This true-life story was written specially for our web site by guest contributor, author & journalist  Monica O’Hara-Keeton*

For most of us the idea of seeing a ghost is spooky.  Ghosts are associated with Gothic castles, cemeteries at midnight and deathly-faced ladies in floaty white sheets.  Headless bodies and other such horrors are fine for late-night movies, but in real life..?  Pull the other one.

Whoever heard of a ghost dog, and a friendly one at that, who through some fluke of his nature had also managed to take on the role of guardian angel.  And not just for me, either.

The story I am about to tell is as true as the fact that I’m sitting here hammering it out on my laptop.

A delightful brindle mix

Gonzo was born on the night of November 7, 1979; first of a litter of seven to arrive in a semi-detached house in Hoylake on the Wirral Penninsula, in North West England.  His mother was a Labrador, his father a German Shepherd. Two of his siblings could have passed for true German Shepherds, three for yellow Labradors and the other two were a delightful brindle mix.

One had the huge, wolf-like eyes and bushy tail of his dad, the runt of the litter had the soppy lickiness of her mum.  These two bundles of fur were happily huddled together when we met. Simon, the little boy, who had watched, enchanted as the puppies were born, called the wolf-eyed puppy Gonzo, after The Muppets a series which was currently being shown on British tv.

Right from the start, Gonzo was rough, tough and showing signs of the assertive personality which was to become an integral part of his life, his death and his Hereafter.  Duffy, the runt, seemed a much more gentle soul, squealing softly alongside her siblings.

We adopted both

Unable to decide which of the two we wanted, Joe and I adopted both: Gonzo for him, Duffy for me.  But that was our choice, not theirs.  Within a very short time of arriving in our home, they switched their allegiance and over the next ten years, grew into beautiful, loyal friends, both to us and to each other.

Did Duffy become dominant because she needed to assert herself, and Gonzo submissive because  he bowed to her every wish?  I don’t know, but he was certainly a gentleman among dogs.  He allowed his sister to have first choice of toys and chew bones.  He stood back beside the water bowl until she had finished and always let her beat him in the race to the hall when the doorbell rang.  Those two were inseparable, until terminal kidney failure robbed us of Duffy.

He grieved deeply

Gonzo never recovered from her loss.  To our eternal regret, we made the mistake of not allowing him to see her body so that he could say goodbye and adjust.  As a result, he grieved deeply.  Poor dog spent the rest of his days searching and pining until, in a matter of months, he too was gone.  He had developed osteo-sarcoma,which is a type of bone cancer rare in humans but not uncommon  in dogs with long legs.

The malignancy set in just after Duffy’s death and accellerated at such speed that we were only able to draw one conclusion: he had lost the will to live.  The true cause of that magnificent dog’s death was a broken heart.

Built like a tank

In his heyday, Gonzo had been a powerful, imposing animal.  Muscular, active and built like a tank. ‘Half dog, half donkey’ was how our vet described him.  Indestructable, we had thought.  He was also remarkably agile.  That dog feared nothing and no-one and was always ready to defend those he considered his humans.

With his ringed eyes, enormous fangs and chunky body, the very sight of him would be enough for the average mugger.  Yet there was no malice in Gonzo.  Beneath the formidable exterior he was, as most of our acquaintances discovered, very amiable.  Cuddly, even.

Fiercely protective

Gonzo was the first male dog I ever had.  And I believe he sensed that fact because, right from the start, he developed a fiercely protective attitude towards me; a protectiveness that was to reach way beyond normal paramaters.

In the happy, carefree days of his youth and healthy young adulthood, we walked to nearby fields in the morning, to the beach in the afternoons and to our local dog-friendly pub in the evenings.  We enjoyed our walks, our ball games and our pints of lager (mine in a glass, his in a ginormous ashtray).  We had fun.

Then came the Saturday night that will forever be engraved in my memory.

Weak and critically ill

Joe was in Germany on a lecture tour and Gonzo was in the final stages of his disease.  He was drifting in and out of consciousness as he lay on the rug behind the front door.  Thanks to his prescribed medication, he was no longer in pain but, typical of any cancer sufferer, he was weak and fading fast.  The results of his latest X-ray would be through on Monday.  Only then would the vet be in a position to decide whether more surgery was an option.  My mind flashed back to the day we first noticed the lump on his left forepaw.

