We never intended to have a dog, and certainly not a St Bernard. Reuben started his life in a Glasgow flat, his owners apparently unaware that he was likely to grow into a 70kg bundle of uncontrollable energy. He got through three owners in the first two years of his life, then appeared on the doorstep of our friend in a village near Glasgow with his fourth, who threatened to have him put down unless our friend took him in. She agreed, reluctantly, since she had a large dog of her own. My wife started to help by taking him for walks, and eventually the walks stopped at our house, which was at least more suitable than a city flat.
Our two cats were naturally put out by this huge intruder, but after a few days they came down from the tops of cupboards, and within a couple of weeks they were walking nonchalantly between his legs. Reuben divided other animals into small ones (ie smaller than a labrador), which he largely ignored, despite their attempts to wind him up, and larger animals, which were regarded as a challenge – the bigger the better. Cows and horses were a particular favourite.
We naturally kept him on a lead, but occasionally we would let him off in a seemingly impregnable field. We soon found that St Bernards can get through almost invisible gaps in hedges. He almost met his downfall when he chased a horse and rider along a lane towards a main road, but after some negotiations with the police, Reuben was given a final reprieve. Keeping him in the garden, though, was a challenge – for him and for us. We made a solid pen next to the garage, only to find him stuck on the garage roof, necessitating a rescue by ladder.
Although ambivalent in his relations with other animals, Reuben loved humans – small children crawled over him and larger humans were even more welcome, although there were limits. He once spent Christmas with a friend who returned to her bed at night after a trip to the toilet to find him lying next to her partner, growling at her. Cars were his other attraction: he would happily get into any vehicle with an open door. On trains and buses there was always a problem finding a suitable space: wheelchair areas were usually the only option.
We got used to fielding the usual remarks (“Where’s his brandy barrel?” and “I bet he eats a lot”). He actually ate very little, although he did once consume a whole fruit cake, which we thought was in a safe place, and on another occasion a whole block of butter, which accidentally fell on his head.
He became a well-known feature of the local neighbourhood, happily spending much of the day and sometimes nights in our driveway, even in the snow. When he finally succumbed to bone cancer at the age of nine on New Year’s Eve 2015, the funeral wake was an uplifting opportunity for all his friends to remember a really special dog. My wife noted that there were more people at Reuben’s wake than at human funerals she had recently attended.
