John and I were having a discussion over dinner a few nights ago here at Struan Farm about our much loved, increasingly ancient dog, Clifford. We're at the point where we don't like leaving him on his own without one of us around, even if Mike's here to feed him.
He's 17 this year, which is rather hard to believe. He takes more naps, sleeps in the garage now, and doesn't chase rabbits and turkeys like he used to. Although he can smell eau de rabbit when they're around. And he manages to race to the workshop for breakfasts and dinners, still, as if he's starving. Lately he's been running out with me when I go to pick grapes, a fruit he loves along with nashi. He knows when John is about ready to turn on the BBQ by sheer instinct.
For some reason John and I got onto talking about other dogs in my past. Guffy was the only one of these that was my dog, the others were family dogs. John had never heard about Guffy before, didn't know what "Guffaw" meant.
I ended up bringing Guffy home from the dog pound in Middletown, Connecticut while I was spending my junior year at Wesleyan University. A roommate in the town house where I lived off campus wanted to adopt a dog, and I went with her to the pound. She did get a dog, Pookah. Guffy made the smart move of licking my hand, I suspect he knew a soft touch when he saw one. He left the pound with me, Cheryl and Pookah. That town house was never the same. Another flatmate, Bonnie, had a dog named Ginger.
Guffy knew I saved his life and was eternally grateful. When I returned home from school that year my parents inherited another family pet. I remember I used to get rides home to New Jersey from a lovely guy named Brian who lived in Wharton, I helped pay for his petrol. He had a beautiful vintage Mustang that was his pride and joy, and although he was a complete sweetheart to me he wasn't so sure about the prospect of my dog barfing in his beloved car. So I sat with Guffy with a big towel on my lap the entire way home. Once home Guffy slept on the floor of my room, and barked at anyone who dared to open that door when I was sleeping, even my father. Who laughed at this fierce little mutt, appreciating his loyalty.
Guffy was my protector until he died many years later. His formal name was "Guffaw," which means a loud and boisterous laugh. The word has Scottish origins. I'm not sure why John had never heard of it before, but I'm working on his vocabulary, obviously.
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