Being a hippy with fond memories of innocent childhood days, it was fairly inevitable that Trumpton's owner would continue by plotting to name her offspring after the firemen who tended to this whimsical, afternoon television town. Oh how they dreamed together; not just of healthy pups, but of a perfect litter of six. Hugh, Pugh, Barney Mcgrew, Cuthbert, Dibble and Grubb.
On the 24th March 1994, six were indeed born. Number six was a black and white dog pup, unique amongst his grey, black and tan siblings. Fortunately for him - me - the automatic endowment of the name Grubb was averted at the last minute when pup number seven made a slithering entrance into the world of "behind the sofa in a council house in Trowbridge".
The next few weeks are all something of a blur, what with being a newborn and all. I can only assume that I did all the usual early puppyhood things. You know - opening eyes, sucking milk, learning to make my mess on the newspaper not the rest of the floor, being weaned from my mother ready for my proper entrance into the world....
And so it was time. On the morning of 6th May 1994, a warm Friday morning, I was lifted from the nest for the final time. Wrapped in a greying blanket, I was carried outside and installed in the arms of a willing passenger, settled into the front seat of a royal blue Mark 2 Transit van, and driven away to begin the rest of my life.
I am old now, and my memory is fading. Now is the time to tell the tale of the rest of my life before "fading" becomes "lost". I cannot always promise strict chronology, nor can I guarantee that my story will not have been corrupted by hindsight and the esoteric nature of such writings. I suspect I will simply be boring, at times. But at least I will be here, and continue to be here, even after I have gone.