Mitzi. She had to be called Mitzi. She had the look of an eager young girl. There was something 19th century about her - she could have been a red cheeked Viennese lass who had recently arrived in the city from the provinces to work in a pastry shop on the something or other Strasse, writes Eileen Battersby
Pretty but robust, broad-shouldered and given to violent blushes, she would not become one of those tubercular seamstresses of ethereal, doomed beauty.
Hardly the stuff of a tragic heroine, no man would lose his mind over her. Although determinedly anti-intellectual, she had a winning way about her, still does. Charming, exasperating, large-eyed and affectionate, she would search your face, making you feel responsible for her. She tried hard, so very hard.
This eagerness to please was her biggest problem. If there was something to fall over, she would find it and take a tumble, head over heels into a plant or most memorably, the china cabinet in the hall.
Admittedly Mitzi, this female disaster area is a Springer Spaniel. Very strong, with a tendency to give a jaunty hop every three or four strides. Her graceful name has done little to change her demeanour. Mitzi's greetings are of the head butt variety.
We had met in a stable yard, owned by a woman aware we favoured the neglected, mud-covered puppy who wandered about with a headless pink teddy in her mouth. "Do you like the dog?" she had asked, "I don't want her. I'm going to have her killed."
Well, when a dog's fate is put in such blunt terms, it is difficult to walk away. I reckoned, we could clean her up, do something about her tattered appearance. In short, civilise her. "It should be easy", I said to myself, "the other dogs are calm enough to attend the smartest dinner party."
She came home in an otherwise empty horse box. She had to, she was very smelly. The first time she was on a leash, she tried to walk backwards, stomach to the ground, in a kind of crawl, all the while exuding gratitude. Her first meal resulted in her falling into the dish before crashing into the stove.
Quickly she gathered herself, hurried over to me for approval, caught the table cloth and with it, several pieces of pottery not forgetting, a large vase of dark purple tulips.
Months passed, then a year. Mitzi was enjoying herself. The rest of us, including the other dogs, remaining cautious, always alert to a potential Mitzi disaster. 'Watch those flowers. Steady that chair. Get that basket of eggs off the counter. Save the bread. Move the clean laundry, oops - too late."
How about the day last summer in Connemara when I took the dogs down to the beach for a run. They raced in precision formation across the sand to the sea. All except Mitzi who was so happy she had already run under me on the road, causing me to slip. Twisting in mid-air to avoid landing on my mouth, or rather my teeth, I fell on my arm, breaking it in three places. She was contrite, I was in agony.
There are many such episodes. But the other day, I realised Mitzi had finally matured. Sitting quietly on the bathroom floor, demure as a debutante waiting to be asked to dance, she was a study in patience. I put my book aside and smiled at her.
"You've come a long way, Mitzi, you're a good girl." Mistake. She always responds to an affectionate tone with explosive love. She jumped to her feet and leapt into the bath, directly on top of me.
Water surged over the edge of the bath and on to the floor. My 101 Dalmatian bubble bath oozed all over the place. Yes that's right, I like Dalmatian bubble bath. I struggled, I guess it was a bit like wrestling an alligator. Down under the bubbles we grappled. My head hit the bottom of the bath. Mitzi barked.
Whacked in the eye by a big, heavy paw, I couldn't get my balance. This large frightened dog was sitting on me, most of her weight lodged against my throat.
Hope returned to her eyes. She presented me with a grey soggy mass of something soft and gooey already in a state of advanced decomposition. It was my book.
On cue the clean, dry towels had fallen into the bath. I hauled myself upright. Mitzi slipped, her support - me - having moved, she drew on her previously dormant ancient bird dog instinct.
By now I was out of the bath. Festooned with lurid scratch marks I could volunteer for any aboriginal type ceremony that required a human body covered in weird decorations.
Despite the confusion, I rallied and quickly snatched my 101 Dalmatian bubble bath container to safety. It is in the shape of Pongo, the father dog, complete with a red collar. I also have a 101 Dalmatian toothbrush. But never mind.
Back to the bubble bath container - I knew if I left it on the side of the bath, Mitzi would eventually find it and chew Pongo's head off. Remember the headless pink teddy? The bathroom floor was awash with bubbles and water. Meanwhile the sodden pulp of the ruined book had sunk to the floor of the bath. Mitzi was having fun. She obviously liked the bath and was busily eating the remaining bubbles.
Some of the more gouge-like of my multiple scratches had begun to bleed. All I had wanted was a quiet bath. The two cats who had witnessed the drama from the window sill had gone back to sleep. Mitzi splashed on. I limped away. Showers are safer.