It had seemed so innocent at first.

Here was a boisterous male dog, in the habit of leaping and bounding his way through life, there seemed to reason to suspect anything sinister.  For all his 11 years (some 77 in human terms), he still had his frisky moments and his eye for the girls.

After a few days, the swelling subsided.  Old dogs, like old humans, do develop lumps and bumps.  Most, according to the experts, are totally benign.

Gonzo was not limping, he was not in pain, he was still enjoying his daily walks and eating well.

How could anything be seriously wrong?

There was, though, as we were to find out all too soon. Cancer was consuming every part of his body.

He was still with me

So here I was, on that Saturday night, sitting with him, reflecting on his life.  Hoping, against hope, that the vet could come up with something new on Monday.  Even as I was thinking of my dog, wondering where we might go from here, the doorbell rang, shattering the silence of the night. I glanced at the hall clock.  Ten-thirty.  Who on earth could it be?

Joe would have telephoned if he had planned to return early.  Had he – or one of the children – had an accident? Oh God, was it the police ?  In panic, I turned to my dog.

Sensing my mood, his soulful eyes held mine, as if to assuage my fear; assuring me that yes, he was still here, still at my side.  I was not alone.

Clean your windows, missus?

I answered the door, stupidly forgetting to slide the safety chain into position.

Two young men faced me.  Total strangers, one wore a balaclava helmet, the face of the other was almost hidden beneath a woolly scarf.

‘Y… yes…’ I gasped.  ‘What do you want?’  I felt seriously threatened.

‘Clean your windows, Missus?’ asked the one wearing the helmet.

‘N.. no, thank you…’ I stammered incredulously.  ‘Not at this time of night.’

‘Best time to do it.’  the second voice was muffled.  ‘… when there’s no-one around.’  A booted foot edged itself inside.  Terror swept over me.

The boot’s owner leered.  In that moment of panic, nothing I had learned at my Self Defence Classes for Women came to mind.

The neighbours were not near enough to raise the alarm.  The phone was out of reach.?Another boot came in; the youth moved perilously closer.  The scream forming in my throat froze there.  What now… fight… flight… pray?

My subconscious cried out for help and the response was immediate.

I couldn’t believe what was happening.

The booted feet retreated.  The intruders turned tail and fled.  They raced each other down the path and disappeared into the night.

My God, Gonzo.. what are you doing?

Some primeval inner strength

My wonderful, remarkable dog was at my side, standing tall and proud as ever I had seen him. Like a creature entranced, he continued to gaze at the intruders, teeth bared, the growl deep and menacing as a lion’s.

Endorphines had flooded that weak canine body to bring out some primeval inner strength. ?He stood his ground and held his position until long after the danger had passed.  Then he collapsed at my side and never rose to his feet again.  He was prepared to give his life for me.  He almost had.  I felt very humbled.

A day I shall never forget

Before the vet put an end to his suffering my friend Joyce came rushing over from her home some miles away.  Joyce had grown up with dogs and knew them well.  She could tell at a glance that the life of this noble beast was drawing to a close.  He was being overwhelmed by the disease. She could see to that I was in a state of denial.  Gonzo couldn’t leave me; not now, when I owed him so much.

Sadly, although Joe cut his lecture tour short, he was unable to catch an earlier flight.  By the time he got home it was all over.  We lost our beloved dog in the early hours of Sunday, March 25, 1990.  It was a day I shall never forget.  That dog enriched my life and the lives of all those he loved.

Introducing Gusto

Our next dog, Gusto, came from the kennels of the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.  She was our first rescue dog.  A shaggy-haired, medium-sized mongrel, she was mostly black, with a white bib and small white blobs on her toes.  With the untidy black mop falling into her eyes and a yellowish beard drooping from her chin, Gusto was shaggy dog personified.

A gentle, doe-eyed creature, her thrashing tail was an open invitation for friendliness.  Stroke her and the tongue would hang enchantingly out the side of her mouth.

