Issue 51 - The things my dog eats that she's not supposed to
APRIL 2023
Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Joleeeeeeeene
One December weekend a few winters ago, I had two friends coming to stay, and had done a little cooking and food shopping in advance of their arrival. Knowing that the Virgin Pendelino quite often smells of the toilet on board and is absolutely always late, I had made an effort to make the journey from London worthwhile for them. A spiced vegetable soup, some wax papered local cheeses, a loaf of very good bread, that sort of thing. My pièce de résistance was thirty six homemade double layered biscuits, sandwiched with that summer’s raspberry jam and a buttery, vanilla-flecked cream. I had gone to the trouble of stamping out a shape from each round - be it a tiny heart or a perfect straight sided star, so you could see the glossy ruby jam shining through.
My friends arrived, having picniced on the train. But when they caught wind of the biscuits, being only mere mortals, they immediately wanted to try one. We took a shortbread each - there was that satisfying crunch, the sharpness of the jam, the rich vanilla cream. It was a dream in biscuit form.
At some point, one of us suggested the pub. We faffed finding lipsticks and wallets and keys, put radio four on for the dog, pulled on coats and gloves, and, eventually, left. What we didn’t realise as we bustled out, was that one of us (I won’t name names*) had left the biscuit tin on the side without the lid.
We went for one cocktail. Which might have turned into three or four, I don’t have exact numbers. When we returned, as is usually the case, the dog got up from her bed to greet us, but she seemed a little lethargic. And as I walked towards her for a customary beard scratch, the full atrocity of events unveiled themselves.
To understand what had happened, you need one vital piece of information, which I myself found out the night in question.
My dog Jolene likes butter, very much. But she does not care for jam, in fact, she does not care for jam at all. Consequently, the thirty three (actually sixty six if we’re counting individual layers) biscuits themselves had disappeared entirely, leaving only a few hansel and gretel crumbs. But the jam. The jam had been smeared artfully over my beautiful quarry tile floor as far as the eye could see. There was a little buttercream left too, but presumably only because even a 32kg labradoodle gets full at some point.
Many of my favourite Jolene stories centre around food. There was the time she ate a full length lobster antenna, since, I believe, it had been smothered in butter alongside chips one bank holiday lunch time. But several hours later, my friend and I were left with the problem of helping her pass it through her body, as she decided was necessary just as we got to the local high street. Everyone I had ever slept with seemed to walk past as she strained, and we felt equal parts amused and sympathetic.
There was the time she ate twelve tea time buns that had only very recently come out of the oven, and then studiously avoided my eye as I asked her where they’d gone, noticing as I did so the amount of demerara sugar adorning her beard, fresh as the morning dew. And there was the time I was making dahl, four plates neatly lined up on my worn kitchen counter, topped with dollops of yoghurt and mango chutney, patiently awaiting a poached egg each. I did two first - whites set, golden yolks deliciously wobbly, and as I turned to get the next couple from the pan, the first pair had miraculously vanished of their own accord. Jolene sat underneath, nonchalantly licking her entire face with an orange tongue.
After eating, swimming is probably Jolene’s favourite past-time. One weekend last summer, some friends and I went camping. It was wonderfully hot, the sun high in the sky. The pints were cold, the sand soft and glistening on the beach. We spent nearly two full days in and out of the sea, eating fish and chips and trying to pretend we liked camping more than we did. On the Monday morning, I awoke to Jolene who looked desperately sad. Her always proudly-high tail was limp and hung as though broken. We headed to the vets, who told me that she had simply done way too much tail wagging, and we would need to discourage her from using it for the next few days. A dog who wags her tail too much. What an affliction.
Later the same summer, I had gone to find a hidden lake in the mountains that a few locals had told me about. There were about a dozen people dipping, sunbathing on jagged rocks, or drinking in the view like a thirst-quenching gin and tonic. Toddlers were playing picturesquely. The entrance to the water was steep and slippery, and Jolene slid in after me without much trouble, desperate as she was to join the fun. Her curly pig tail stuck out of the water like a submarine periscope, and she swam with joy in her beautiful eyes. It was however, getting out that proved rather trickier. She was all legs and legs, and made some seven attempts before finally succeeding, only with some help from me, and all the grace of a reversing dumptruck without tyres (what an episode that was.) Everyone, and I mean everyone, burst into a round of applause.
Now listen. I don’t want to be the type of person who writes ‘dog mum’ on their instagram, or buys a ‘pupcake’, anymore than you do. But if I’m horribly honest with both of us, I'm really not that far off either.
This week Jolene turns four. And in those four years she has made every single day better, even if it means there are inevitably less biscuits in them. With her sugary beard and her curly tail, she is a solace and a comfort and an absolute joy. In all honesty we do have rather different interests - she loves sheep, sniffing human bottoms, empty yoghurt pots and the odd sausage. But luckily we overlap on parmesan, swimming, nights on the sofa and Lake District pubs, so there’s plenty in common really.
Jolene - your beauty really is beyond compare. Happy birthday you spectacular creature.
*Almost definitely it was me.
Good Things to click on
I have made a few more Jolene lino prints (see above) which are now for sale
500 ways to sign off a letter from an ai
I am feeding up my mother dough ready to try this hands off recipe which makes some bold claims
An entertaining interview with the writer Zoe Williams that I really enjoyed
Last month, I was delighted to be nominated for the Foreword interview by the brilliant printmaker Meg Fatharly. I actually forgot many of my answers until I re-read them
An extract from Stephen King's 'On Writing', which I read last month:
“I distrust plot for two reasons: first, because our lives are largely plotless, even when you add in all our reasonable precautions and careful planning; and second, because I believe plotting and the spontaneity of real creation aren’t compatible. It’s best that I be as clear about this as I can—I want you to understand that my basic belief about the making of stories is that they pretty much make themselves. The job of the writer is to give them a place to grow (and to transcribe them, of course).''