Dear readers: I moved to England in 2010 to restore my flooded out countryside home and to be near my mother’s beloved husband, David, who was in care at the local Ross hospital.
Encounters like this one would brighten an otherwise dismal, lonely day.
March 26, 2010
Vegetable Brilliance
A small, elderly lady briskly made her way along Ross-on-Wye’s High Street one market day morning. She wore a long, pleated skirt, hat, raincoat and shiny black boots, as it had sprinkled earlier. Rimless glasses perched on the end of her nose. A black Heinz 57 dog, weighing perhaps 40 pounds, accompanied his mistress. Every inch of him was crammed with charm. Excess fur poked from between his toes, while sprouting black eyebrows accented bright brown eyes. His wavy coat shone. A longish docked tail was held high as he trotted confidently along on slim, fringed legs. He wore a sort of saddlebag arrangement kept in place by leather straps round his chest and belly. Between the two empty pouches rested a small umbrella, secured by a slim black strap. No leash connected these two, but clearly, there was no need. They were inseparable.
We were heading in the same direction— the 16th century Market House situated smack in the center of town, in continuous use for hundreds of years. I was a regular customer. Twice weekly farmers still offer honey, eggs, bread, veggies, clothes, books, and colorful plants. Today people milled around exchanging pleasantries with neighbors and venders, but this lady was all business. She went directly to the egg table.
Pointing at six-packs of free-range browns she asked, “Which box, Reggie?” The dog carefully sniffed the selections, then poked one and gave a discrete snuff. She nodded, paid, and popped it into his saddlebag. After checking her list they moved on to the carrots and new potatoes. Again, Reggie made his choices by simply nudging the fresher ones. Finally, she fondled two fat tomatoes. “This one feels a wee bit tired…what do you think?” Reggie’s wet nose nailed the one in her left hand, and he looked pointedly at her. “Right,” she said, and paid for her purchases, then loaded his saddlebags while he stood there, quietly pleased with himself.
She riffled through a rack of sweaters, and held up a purple one. Reggie squeezed his eyes shut, sneezed and looked away, disgusted.
“It smells of moth crystals, right enough…”
I sidled up to her. “I think your dog is marvelous. He seems to—well, know things.” She harrumphed, then nodded vigorously and bent to stroke her friend’s furry head. “My Reggie’s got talent. No over-the-top vegetables or eggs can escape his nose. He always picks the freshest ones. And he has good taste in clothes, too. He hates this sweater, and I agree with him. The color’s wrong, and it smells.” The vendor rolled his eyes, looking annoyed.
I pressed on. “Does he always come with you?”
She stood straighter. “Reggie and I are never parted. Five years ago I found his scrawny self wandering the streets and thought, now there’s a bonny dog; I wonder what his secret talent is? Everyone’s brilliant at something, you know. I found out what it was soon enough. I bought some eggs, and Reggie peed on the box at home. When I cracked one I could tell it was old. He spots bad avocados and tomatoes, too. I knew we’d get on! I named him ‘Eggie,’ but Cora—my friend—insisted it wasn’t a proper name, and neither was ‘Veggie,’ my second choice, so I settled for ‘Reggie.’ People think it’s short for Reginald. They’d be wrong.”
Reggie, hearing his name, peered up at her and wagged his fringed tail.
She eyed a booth a few feet away that displayed a huge selection of delicious olives. “I won’t need him there. Olives are dependable.” Nodding a polite goodbye, they padded off.
The sweater merchant muttered, “Blimey! There goes the original odd couple: she lets that mutt choose everything! And, I have to admit— he’s mostly right.”
We exchanged grins, and I left with a lighter heart.