A is for AIREDALE

He was a black and brown dog in a black and white world. Living in the era of hippies and flower power, unmoved by the success of the Fab Four and oblivious to the fact that Neil Armstrong was standing on the big yellow ball he stared at in the summer sky, he found his peace and contentment roaming the fields near home with his compatriots, few of whom were to outlive him. A simple diet of the remains of the family meals mixed in a saucepan and poured into his own private dish meant that he often swallowed more carbohydrates in a day than the average pampered dog would now be allowed in a whole week but his hunger for exercise and the chasing of the occasional rabbit was enough to offset any ignorance of the canine diet on the part of his owner. He wasn't a typical Airedale, his longish, curly, unkempt hair rendering him unsuitable for the local dog show, but we had the documents to prove that he had once come from good stock though the rest of his family never came to visit him in his new home. I was too young to remember his origins but I do recall that he arrived at our house , courtesy of my uncle and aunt, both of whom had a more thorough knowledge of dogs and were probably not best impressed with the state of disrepair into which he descended a few years after living with us. But I loved him to bits. And the great thing about dogs is that they can sense your love and return it unconditionally - with just the faint hope of a bone or dog biscuit to accompany their affection. We called him Kim. To this day, I can still hear his soft bark as cars went by and his sweet crooning when dad played the harmonica. We taught him to raise his paw, to chase sticks and to sit and when he returned, panting heavily, from a wander in the orchard, he almost seemed to be smiling, before his tongue plunged into a dish of cool water and replenished his need. He was quiet and dependable and his bursts of anger were largely restricted to four-legged trespassers who became too inquisitive in his territory, at which times he showed that he possessed all the necessary skill and power to defend himself. Yet age took its toll and, although he lived longer than many of his neighbours, life eventually became too big a struggle and soon he was gone but not forgotten. My last memory is not of seeing his ultimate departure, for mum and dad protected my sister and me from that moment, but of watching him climb slowly and obediently into a small van and leave with a nice gentleman whose smile and pleasant manner concealed his real reason for being there. I didn't see him die but I know he did. We had many dogs since that time but none ever left the impression on me that he had done. Indeed two further dogs were to be named Kim, in some sort of unofficial recognition of his place in our personal family history and while they also became great friends to us, they never really stood a chance of outshining their predecessor.

When Jesus came to earth, he possessed the greatest pedigree that anyone could own. He was the son of God. Yet he became just like me, a mere human being, so that he could show me unconditional love by his death on a cross. Paul tells the church in Rome that, 'God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.' The one who was without sin gave up his royal pedigree for me. I didn't see him die but I know he did. And I haven't forgotten him for he's now part of my personal family history.