Rex
by Oonah V Joslin

-for Sophie

I was for calling him -Rex - such a dependable name, strong and dignified, don’t you think? For the first few weeks he was Rex - almost. But he had one undignified ear that would not stand up. It flopped over, got into his dinner more often than not and made him look slightly comical - he even tripped over it a few times with his huge puppy paws.

“Rex, siT.” I always made sure I emphasized the T, ‘à la Woodhouse’ - that telly woman. ‘SiT,’ she’d say and the mutt - no matter how excitable, stupid or down-right disobedient, would oblige. So after a bit of indoor practice I took Rex over the fields to the old quarry. At the pavement’s edge I pronounced the magical syllable and he sat. “Good boy,” I fawned producing a treat from my pocket. He snaffled it down and sat again expecting another. “No, boy,” I laughed, “We need to cross the road now - later.”

He cocked his head as if my intelligence was in some doubt and his ear flopped over.

At the quarry I let him off the lead and said, ‘SiT’ again holding onto his collar. He sat. I was just about to feel very pleased with my training methods when Rex saw the water. Nothing would make him sit now. He took off and jumped in with a splish, sending droplets high into the air and ripples all the way over to the other side. I called his name but he took no notice, then when he was good and ready he came out and shook himself vigorously so that I was soaked.

His fondness for ice cream was frankly embarrassing. If I’d had to pay for all the cornets he scrounged from visiting vans and sea-side cafes… The first had been on a hot day after our walk - that is after his swim and my soaking. I stopped and bought myself a raspberry ripple with flake from Mr. Creamy. Feeling left out, Rex put his paws up against the glass and the man said, “Small one is it, sir?”

“Ruff.”

“Quarter flake?”

“Ruff, ruff.”

Mr. Creamy refused to let me pay and insisted on knowing the dog’s name.

Suddenly Rex seemed inappropriate. “Ripples,” I said, and Ripples he was from then on. Not Rex, the terrifying guard dog we’d hoped for from his excellent pedigree.

Thereafter, the sound of an ice cream van no matter how distant turned our pooch into an escapologist of the finest caliber. He could jump fences, open doors, windows, garden gates and always he’d come back, slobbering free ice cream.

No matter how I varied our walk, he always headed for the nearest puddle, stream, river, canal or wave. I always got soaked and he always made new friends.

I miss him.

Ripples are the hard ridges left on the beach by a receding tide or the sweet traces of raspberry sauce stirred into ice cream or the deep yearnings left behind when someone sweet plunges deep beneath the surface of our heart.