When asked what she’d like for her fifth birthday, Becky replied enthusiastically and without hesitation, ‘A doggy’.
‘What kind of doggy?’ Haze asked hesitatingly, knowing full well what Becky meant.
‘A big one,’ Becky responded.
‘Oh dear,’ I thought, wishing that Haze hadn’t asked the question.
Haze and I discussed the issue when Becky had gone to bed, eventually reaching a compromise. Becky did get her ‘doggy’, and it was a big one, but it was stuffed with I don’t know what and attached to wheels and a handle.
Becky received her present with thanks that lacked excitement. Having christened it Lassie, she played with it for a couple of weeks, at which point it was retired to the garage.
A year later when, perhaps foolishly, she was asked the same question, Becky answered again without hesitation, ‘A doggy’.
Following much wavering Haze weakened, and in the end, we, well Haze really, decided to seriously discuss the matter with Becky. After much discussion and explanation, Haze, irritatingly I thought, took Becky’s side.  I tried my best to avoid the purchase and the responsibility that pet ownership implies, but the pressure began to overwhelm me and I weakened too. As a last-ditch attempt at dissuasion I pointedly asked, "But who'll take him for walks?"
"We will," was the joint response.
"Okay,” I conceded, “but if he makes a mess, who'll clean it up?"
"We will."
"Yes, but who'll comb and brush him?" I persisted.
"We will."
And so it continued until my resolve melted.  “You’re really sure?” was my final question.
“Absolutely,” they said in chorus.
 So the purchase was made, and Haze brought home a golden retriever puppy who was immediately thrown into panic mode by the excitement he generated. In response to Becky's, "Yippee, we’ve got a doggy!" he peed all over the dining room carpet.
"I've christened him Bruce," I said with an air of authority as befits the head of a household.
Oh no you haven't, said Haze's eyes. "All dogs are called that," said her voice.
I answered her voice. "Well what about King then?" I offered.
"All dogs are called that," she replied.
"They can't be."
"They are."
"They can’t be,” I repeated. “Not if they're all called Bruce!"
"You know what I mean," said Haze brusquely. "It's like Prince, or Rex or Rover."
Those had been my next three choices, but Haze had developed an air of fratchiness that I felt disinclined to challenge. so I made the mistake of putting the ball in her court. "Okay then,” I asked, “what do you want to call him?"
"Orpheus," she said without hesitation.
"Orpheus?” I said “Bloody Orpheus?"
"Yes, Orpheus,” she confirmed, “and don't swear in front of Becky!”
"But that’s ridiculous," I shrieked - I hadn’t meant to shriek, I’d meant to snap, but my snap became a shriek regardless, as much to my surprise as anyone else’s.
"No it's not, it's Greek, and he looks Greek," snapped Haze. Her eyes narrowed. “And don’t shriek at me.”
"Greek? He looks Greek?" I replied, so bemused by the very notion that I ignored her narrowed eyes. “He looks like a golden retriever and golden retrievers aren’t Greek!”
“I didn’t say he was Greek,” said Haze. “I said he looks Greek, and he does.” Her tone hinted that the discussion pertaining to the christening of pets was at an end, and that there was nothing I could do about it other than resign myself to the facts that the ceremony was over and that our new pet had a stupid name.
What will I say to all the butch dog owners at the local park when I take him for a walk? I wondered.
"Nice dog," they'd smile. "What's his name?"
"Orpheus," I'd be forced to admit.
"Orpheus?"
"Yes, bloody Orpheus," I'd say, including the bloody to evidence that I was no more impressed by the fact than they were. The enquirer, who until then seemed like a potential new friend, would depart hurriedly, no doubt questioning my sanity, and any chance of further conversation and developing camaraderie was gone.
"I think it's a great name," mused Becky.
Shut up, I thought. But Haze was listening. "Yes, Dear," I said.
Most people don't like Orph much. Auntie Gladys once said that he had quite nice eyes, but then Auntie Gladys is very timid and would happily depart this existence before her time - though her time is fairly close anyway - before she'd knowingly offend anyone, even Orph. So that doesn’t really count.
It soon became clear that Orph was a miscreant who refused to cooperate with any training attempts and did exactly what he wanted to do, regardless of potential consequences or punishment that might result.
He had a technique for use if he was seriously shouted at. His ears would drop and he’d slink from the room then head for the garden where he’d lay on the grass for and hour or two. His head would then appear at the living room door with ears still drooping, seemingly distraught. Either I or Haze would soften and say, ‘Come on then you silly sod,’ or something similar and his ears would prick back up. He’d enter the room with a silly grin on his face – yes, he had a silly grin - having successfully pulled the ‘sorry’ trick yet again.
He never changed his attitude or behavior during his twelve years with us, but then he developed a lump on his under belly – cancer. The vet kept him going for a further four months, but then one day I came downstairs to find him lying on the kitchen floor, blood dripping from his jowls. I carried him to the car.
The vet was sympathetic but could offer no hope. He recommended the only sensible option, and I held Orph’s paw and watched him quietly die as the vet administered the injection.
.  I sobbed for the best part of two days, as did Haze, Becky and Ben, who wasn’t yet born when Orph came into our lives. As I write this, I’m filling up again. The thing is that Orph was a rogue, but an exceptionally loveable one.
.