emma vip Sheila Hocken

by Emma V. I. P. (Lit)

  admit, when I look at the show world as a whole, I realize how

  totally different it is, and appreciate that someone going to a

  cat show for the first time might find it very odd.

  Each cat is penned with his or her own white blanket, and a

  white feeding bowl. Every cat must have identical equipment,

  and the owners are not allowed into the hall while the cats are

  being judged: so everything is completely fair. But the sort of

  conversation that goes on would really strike someone not used

  to cat shows as rather strange. At lunch-time we all pile back

  into the hall after the judging to look hopefully for those big

  rosettes that mean First. And that, these days, is very nice for

  me: to be able to see the rosettes. I never could when I started

  showing. I would get a friend to lead me up to the pen where

  my cat was and I would feel round in the hope of a rosette. I

  would say, 'Don't tell me. Don't tell me if there's anything on

  the pen. Let me feel for it.'

  These days I can go and look-and, of course, get the disappointment

  that much sooner if there is no rosette. Yet,

  although we have had our disappointments, the hall and livingroom

  bear witness to the success of the cats, for there are scores

  of rosettes all round the walls from all over the country. But one

  rosette, a green and gold one, has pride of place, and it is the

  only one that was not earned by one of the Siamese. It is

  Emma's rosette, and every time I see it I still get a glow of

  tremendous pride for her. It is a Cruft's rosette earned as a

  Personality Dog of the Year in 1978, and you cannot be anything

  other than a canine V.I.P. to gain this award, the highlight

  of the show on its final day.

  When the invitation to take part arrived from Cruft's I was

  thrilled beyond belief. But as the day approached I became

  obsessed with the idea that Emma had to do herself justice in

  front of the crowds-and all the other dogs, of course, champions

  included. It was her due, I thought, that she would be

  not only a personality dog, but the star of the parade.

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  'What can I do to make her look really nice?' I asked Don.

  'She always looks nice,' he said.

  'Do you think she ought to have a bath?'

  'Don't mention that word,' he said quickly. But not quickly

  enough. Emma's cars had twitched at an unpopular sound and

  she took herself off into the kitchen with a very quizzical

  expression on her face.

  'Oh, I forgot!' I said. 'Well, what I'll do is to pretend that

  I'm going to have a bath. I'll go upstairs and start getting all my

  clothes into the bathroom like I always do, and run the water

  and sing.'

  'That'll put her off,' he said with a grin.

  'No, no, you know what I mean-make her think it's me

  that's getting into the bath, not her. She always comes and sits

  in the bathroom with me.'

  :I bet it doesn't work,' he said.

  Oh, it will if I really pretend, really make it convincing,' I

  said. 'I'll take my bubble bath in and make sure she sees me

  do it.'

  'I bet it doesn't work,' Don repeated unhelpfully.

  I went off upstairs, ran the water and started to sing, throwing

  perf'ume about, gathering clothes into the bathroom and hiding

  the towels for Emma underneath them. Normally, by the time

  the taps are running Emma is upstairs, curled up on the bathroom

  floor. But this time there was no sign of her.

  'Is she still down there?' I called to Don.

  'Yes, in the kitchen, by the back door,' he shouted.

  'Oh dear. Do you think she knows?'

  I'm sure she does. You'll never get her up there.'

  Well, we can't carry her upstairs, she's too heavy. See if you

  can get her to come up. Try and get her into the hall.' At

  the same time I started calling her. Don, I could hear, was

  also calling. 'Come on Emma, into the hall, there's a good

  girl.'

  But nothing happened. Emma remained a chocolate-brown

  immovable object by the back door, gazing up with an expression

  which stated very plainly: 'I know what you want to do.

  And you can keep on wanting.'

  I came downstairs. 'What are we going to do about it?'

  io8

  'I've no idea. She knows you want to give her a bath, and she

  knows you're pretending.'

  Then I spotted the box of chocolate drops with added vitamins

  that Emma loved and which she used to get as rewards.

  I picked it ofi'the shelf. 'I wonder,' I said, 'If'greed will get the

  better of her hatred of baths?'

  Emma saw me doing this, and immediately became alert and

  anxious all at the same time. Her nose twitched. I offered her

  a chocolate drop. She got up and came towards me and took

  it, munching thoughtfully and giving a small wag of the tail. I

  retreated into the hall.

  'Come on, Emma, another chocolate drop.'

  I could see the thinks-balloon: 'What's this? Another chocolate

  drop. Well ... why not? What does it matter if there i's a

  catch ?'

  She took it. I ventured to the stairs. Emma stood watching

  me a little more warily. But she couldn't resist, and even though

  it ended up with me putting a chocolate drop on every other

  step, she was finally manoeuvred into the bathroom.

