much for my mother to handle so was given away to a local farmer after 2 months. Then we got Wendy, my black Cocker Spaniel, bought for me for Christmas when I was 6 years old and my faithful companion for the next 12 years. A succession of cats reigned all the while, few of them surviving to great age due to the perils of living on a busy road, but all much loved.
We only ever had one bird. It was a yellow canary and we called it Billy. It lived in a cage by the window in the living room and it didn't do much. I was about 7 at the time and not very au fait with birds so I tried to teach it to talk until I was told that canaries don't talk, they sing, except Billy didn't. All Billy did was flutter about a bit and make the odd whistling noise. We bought Billy a mirror in the hope that the sight of himself might prompt him to burst into song but it didn't.
In those days school dinner break was an hour and a half, noon to 1.30, and I used to go home for lunch. I would run at full pelt along Moscow Mill St (from St Mary's School) and down Union Rd/Market St to get the 9 or the 46 Blackburn bus to West End and I'd be home by 12.20. Well, this particular day, I arrived home and mum was just putting my lunch on the table. It must have been a Tuesday because it was meat and potato hash with a crust; menus were pretty inflexible.
I turned round to give Billy a whistle but the cage wasn't there. When I asked my mother where Billy was she shook her head, sadly, and told me he was in the front sitting room but he'd gone to that Great Nest in the Sky. I went to look and there he was, on the bottom of his cage with his little claws turned up. No one knew why it had happened, he just fell off his perch, literally.
It seemed quite fitting to have a solemn funeral for Billy. It wasn't that I'd liked him that much, certainly not as much as any cat or dog, but he was small enough to fit in one of the boxes dad used to send spectacle frames in the post so it seemed appropriate.
Big Bro 2, who was 14, helped me to line a glasses box with cotton wool and dig a hole in the garden. I even invited other kids to the ceremony - and 3 actually came. We walked in procession out of my kitchen door, me carrying the box and a Palm Sunday cross that had been lying around, and reverentially laid Billy to rest in the hole by the edge of the back lawn.
There was never another bird in our house. There were rabbits, not in the house, and a couple of hamsters and, later, a tank full of tropical fish. There was even a hen, about 10 years later, that thought BB 2 was its mum (he was there when it hatched) and used to sit on his shoulder but she only came in when BB 2 brought her in for a visit. There was never another funeral, either.
I first remember a little brown terrier called Nipper who, sadly, died of distemper and was followed by a beautiful collie we called Laddie. He had been handed in at Church police station as a stray, was obviously a trained sheep dog and was too much for my mother to handle so was given away to a local farmer after 2 months. Then we got Wendy, my black Cocker Spaniel, bought for me for Christmas when I was 6 years old and my faithful companion for the next 12 years. A succession of cats reigned all the while, few of them surviving to great age due to the perils of living on a busy road, but all much loved.
We only ever had one bird. It was a yellow canary and we called it Billy. It lived in a cage by the window in the living room and it didn't do much. I was about 7 at the time and not very au fait with birds so I tried to teach it to talk until I was told that canaries don't talk, they sing, except Billy didn't. All Billy did was flutter about a bit and make the odd whistling noise. We bought Billy a mirror in the hope that the sight of himself might prompt him to burst into song but it didn't.
In those days school dinner break was an hour and a half, noon to 1.30, and I used to go home for lunch. I would run at full pelt along Moscow Mill St (from St Mary's School) and down Union Rd/Market St to get the 9 or the 46 Blackburn bus to West End and I'd be home by 12.20. Well, this particular day, I arrived home and mum was just putting my lunch on the table. It must have been a Tuesday because it was meat and potato hash with a crust; menus were pretty inflexible.
I turned round to give Billy a whistle but the cage wasn't there. When I asked my mother where Billy was she shook her head, sadly, and told me he was in the front sitting room but he'd gone to that Great Nest in the Sky. I went to look and there he was, on the bottom of his cage with his little claws turned up. No one knew why it had happened, he just fell off his perch, literally.
It seemed quite fitting to have a solemn funeral for Billy. It wasn't that I'd liked him that much, certainly not as much as any cat or dog, but he was small enough to fit in one of the boxes dad used to send spectacle frames in the post so it seemed appropriate.
Big Bro 2, who was 14, helped me to line a glasses box with cotton wool and dig a hole in the garden. I even invited other kids to the ceremony - and 3 actually came. We walked in procession out of my kitchen door, me carrying the box and a Palm Sunday cross that had been lying around, and reverentially laid Billy to rest in the hole by the edge of the back lawn.
There was never another bird in our house. There were rabbits, not in the house, and a couple of hamsters and, later, a tank full of tropical fish. There was even a hen, about 10 years later, that thought BB 2 was its mum (he was there when it hatched) and used to sit on his shoulder but she only came in when BB 2 brought her in for a visit. There was never another funeral, either.