Grock was a family dog, and in the years when dogs roamed free, he was usually with us, and he nearly always figured in family photos in the 50s. He was a benign presence, not minding being pulled about by us children, and totally loyal.
This loyalty manifested itself in his behaviour, particularly around food. He was a thief and scavenger, but he never stole from us. During wartime rationing, the story goes, he might come back from wandering the village with precious spoils like packets of butter, or chunks of meat. One picture I have of him was when I was on the bus to Hythe, on my way to school ( I must have been about six), seeing him trotting down the middle of the road, holding up the traffic, such as it was, with a huge bone in his mouth , stretching out on either side. This was probably a gift from the local butcher, Betteridge, but another occasion, where no gifts were intended, stands out clearly in my memory.
As a family, we had been invited to tea with our neighbours at The Cottage, over the road. This was a proper sit-down tea, with all the formality that went with that sort of gathering, and we were looking forward to it. Our hosts were Mr. and Mrs. Munt, who shared the house with their daughter Eleanor and her husband, and their grandson David. A few hours before we were due to cross the road, we had an unexpected visit from old Mr. Munt, incredibly apologetic, asking us to postpone the tea party as " Your dog has been in and eaten the tea! He has eaten a dozen sausage rolls, an equal amount of buttered scones, a number of sandwiches, but he obviously didn't much care for the chocolate cake, as he ate only half!"
This was the only time when Grock had let his family down.
Dear Grock!
- Caroline Martin