Her sweet, outgoing nature provided no clue as to the appalling existence she had before being rescued.

Kicked, beaten, starved

Her previous owner had been a volatile alcoholic who kicked, beat and starved her beyond belief.  For years, this poor dog survived on what she could scavenge from bins in and around the tenements of Birkenhead.  She drank filthy water from puddles and whatever remnants of alcohol spilled out from bottles, cans and glasses in the hovel she called home.

Originally, she had been one of two dogs in that household but by the time the RSPCA inspectors found them, her brother was dead and she was huddled in a corner, her bruised and emaciated body a mass of sores.

They, who carried her to safety, could not believe she had survived such brutality.  Gusto went on record as the worst case of cruelty ever encountered by the inspectors.

Her hed had a dent from repeated kickings, her back legs were crooked from their many fractures.  There was evidence of non-accidental injury all over her body.  Malnutrition had played havoc with her skin.  Her fur was dry and dusty.  But amazingly, her spirit had never been broken.  There was not an ounce of malice in that dog.  She was so sweet, so vulnerable.  If ever a dog needed tender love and care, it was she.

No fleas, ticks, mange

Thankfully the vet could find no evidence of fleas, ticks, mange or other creepy crawlies.  He prescribed a special shampoo for her skin and suggested a bland diet because of her history of starvation. Fish, eggs, tripe, and so on.

‘Boiled rice?’ I ventured

‘Yes.’

‘Grilled chicken breasts?’

‘Fine.’

There was no stopping me now.

‘There’s some fresh salmon in the fridge.  Will that he all right for her?’

‘No.’  His expression was deadpan.  ‘Bring that to the surgery for us.’

Best six legs

For the next few weeks Gusto bolted her food yet continued to scavenge in bins.  She did not recognise toys, rubber balls, or squeaky toys but had great fun chasing stones around the patio and tossing sticks in the air.

She came on in leaps and bounds.  She gained a certificate for Good Behaviour, made many friends, some human, some hairy.  On Bank Holiday Monday, she and I went to a dog show and came strongly recommended in the Best Six Legs category.

I wondered what Gonzo would have thought of Gusto.

Would he look down from his doggie heaven and feel betrayed because I loved her so much?  Would he resent her?

My Gonzo was back

The answer came one evening when we were playing in the park.  She had at last begun to accept a few rubber playthings and I was teaching her to retrieve.  Tossing a ball in the air, running after it myself, bringing it back, I hoped she would get the message.

On the far side of the park, a big dog sat watching.  Hazy at first because he was still half in the bushes, as he became closer I noticed the wolf-like eyes and the familiar brindle colouring.?He ran towards us, went into the play position, then like a shot leapt into the air to catch our ball, before racing towards Gusto and me with it in his mouth.

‘Gonzo?’ I gasped, incredulously.

The ears perked up, the big dog leaped in the air and I almost did the same.  My Gonzo was back.. he had come for a game in the park.  Come to be with me again; not in the elderly, weakened form in which he had departed.  This was Gonzo in his prime.  Active, energetic, with the unmistakeably wild streak, but without a trace of the swelling on his paw which had marked the beginning of the end.  As he frollicked with Gusto, I could see that all his former vitality was restored.  My new little companion enjoyed every minute of his company.  I was ecstatic.

‘Hey.  Fan-TAS-tic,’ I squealed.  ‘I’m so glad you two approve of each other.  You’ve no idea how good that makes me feel.’

Regular appearances

A few days later, Joe had a ‘manifestation’, when he felt a soft brown paw touch his leg.  Glancing down, he was amazed to see – though only for a few seconds – Gonzo curled up at his feet.  On another occasion the brindle form spread itself out on the mat beside Gusto. After that he made regular appearances, mostly out of doors.  He played with Gusto in the park, trotted alongside us on walks.  Gonzo had always been a bit of a free spirit.  Now, free as the air, he could come and go as he pleased.  He would appear whenever the mood took him, slope away when it didn’t.

Flights of fancy, said the sceptics.  Plain daft, said others.  How could a dead dog come back to life?  How indeed?

