Digital Story Transcript
I have two dogs… well, that’s not strictly accurate. I have legal and moral ownership of two dogs, but one of them is definitely my husband’s dog and the other one is mine. Taffy is a Welsh (Welsh, mind you) Springer Spaniel, and Brock, my little baby Brock is an English Cocker Spaniel. Actually he was born in New Tredegar and his father was American so perhaps the English connection is a bit thin by now. And if you’re wondering why he’s called Brock, well he reminded me of a badger and we were watching Derek Brockway the weatherman.
Anyway, we had Brock when I was recovering from a debilitating illness. He was a bit of an impulse act, but unlike new shoes or a bag he really was a good idea. Our other dog Taffy is handsome and quite well-behaved, but he isn’t what you’d call “affectionate”. If you try and stroke him he will get up and walk away. He’s a bit of a misery, a bit like his true owner. He really doesn’t like to play and as for cute doggy clothes, forget it.
Whereas Brock, well, when I say he’s “my baby” I am not exaggerating. He loves nothing more than a cwtch and I’m sure it has been proved that cuddles are therapeutic. Now I’m not going to claim he produced a magic cure, but I am sure caring for him helped me in my recovery. I suddenly had something else to care and worry about rather than focussing on being ill all the time. And how could you look at that face and not feel like smiling? Even if he is a bit obsessed by food, but then they do say dogs become like their owners… or is it the other way around?