You see, in my family, there's a diary that's been filled in for more than seventy years. My Gran started it when she was nursing in India during World War II and dates of dances, qualifications, parties and proposals are all recorded. Yes, it would seem my Gran was proposed to quite frequently. Bet it was the uniform!
It records the date she met my Grandad, when she accepted his proposal (he must have been special) and all the other important dates in their life together.
When she died, my Mum took over the diary-writing duties. My first day at school, my exam results, my first time on TV, the birth of my son, everything's there.
Today, I got to write my first diary entry. My Mum, I hasten to add, is still well and walking her dogs but she wanted me to write this entry. And here's what I wrote on the page for 27th February...
"2013 - Storm, an 11 month old black Labrador Retriever, came home"
Because it seems that the diary records more than just births, marriages and hot dates in wartime. It's also full of dogs. Every four-legged arrival is noted as is, most touchingly, every departure. My Gran records the day in 1941 when she "laid Tiny to rest" and over the years, many more dog related moments are recorded, carefully and lovingly. Dogs, it seems, are an integral part of my family history, part of my DNA.
No wonder I feel complete now I've got a dog by my side.
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