  'I've got her,' I called down to Don, 'It's OK.'

  I lifted her into the bath. Poor Emma. She stood there looking

  so dejected and woeful, but also resigned. 'I knew all along

  this is what you wanted!' she seemed to be saying.

  'I'm sorry Emma,' I said. 'I really am sorry. But you're

  going to Cruft's, you know, and it's the biggest dog show in the

  world, and you're going to be best dog there and the best

  there's ever been.'

  Perhaps it didn't make up for having a bath, but when she

  was finally dried down and brushed she really did look

  beautiful.

  On the following day Don, Emma and I went down to

  London on the train. When we go by train we have to find a

  compartment with a carpet on the floor because Emma doesn't

  like plain boards. After all, she is getting on in years, and she

  does deserve her comforts. Once on the carpet, with the train

  pulling out of Nottingham Midland, she put her head between

  her paws and went to sleep.

  'I wonder what she'll think of all the dogs?' Don said. 'She'll

  never have seen so many dogs together.'

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  'No,' I said, patting her. 'But what will all the other dogs

  think of Emma? They ought to realize she's somebody special.

  After all, she's not just a show dog. She's a Personality Dog.'

  And I leaned down and gave another stroke to the sleeping,

  dreaming form at my feet.

  When we got to Olympia we were amazed at the queues of

  people waiting to get in. As we got into the bustle and noise

  inside I turned to Don and said: 'There's a sort of smell in the

  air.'

  'You mean dogs,' he said.

  'No, no. A smell of stardom and sawdust.'

&nb
sp; 'Emma's not like that,' Don said. 'She takes everything in

  her stride. She's never changed since the book came out.'

  'Oh, do you mean I have?' I said.

  'No, of course not. But you know what I mean. It doesn't

  matter what Emma does or where she goes, she's always the

  same Emma, isn't she? Even if she is picked as Personality Dog

  of the Year.'

  Suddenly I felt a tug on the lead. Emma had spotted a

  Weimerana.

  'No, that's not Zelda,' I told her. Then she was distracted by

  a bull mastiff on the other side. 'She doesn't know where to go

  first, does she?'

  She put her nose into the air, smelling in every direction. It

  was so exciting for her. Sniff, sniff, sniff-what a wonderful

  place to be!

  We all gathered in a little room off the main hall, all

  the owners and dogs that had been picked to appear in the

  Personality Parade. The old English bulldog was there, the

  Labradors from the Drug Squad, the police Alsatians-even

  Kg was there, not a real dog at all, but the little mechanical

  robot from the Dr Who programme on TV. I wondered what

  Emma would make of him when she saw him.

  We were then briefed for the Personality Parade, and I was

  amazed at how much effort and organization had gone into

  this one event. The Cruft's man responsible gathered us round a

  blackboard. On it he had drawn the ring and I saw that there

  were various numbers round a carpet, a red carpet this svould

  be, stretching right across the ring. Everyone had a number, he

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  told us, and we would all be called in by number ivheii our

  time came. We were expected to walk into the ring, up the red

  carpet and stop in the middle as the commentator gave all the

  details of why our dogs had been picked for Personality Dog of

  that year.

  'There'll be a big crowd out there,' he said, 't~-ent~,I-five

  thousand, and they'll all be 'nterested in what your dog does,

  so you must stop in the middle of the ring while we commentate

  and everyone can get a good look at your dog.'

  Our number was twenty. When he got to that he said:

  'They'll be interested to know why Emma is a Personality Dog.

  ~Ve normally have a guide-dog in, but then Emma has not

  only been a guide-dog, she's also had a book written about her.

  That makes her special.'

  Later on in the afternoon we gathered by the ring for the big

  moment. Don stood A,Itli Emma and me.

  'I wisl-i you could come in tlicre with us,' I told him.

  'Not likely,' lie said, 'svith all those lights and cameras and

  people vatching. No, you and Emma go. You'll be all right

  when you get there. You're used to this sort of thing.'

  'Not this sort of thing,' I said apprehensively. But Emma

  didn't seem to mind. She wagged her tail and looked up. 'Yes,'

  I said, 'it is something special isn't it Emma? This is really your

  sliow.'

  'It's only what she deserves,' said Don, and added, 'Doesn't

  she look marvellous after her bath? Stand up to any of these

  champions!'

  Then we were given our rosette. Each dog that appeared in

  the Personality Parade got a big rosette. I gripped it tight as I

  waited for the event to start. There was a fanfare of trumpets

  over the loudspeakers, and the announcer came on.

  'Number One,' he called. He went through a description of

  each dog and what it had done throughout the year. I was so

  nervous I had to listen really hard for our number. At last it

  came.