Yet he did seem to be around a lot when his friends were in trouble; taking it upon himself to protect them like some canine guardian angel.

Emerging from the shadows

Once, when Gusto was being threatened by two slavering hounds on the beach, Gonzo appeared and saw them off.  He did the same for an infirm Dachshund bitch he had always been rather fond of.  It wasn’t just members of his own species he protected either.

An elderly woman swore blind that when a gang of youths was about to swoop on her, a big dog emerged from the shadows, baring its fangs and growling deeply.

The would-be attackers ran off without causing any harm, just as the so-called window cleaners had on that eventful Saturday night.

They felt his furry coat

A small girl, about to step into the path of a car, felt herself being pulled back to the safety of the pavement.  Turning round, she saw what she described as a brownie-coloured dog gallumping off into the distance.

In the months following his demise Gonzo was very much in evidence and rumours were rife.  Sometimes he was seen but not heard, other times he was heard but not seen.  Usually he appeared in the flesh, but occasionally people simply felt his furry coat brush past.  There were times when the phantom did nothing more than let people sense his presence.

Unlike other ghosts, this one seldom appeared at night, which also gave credence to the notion that it was Gonzo.  Never one for nocturnal escapades, he always did prefer the comfort of a fireside rug.  Why should he change the habit of a lifetime just because the life itself was changed?

Restored to health?

Perhaps he had not died after all on that black weekend in March?  Could he have come out of his final slumber and been restored to health?  Had the death scene just been one horrible nightmare

Alas no.  One must not indulge in self-delusion.  The Pet Cemetery people confirmed that he was quite dead on arrival at the crematorium.  The ashes in the oak casket with which they had just presented me were indeed those of Gonzo.  There was no doubt that his life was extinct, even if his Life Force was very much alive.

Unique in life, unique in death

Unbelievers maintained that the dog who played with Gusto was either Skip from the bread shop or Bryn, the solicitor’s dog.  Some suggested it might even be Brutus from the manor house; but I knew better.  No other dog looked remotely like Gonzo.  He was unique in life, unique in death.

Had I not, as he breathed his last, implored him to stay with me?

And wasn’t that precisely what he was doing?

What was more, several of my neighbours were prepared to swear they had seen the ghost.  Those who knew Gonzo were convinced it was he.  My neighbours were not weirdoes.  They were ordinary, everyday folk, leading ordinary, everyday lives with their ordinary, everyday families and pets.

He lives on  in our hearts

At last, the visitations slowed down and eventually ground to a halt.

I couldn’t help feeling though, that Gonzo would return if ever I – or anyone else – needed  him.  Wishful thinking, probably.  With no more repored sightings, mystics and other strange souls said he was now at rest.

‘His spirit is satisfied that all is well in his former territory.

‘Oh yeah?

Anyway, as far as I’m concerned, he lives on in the hearts of those who loved him and always will.  Gonzo was very precious to me.  No other dog could ever replace him.

‘Not even Gusto?’ ventured Joe, who was equally passionate about dogs.  ‘Or all the others in the future?’

Many dogs have come and gone

Flashforward 19 years.

Life has changed dramatically.

Many dogs have come and gone in those intervening years.  Danny, a Great Dane who died of exactly the same type of cancer as Gonzo; Ronnie, an English Bull Terrier who liked to shake hands with a back leg; Scheppe, a Border Collie saved from Death Row; Tilly-Mint, who had been thrown from a car behind the supermarket.  She was only a puppy when the vet handed her to me and she lived until just a few months ago.

Tilly-Mint helped me through what were beyond doubt the most traumatic years of my life: the loss of Joe and of Joyce within weeks of each other; the loss of Scheppe, of the house I was trying to buy and financial difficulties too complicated to report.

None of those dogs ever replaced Gusto.  Each has found its own little niche in my heart.  But all those years afterwards, there are times when I still feel the presence – and protection – of Gonzo.  He was a one-off.

