Lookalikes

There is a fun old adage that owners look like their dogs. A long time BC (before children) and indeed BG (before I met and married G), I lived in London like so many fun loving early twenty somethings.  I roomed with a South African girl, thrown together in the common misfortune of having nowhere to live and working together.  It was all a little odd really, we had so much but so little in common, and our house became a melting pot of waifs and strays from all over the world, some of whom remain my best friends today. 

 

C was a little older than me, but not much, and she had the added advantage of having been married once already – which in my eyes made her a terribly sophisticated woman about town.  She was very driven in her career, and although we started out in the same job, I realized that peddling pensions was not really my thing and moved on quickly to something else – but she was soon a manager.  Her job necessitated meeting very different people, and some of them became her friends.

One such couple she met was heading rapidly towards their mid forties and bred Akitas –Japanese fighting dogs who look cute but have all the tenacity of the Terminator once focused.  Blonde, tall and lean, the L’s  looked more like brother and sister, and adored their dogs.  They foisted all their love and attention on their Sami and Ninja, the fluffballs with teeth – in an attempt to detract from the real heartache, that they had been trying unsuccessfully for years to have a child of their own.

This is where C came in, with her no nonsense approach, she carved into their finances and worked out an ‘IVF’ fund for them.  Within two tries the woman was pregnant and we were all delighted for them (despite swearing that we would never have kids, urgh, the very thought etc.)  C got a call from the hospital and once Mrs L was back at home three of us from the house piled into my antiquated car and drove round to see the new arrival.  Gay D (a Greek guy who had recently joined us, only came along for the ride because he was incurably nosey and loved looking into people’s houses), C and myself, looked down at the baby lying in its newly bought, no expense spared, hand smocked crib.

The child lay asleep, a shock of black hair crowning its head, dark lashes fronding the slits of his closed eyes.  His skin was tanned and firm, his mouth moving mechanically in a sucking motion as he snoozed.  Now when you are twenty something, and a little hungover, you don’t necessarily have the social etiquette to deal with the situation.  The fact of the matter is, the baby looked nothing like its parents – not one jot, nada…  (Gay D swept me to one side and whispered ‘Do you think the hospital mixed the babies up?’ and winced as I jabbed him hard in his ribs with my elbow.)  The new parents huddled round the crib, looking anxiously at our reactions.

Clearing his throat the father said ‘So who do you think he looks like?’ It was clearly bothering them too, and was a plea for reassurance, as they watched us just a little too closely. With a bark,  Sami bounded in, his black hair bushy around his ears, sparkling eyes darkly outlined in the eyeliner which Mother Nature has granted all animals except humans.  Grasping at straws, C said the first thing that came into her head ‘He looks like the dog!’

There was a stunned silence, except for Gay D who gave a theatrical gasp.

Then both parents burst into broad grins as they turned ecstatically to one another. ‘That’s what we said!’ ‘How amazing!’ ‘Isn’t it brilliant?’ and so the excited chatter went on.

The rest of us looked at each other in incredulity. 

Needless to say, over the next few months the baby’s hair turned into a golden halo of curls and his jaundice disappeared, replaced by delicious pudgy fat pinkness.  He was the spitting image of both of his parents, and now today should himself be in his early twenties.

So when you next see an overwieght Jack Russell wheezing next to its equally rotund lady owner, or a lean anoracked walker with rucksack and lurcher, or a beagle trotting next to a Surrey Mummy with a bob, remember, there is another adage ‘There’s nowt as strange as folk’ -  and at least they’re happy!