  'Number Twenty,' he called, 'Emma.' I was pushed into the

  ring by one of the organizers. 'In you go,' he said.

  Emma and I walked into the floodlights to huge applause

  and cheering. As we walked down the red carpet I could hear

  I I I

  the commentator reading passages out of the book, telling

  stories of when Emma was a guide-dog, how clever she was,

  and how she found me a phone-box when my usual one had

  broken down. And suddenly there was the magic again, the

  something that we had lost after I could see. I could feel the

  tension on the lead as it used to be on the harness as Emma

  walked proudly to the centre of the ring. Without me telling

  her she just stopped and sat down and faced the commentator

  and looked round at the mass of faces: thousands and thousands

  of people all applauding and cheering her. It was incredible,

  and such an emotional moment. I wanted to applaud with them

  and shout and laugh because none of this was for me, it was all

  for little Emma.

  Then we had to walk off down the red carpet to our allotted

  number which was painted on the floor. I wished I could have

  watched it all from a spectator's point of view-each dog

  coming in, stopping, going off to take their position so that

  finally the ring contained a huge circle of Personality Dogs.

  Emma, true to form, lay down and went to sleep: that is,

  until she heard Kg, the last 'dog' in the parade coming in at

  the opposite side of the ring. His hum and clicking noise woke

  her. She sat up, ears forward, and tested the air. A strange sort

  of smell was obviously coming from that thing. He got closer,

  and Emma started to back off from the red carpet. As Kg

  trundled and whirred past with his electrical lead she looked

  up at me as if to say: 'Well, I thought this was a dog show.

  What's that thing doing in here, then?'

  After Kg had taken up his position, Emma lay down again

  and went back to sleep. She stayed asleep, quite oblivious, until

  the finale when we were all paraded again back up the red

  carpet and out of the ring.

  And that red carpet, I thought, as we passed from it and out

  of the arclights, was the right setting for Emma, for ever. It had

  been her greatest day, and as I pinned the great green and gold

  rosette over our fireplace in the living-room later that evening,

  and Emma was stretched in front of the fire as if nothing had

  happened, I also thought: At last she has had her recognition,

  her due, and her rightful accolade. Good girl Emma!

  II2

  CHAPTER TEN

  I

  BF,ING A Personality Dog of the Year, appearing on televillion

  chat shows ' and being a star at bookshops all over the

  country were the highlights of Emma's new career. But the

  admiration at these events was more than equ~lled by fans

  calling on her personally, and by an astonishing postbag. Scores

  ot'letters began to arrive, as a result of the book. Some, mostly

  from children, were addressed direct to Emma. These I always

  read aloud, which may sound eccentric, but I felt it logical and

  only right to pass on the praise to the right quarter when they

  said how marvellous Emma was, how clever she was to find that

  telephone-box on her own and so on. Emma knows when

  approving things are being said about her and always sat beside

  me on the settee when her fan mail arrived. Invariably her

  response was one of those old-fashioned looks
meaning: 'Well,

  what do they expect? I was a guide-dog, after all.' And I had

  to smile. Sometimes at moments like that she reminded me of a

  rather languid Hollywood screen goddess reclining while her

  secretary dealt out the adulation from the correspondence: 'OK

  Bculah, send 'em a photograph.' And, of course, if a photograph

  had been requested, it was me that had to sign it and

  send it off. By the third or fourth letter, however, Emma had

  usually had enough flattery for one day, and I would hear the

  unmistakable sound of her sliding down the leather back of the

  settee, and a slight satisfied sigh before she put her head between

  her paws and went to sleep.

  There was one sad aspect of the letters, nevertheless, because

  invariably they would ask, 'Is Emma still alive? How is she?'

  It was fine then, and still is, being able to write back and say,

  'She's full of beans.' But I know that one day I shall not be able

  to do that; it's going to be heartbreaking to read letters with

  those questions. One day perhaps I shall not be able to reply

  at all. I don't know. I try not to think about it, but all the time

  II3

  I

  I am conscious of how sad it is that animals do not live as long

  as human beings.

  The letters I liked best of all were the ones in which the writer

  said that the book had not simply entertained them, but helped

  them as well. I particularly liked one from a primary school

  teacher who said that every morning at assembly she read out

  a passage from Emma and I and never had she known the children

  so quiet.

  More seriously, I was most moved when a woman who had

  undergone a really serious operation wrote to me: '. . . when I

  came round from the operation I thought, I'm not going to be

  miserable. But I can't get out of bed. What shall I do? Then I

  thought about your book, so I looked out of the window and

  counted all the different colours of all the leaves on the trees,

  and that kept me occupied until I could get up and out of bed.'

  I was so moved by that, someone who had gone through the

  most traumatic experience being helped through it by what I

  had written. It made me happy, too, because other people had