Kipsy's Story
Kipsy Dog - June 1990 - 18 December 2007
Bored during the summer holidays, thirteen year old me was reading the Bromley free newspaper. "Jack Russell cross puppies. Six weeks old. Free to good home! Contact Paulways Kennels." read the ad.
"Look, Mumsy!" I exclaimed. "Free puppies! Free puppies!"
"We are not getting a dog!" muttered my mother, for approximately the millionth time that week.
"We could just go and look at them?" I suggested, knowing full well that we wouldn't be leaving without one of those fluffy bundles of joy.
The next day, after a stop at the pet shop to pick up all the necessary canine paraphenalia, we were off to the depths of Kent to meet our new puppy. As we pulled up at the kennel, a plump, ruddy cheeked woman with a black and white spotted Jack Russell snapping around her feet came out to greet us. Under each arm, she had two puppies. She explained these were the product of the Jack Russell, Nipper, having an illicit liaison with an unspecified dog, believed to be Boswell, the Tibetan Terrier. As a result, the puppies were known as Bosnips, and resembled a scruffier, hairier version of a Jack Russell. Three were white with brown and black spots. The remaining puppy was slightly smaller and was black all over, except the tips of her paws and tail, which appeared to have been dipped in white paint. Its tail pointed in the wrong direction and its eyes were obscured by a heavy fringe. Its back legs were long and thin and its front legs were short and fat. Having professed a love for spotty patterned dogs, it seemed a foregone conclusion that I would pick one of those. Yet there was something which enchanted me about the little black dog. She was less shy than the others; she playfully tugged at my clothes and seemed to be saying "go on, pick me, pick me!"
I picked her. That little dog became Kipsy, named after a song by then love of my life, Boy George.
Dog ownership was challenging. Kipsy was not the kind of dog to follow orders, and Victoria Stillwell hadn't been invented in those days. She didn't want to sleep in the kitchen; she didn't want to stay off the sofa; she didn't want to leave the cats alone. My memories of the first few weeks were of exhaustion, sleep deprivation and fruitless overuse of the word "no". Kipsy only saw three possible purposes for objects (and yes, that included people): she could chew them, she could chase them, or she could lick them. But despite the naughty behaviour, she grew into the dearest, most affectionate, playful little dog you could ever meet. She was never hostile. She always wanted a cuddle. She always knew when her owners were upset. Her boundless energy and enthusiasm for life were infectious. Nothing could ever be that bad with a little Kipsy in your life. Even my mother, who proclaimed herself to be a cat person, melted. She had worried that I would bore of caring for Kipsy and she would be left with all the walking, but instead we ended up fighting over who had the privilege of taking her out. Mind you, she said a few bad words when Kipsy chewed her best high heels. And when she ate an entire telephone.
Kipsy could never be accused of being intelligent. She never mastered the art of fetching a ball. She had no trouble running after the ball - travelling at speeds which seemed impossible for her comical frame. Unfortunately, once the ball stopped moving, she lost interest and then ran back expecting another to be thrown, meaning that her hapless owner would then have to hunt down the original ball. Dog training classes proved to be more embarrassing than useful, mainly because Kipsy took a liking to a large black labrador named Cadbury. She mastered the 'sit' command, perhaps a little too well, because from then on, whenever anyone said anything to her in a commanding tone of voice, she would promptly sit, and then look up at you proudly as if to say "Look what a good dog I am! Where's my treat then?"
Despite Kipsy's wayward ways, I like to think I got a reasonable grip on the obedience business. She was allowed to sit on the sofa, but never the beds. She was not allowed in my mother's bedrooms and she was never fed from the dinner table. Unfortunately, five years after Kipsy's acquisition I left the parental home and I do rather believe she was spoiled by my mother. I always hoped that one day I would have a flat with a garden and Kipsy would be able to come to live with me, but as a teenager I had no grip on just how long it would take before I would be able to afford a large enough home. Besides, after a while I knew my mother would never be able to part with her. Still, as a frequent visitor to the parental home I managed to continue my dogly duties and take Kipsy for frequent walks and dogsit when my mother went on holiday.
Before we knew it, Kipsy was entering her senior years but showed no sign of slowing down. This video shows Kipsy at thirteen years of age, tearing off into the distance as she spots an Alsatian on the horizon. (As well as being a bit short on the brain department, Kipsy had no sense of danger and would frequently chase animals several times her size, or jump into lakes or over seven foot fences just for the sheer hell of it). Aside from the odd bug and health scare, she remained healthy up until this time last year, when she became notably subdued. The vet diagnosed a severe case of This, That and The Other and put her on a cocktail of drugs which seemed to work a miracle. Though the crazed, bouncy pup of yore was gone, Senior Kipsy enjoyed a simple but happy life, pottering round the house, trotting round the park and tucking in to Marks and Spencers finest chicken breasts. She was finally allowed to sleep on my mother's bed. She showed she still had it in her to create mischief this summer when she ran off after a squirrel and was missing for half an hour before finally turning up on my mother's doorstep looking like butter wouldn't melt in her toothless mouth.
But even Kipsy couldn't live forever.
Over the last few weeks, she started eating less and less and turning her nose up at walks. The vet noticed a collection of fluid on her abdomen which was symptomatic of liver failure. This Sunday morning, my mother heard a bump and ran downstairs to find Kipsy collapsed on the floor, shivering. Though she partly recovered, the Kipsy that we know left us at this moment. My mother summoned me to say goodbye, and she was a sorry sight. Her co-ordination was gone. She never ate again. She lay on the floor asleep and didn't even look up when I stroked her head. I pushed back those ridiculous eyebrows and there was nothing behind those big brown eyes. She was just a shell. My mother rang the vet and made arrangements for her to come out on Tuesday morning - that's today.
I arrived at my mother's at 10am and found the dog was very slightly improved. She managed to get up and have a drink of water before walking awkwardly back to her favourite spot by the fire and slumping down. She lifted her head and looked at me to allow me to stroke her goodbye, but I'm not convinced she knew who I was or what was going on.
The vet arrived at 11.30am and told us what we already knew - that Kipsy was at the end stage of liver failure, most likely due to cancer, and would only get worse. It was kindest to put her to sleep at this stage. The vet sat her on a blanket, shaved a hairy paw (Kipsy's hair was so coarse, it nearly jammed the clippers) and injected her with a lethal overdose of anaesthetic. I held her head in my hands to keep her still. I was scared she'd look up to me with confusion in her eyes, to say "Why are you killing me?" but there was none of that. If anything, her eyes showed relief at being finally allowed to leave this elderly, decrepit and totally unsuitable body. Then she went still and the vet lay her on the carpet. I looked down at her chest to see her breathing slow down, but she'd already gone.
The vet wrapped her in a blanket and took her away. The house looked still and empty and I still expected Kipsy to come running round the corner at any moment. Her things were still all over the house, so my mother packaged them up. The treats and food will go to little Ted, and I got to keep the collar. As for the lead, my mother kept that. She says that she has a feeling she might need it again at some point in the future.
A keepsake from the most wonderful little dog that ever lived.
There are some videos of Kipsy here and some photos here.