Sprout gave us collie-wobbles

IN EARLY 1994, my wife Hazel sped down the newly-laid M40, hurrying from the deepest Oxfordshire countryside back to Manor Farm, Hinton Ampner. In a box on the passenger seat, whimpering slightly, was a six-week-old collie puppy.

Tucked away in the Mazda”s tiny glovebox was a folder detailing the puppy”s incredibly illustrious pedigree: two large sheets of paper, liberally sprinkled with legends of the sheep dog-trialling world. Names like Dryden Joe, Wiston Cap and Bosworth Coon. Surely, this pup was guaranteed a glittering career at its new home.

Alas, no. Perhaps the first mistake was to call it Sprout. It seemed suitable; after all, it”s one syllable like all the best names for collies. And “Sprout” is perfect for a collie (get it?)

It changed to Astley Sprite for posh purposes like her registration certificate and the vet”s records, but she was always Sprout. The unorthodox name seemed to set the tone for an unorthodox life.

LEG END

The first thing she did was injure a back leg. We never worked out how, or even when it happened. It could have been an early collision with the vacuum cleaner or during a romp with our big flatcoat. But during one of the many trips to the vet that she made in later life, he pointed it out on the X-ray. By then, of course, carrying one leg that happened to be an inch shorter than the others seemed perfectly in character, and so went almost unnoticed.

Hazel decided that Sprout would be perfect for some serious training. She had had collies for years back home in County Down, and when the rest of us were making Airfix kits or playing with Action Men, she was expertly working the hills round Jerrettspass.

But this training plan failed for two reasons. First, Sprout turned out to be too wet. At the first sign of other people, Sprout would dissolve into a squeaking ball of fluff. Sometimes the dissolving seemed too literal, and a yellow puddle would appear if anyone paid her any attention. The second reason for the abandonment of training was the arrival of little Flindts.

Out, along with the Mazda sports car and pub trips at two minutes” notice, went any ambitions for Sprout to be a field trial champion, and in came her real role in life: family pet. She was perfect for it. Babies and toddlers could squeeze her, pull her ears, throw up on her, and she just loved it.

She thrived on the torrent of food that fell at mealtimes, becoming rounder and rounder. As the children grew, Sprout was thrilled to find someone to play ball with. Anthony would practise his tennis forehand until he could no longer lift his arm, and Sprout would still be there, chasing and fetching back a slobbery tennis ball.

At five, Sprout had her own family. She dropped her hostility to other dogs just long enough to allow Cap to mate with her, and then, typically unorthodox, refused to have anything to do with the ensuing pregnancy.

LITTER 

The birth of nine puppies was a traumatic Caesarean, and she almost had to be held down to allow them to suckle. As the litter grew, she ignored the pups altogether; it was Dinga, the Belgian Shepherd, who took over their upbringing. Luckily, the owners of these puppies report no after-effects.

Sprout was never meant to succeed as a farm dog. She was terrified of anything with an “oo” in it. If she heard shooting, or a Chinook flew over, or the moon came up, or a balloon came within five miles, she was off home. She devoured everything she could; perfect for clearing-up half-finished rats and mice kindly left by the cats. Not so handy when the vet had to remove half a maize cob, stuck firmly in the gut.

She never made it as a guard dog, whimpering pathetically and sticking her nose into the crotches of complete strangers; hopeless for seeing off white van men at five in the morning. But she was the ultimate and utterly adored family pet.

One Tuesday, recently, she couldn”t keep up on the morning walk. On Wednesday, she was being X-rayed under anaesthetic at the vets – again. At lunchtime, they rang to say there was liver tumour so large that it wouldn”t be fair allowing her to wake up.

In a heartbreaking and tearful ceremony on the Thursday, we buried Sprout the Hopeless Farm Dog, deep in the chalk in the orchard. She lies there with her collar, and, at the children”s insistence, a tennis ball; after all, they might not have them in doggie heaven.