The current dog in my life is Suzie, a Border/Cairn terrier cross, who is curled up in a ball at my feet.  Sleeping.. dreaming no doubt of the next impish trick to write about in her blog…

*Monica O’Hara-Keeton is a published author of nine non-fiction titles; most recently The Healing Mind, with her late husband Joe Keeton and Graphology, A Guide to Health (both published by Hale).  She was health/medical correspondent of the Liverpool Echo for more than 20 years and has contributed many dog-related articles to newspapers and magazines.  Shortly after Gonzo’s death Monica told his story to a live and networked audience on the British television daytime talk show KILROY (presented by Robert Kilroy-Silk, a former politician).

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Question: where might one find a collection of more than a hundred dog collars anywhere other than at a pet shop?

Answer: at Leeds Castle in Kent, England.

The Saxon manor house, built in 1119, has what is believed to be the world’s only museum with such a dog collar collection. They span five centuries and vary from the gold encrusted, richly opulent variety to the positively mundane.

In their day, the collars in the collection were worn by every dog imaginable, from hunting hounds to little lapdogs. They have custom dog collars, stylish dog collars, dog training collars and even some that might now be considered trendy dog collars. A few prize specimens date back to the fifteenth century

The property itself has a richly chequered history too, having been patronised by many Royal kings and queens. It Tudor times, it was refurbished by King Henry VIII for his first wife Catherine of Aragon, who loved the place. The castle opened to the public in 1976 and now has some half a million visitors every year.

Elsewhere in Britain, Merseyside Maritime Museum also has some dog collars on exhibit, though their numbers can’t be compared with those at Leeds castle.

One fearsome-looking example is a handmade spiked collar believed to have been worn by fighting dogs in the early days of the 19th century. Studded dog collars were also used by working dogs.

There are many leather dog collars on display too, in all shapes and size.

Historically, Liverpool was one of Europe’s greatest shipping ports, the pivot around which the Western World revolved. It was also a busy centre for the rope-making industry. So it is not surprising that the museum should also feature samples of sailors’ rope work. One of their exhibits is a very sturdy rope dog collar, believed to be at least two hundred years old.

Dogs have always featured large in the British psyche, and here are three who needed no collars to keep them at their masters’ sides. Greyfriars Bobby’s fame has spread far beyond Scotland where he lived.

Bobby, a Skye terrier who never wore a dog collar, was the companion of John Grey, a gardener turned police constable. When his master died of TB in 1858, Bobby was distraught. He followed the coffin to the churchyard at Greyfriars (hence the name) sat down and no power on earth could move him.

Bobby continued to guard his masters grave – only emerging at the sound of the one o’clock gun every day, to have lunch – until his own death fourteen years later. When the little watch dog died in 1873, a granite fountain was built on the pavement near where he had mourned and grieved for his master. With a statue of Bobby on top, the monument attracts many visitors to Scotland’s capital city.

Tell’s Tower is a curious little structure standing by the Marine Lake at the seaside resort of West Kirby on the Wirral Peninsula. The tower was erected during the 19th century in memory of a brave German Shepherd who saved his master from drowning on the night of January 22, 1871. When he saw that his master was in difficulty, Tell swam far out into the Irish Sea, grabbed him and dragged him all the way back to shore. Then, with his master safe home at Hilbre House, the brave dog lay down on the sand exhausted. And died.

In recognition of Tell’s bravery a local clergyman, hearing the story, built a tower to the brave dog in the grounds of the house where he had lived. The tower became a lookout post during the Second World War and the house later became the home of Selwyn Lloyd, the then Speaker of the House of Commons. The property has long since been demolished, but the tower still stands although it is no longer accessible to the public.

Jet of Iada was a black German Shepherd, trained as a wartime search and rescue dog. Born in Liverpool, he was responsible for the recovery of 150 people during the London Blitz. Jet specialised in locating men, women and children buried under bombed-out buildings. On one occasion he located a woman alive in the rubble of a bombed hotel and stayed with her for twelve hours until she was rescued.

Jet was awarded the People’s Dispensary for Sick Animals’ highest honour when he received the Dickin Medal for bravery, the most prized of all dog collars. He is buried in Calderstones Park, near the house where he was born. A memorial stands on the site, with a picture of Jet of Iada and an inscription giving details of his wartime career.

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