A man who works for me has a dog, a
three-year-old Alsatian, which is acting in a film. Its name is Satan, and it is, he believes, the only descendant of Crumstone Psyche, a sound actress in her day, who, during the blitz, won no less than four medals for courage and devotion to duty; she and her sister Irma between them were instrumental in saving 17, lives and located more than 200 bodies under the rubble. Psyche died about a year ago aged eleven, and Satan, who is her grandson, got the part which was to have been offered to her. It is, I gather, rather a sad part, for in the film Satan belongs to a crook and, having fallen into the hands of the police, is used by them to track down his master, whom he is naturally anxious to rejoin. Satan gets £4 a day for doing this and is said to be giving a very polished performance. His only limitation as an actor is that nothing (exCept his master blowing cigarette smoke in his face) will make him growl. Perhaps his real future lies in comedy.
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