farmdoc's blog post number 267

Wednesday 23 April 2003 was a red-letter day for me. That’s the day I became a dog owner. The owner of my first dog ever. Pete, a Maremma, named after my hero Pete Seeger, was a couple of months old by then. Because I don’t know his actual birthday, it’s nominally 1 January 2003. So he’s just turned 6-years-old. Since 23 April 2003 he’s been a delight to me and Sweetheart Vivienne, and he’s captivated literally everyone who’s met him. They often remark how friendly and playful he is, to which I reply ‘No – he’s a fierce guard dog’. He always barks when anything unusual happens, like an unfamiliar car or a falling tree. And sometimes he barks for no reason. At least none I know about. Petey boy’s an avid eater – he likes bones best, but he doesn’t mind bread. And corncobs. Whenever he sees me approaching with his dinner in a green plastic ice-cream container, he goes into his food dance – a frenetic jumping jig. At my friend Herbert’s suggestion, Pete spent a few years protecting hundreds of tree seedlings from wallaby and possum. Darling Meg once wrote him a postcard telling him he was ‘…doing the most noble job on the planet – protecting the trees’. So successful was he, those trees are now several metres tall. Other dogs do noble work too [1,2,3,4]. But I wouldn’t part with my mate Pete for all the tea in China.