"The fact that the night before the table had been laid for breakfast bothered him not at all. He didn't mind that his tail rested in the milk jug and his paws on a toast plate..." I'm a wife, mother and grandmother. Married for 46 years to Robert, together we've three sons and a daughter, plus four grandsons (two are twins) and a little grandaughter. I live in a Staffordshire country village - very different from the city of Manchester, where I was born. Hobbies include being creative with graphics on our computer; writing articles - some of which have been published; crosswords; playing piano; reading and committee work with the Townswomen's Guild. Peter's story begins with a life changing incident, but he chose to inject a little wry humour into this tale.
Our daughter found this quivering bundle of scruffiness fastened to a farm gate in our village. A well-known tramp, moving on, had left him there. As the dog was never claimed at the police station, he was finally ours. Our daughter had to groom the shivering creature (he never did like bathtime) and her three delighted brothers decided on a name. He had a beautiful coat of curly, rich brown and gold hair.
Curly seemed the obvious title.Since puppyhood Curly had lived rough, sleeping every night above ground. So he preferred to sleep on top of our kitchen table. The fact that the night before the table had been laid for breakfast bothered him not at all. He didn't mind that his tail rested in the milk jug and his paws on a toast plate. We'd never had a dog in the family before so now we had to learn to live with Curly. He was affectionate and housetrained and revelled in all the lavish attention. But he had many strange habits: climbing garden trellis like a cat and jumping into school playtime next door. Children loved his sunny nature - they knew they could trust him in any of their games. Not everyone approved of him. He never understood why his watering the neighbours' best plants into extinction was so unpopular. To strangers he liked to give an impression of snarling viciousness. We liked it that way as he made us feel safe. He certainly proved his worth as a guard dog, barking fiercely one night and frightening off an intruder who had forced a window. He lived long enough to attend his young mistress's wedding in the village church and later see our first grandson, but by the end of his 17 years, he was deaf and blind and his legs were unsteady. His sense of smell was not diminished, he still knew where to find doggy treats provided by his friends. A few days after he died, one villager rang and asked what had happened to him as his usual dish of tidbits remained uneaten. After he'd gone, one of our broken-hearted sons said he would find us another puppy. Straight away. But we couldn't replace Curly. NO! He was far too special - and he'd trained the neighbours. | 
