We know little of KiKi’s past. Nothing at all really about her formative experiences. What we have seen is a dog whose behaviour can touch both extremes. Gentle, even docile, entirely at ease around Leica without a hint of aggression. Lively and playful, a little wilful, clearly pretty smart too. Everything we had hoped for, indeed expected, in a female Dalmatian. The other side of her behaviour, the wild and uncontrollable reaction to strange dogs has left us distressed and confused in equal measure. In speaking to Remi at ASH we find him to be as puzzled as we are. We had seen KiKi penned with another dog and neither showed any signs of having fought. KiKi’s coat is unmarked, there are no nicks in her ears for instance, none of the physical marks you might expect to see in a dog which has been in a serious fight. We had been told that she lived with another dog previously, and while it may have seemed a little odd that she was not put up for rehoming as part of a pair as sometimes happens, we didn’t think much about it.

KiKi arrives at the vet to have her stitches taken out. After our experience in the last few days, I decide to leave her in the car while I check what is in store for us in the waiting area. A man with a little terrier on an extending lead sits directly behind the inner door, while a cat sits in its owners lap in the opposite corner. I ask the man with the terrier if he would mind moving away from the door a little and explain that KiKi might react when she comes in. He neither acknowledges me nor makes any attempt to shorten the lead on his dog.

KiKi comes in with her lead shortened as far as possible and still attached to the harness. As we pass the roaming terrier she pays no attention at all, but follows me calmly as I position myself so as to keep as much distance as possible between her and the other animals. She sits upright and unmoving between my feet as we wait. The assistant calls us over to the desk and asks that I put KiKi on the scales in front of the reception desk. A few weeks earlier when Leica was here for her vaccinations this seemingly simple procedure was anything but. Leica had to be cajoled and eventually lifted on to the platform to be weighed. Now I turn KiKi towards the scales and point wordlessly, she steps up then sits.

As we return to wait, another dog comes in, another appears from one of the consultation rooms, and a couple who have just had their pet euthanised gather in front of us. KiKi lies at my feet and watches through raised eyebrows.

In the consultation room the young assistant asks me to put KiKI up on the exam table while she leaves to get gloved. In the past getting either of our dogs off the floor has been tricky, too many rectal thermometer experiences led Flash and Leica to be less than co-operative under these circumstance. I lift KiKi and set her on the table, seated, and with a grip on her harness wait to see if she struggles or tries to jump down. Instead, she opts to stand, head and tail raised, eyes straight ahead.

There are nylon muzzles hung on the wall, and when the assistant returns I explain that we have only had KiKi a short time and that I won’t be offended if she feels that a muzzle might be a wise precaution. She declines the advice, and I brace myself. Standing directly in front of KiKi now, I talk to her quietly and she keeps her eyes fixed forward as the young woman places one hand on her haunches. I hold the side straps of KiKi’s harness on both sides, keeping her head between my arms in case she should try to turn her head back. She blinks as the cold of the curved scissors moves along her stomach, but barely flinches.

It seems clear now that KiKi’s past life experiences have shaped her behaviours dramatically. No stranger to vets, perhaps to show judges even, yet still with very limited social skills in the wider world. Echoes of her past life will continue to challenge us in the coming months.