A childhood memoir of life before polio, and immediately after, and my magical childhood adventures in and out of a wheelchair
Jason
Jason and Shadow 
Jason holds up the swimming at the Regatta
Over the years we’ve had seven cats and two dogs. The two dogs, Shadow, a cross Border collie who arrived in a cheese crate by train which stunk the restaurant out. And Jason, a St Bernard, whose gentleness and patience rivalled the saint himself. One day he rifled a crate of fresh rock salmon; long, pink pieces of fish, like thick spaghetti, drooping from his mouth: the fish that all Londoners were addicted to. Other names for this sweet, salmon-tasting fish were Gurnet, Rock Eel and Huss. There were other names but I forget. Jason weighed in at 11 stone. He once held up Herne Bay regatta's boats because they couldn`t get him out of the water. He fell down the cliffs at Reculver and needed the coast guard to haul him to freedom. He`d take little children for rides on his back, they basking in his gentleness. The Memorial Park pond was his favourite. No matter how we tried we could not get him out of it. (Another thing that took a lot of gentle persuasion was the back of my car whilst we lived in a rented house in Spencer Road after my mother's divorce. He adored the back of my little three-wheeled Reliant, which I purchased in my late teens.)
The average life of a St Bernard was 8 years. He lived for exactly that. When mother`s marriage ended in divorce we moved to a council house in Gilchrist Avenue, Greenhill. One day I opened the front door and, as usual, Jason was the obstacle behind the door. Unless he was asleep the sound of the key in the lock was enough for him to haul his huge bulk to his feet. This time the sleep was forever. He was so huge that our next door neighbour, Eric, who was an ex-grave digger, dug a grave for him. My mother broke her heart. I was in my bedroom when she stared down at his wonderful body from our upstairs window (we had temporally hauled him on a blanket out to our back garden). She howled in grief for this gentle giant: "You were my only friend," she wept, "now I’ve lost even you!" I cried in my bed at the sound of her, wept too for the dog who was so afraid of thunder that he would hide his head under the bed, or stick his head in the pantry for comfort as I had when I built my house of bricks all those years ago.
Death is no finality only a separation. Jason and Shadow came back on many occasions, wagging their tails, as only dogs know how, like propellers!
[previous] [contents] [next]
[Return to Home Page]
