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The adoration he holds for her becomes immediately evident as he spends two delightful pages describing her physical appeal in ponderous detail, from her tall, pointed ears that 'glow shell-pink as though incandescent,' right down to the black fur covering her back which, 'descending over her shoulders, fastens at her sternum, seeming to clip together with an ivory brooch.' Ackerley is not a confident owner and the way that he describes Tulip's everyday routines reveals as much about his own personality and attitudes as it does about the dog itself. It is heartbreaking to read on, as he laments his shame at not being able to fully understand what it is Tulip wants from him. He inexorably turns to his favoured Vet, 'Miss Canvey for aid, and is full of frothing praise after she has solved yet another niggling behavioural problem that he has been unable to get to the root of. He finds it hard to cope without Miss Canvey - "I'm not exceptional," she tells a downcast Ackerley before leaving for a new country practice. "You are to me," he replies with a sigh.
This helplessness, although endearing, contrasts sharply with other sections of the book where Ackerley and Tulip come across as a terrible twosome. This is most evident when he describes the problems he has with her 'mess'. Reluctant to train her to poo in the gutter for fear of her getting run down, he allows her to 'do her business' on the pavement, (it must be remembered that this is the early sixties and 'pooper scooping' was a long way from its conception.) This drags him into all sorts of altercations with shopkeepers, cyclists and pedestrians. During these confrontations, Ackerley shows another side of his character, one which has little patience with the human race.
Interestingly enough, the introduction to this new edition, by Elizabeth Marshall Thomas provides a great deal of insight into this dichotomy of character. Luckily, I have made it a habit always to read introductions at the END of books, that way the book does not suffer from pre-imposed actualities. This time, I was extremely glad of my habit because the impression I was left with was of a short piece of writing crammed with compressed beauty and touching tenderness. It was a surprise gift from Ackerley that the inevitable drawn-out death scene never materialised; instead he chose to leave us with a a finely tuned descriptive passage condensed from a thousand early morning walks on Putney Common. It is almost as if every thought and impression culled from these walks that spread across the years and seasons, has been squeezed into one short glorious, final chapter.
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