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Defending my crown
I have been getting the impression lately that gang members are becoming somewhat impatient with my insistence on always being right. There could be a mini-revolt in the air.
I believe it is being driven by Percy the Chorkie – a mix of Yorkshire Terrier and Chihuahua. I have always been of the opinion that there was nothing to fear from these hybrids – I often refer to them in private as Half Brains. Half of this breed and a quarter of that with a final quarter of who knows what, does not bring out the best in canine character. Percy was invited into the gang because I believed he posed no threat to my rule.
Now I am beginning to have second thoughts. How else can his sudden change be explained? He came in as a most docile creature, happy to do as I ordered and seemingly not bothered about his position in the gang’s hierarchy which, let’s face it, was bottom of the pile.
He has now become argumentative. At the last meeting I suggested that gang members should meet at least twice a week in the same barn we have been using for years. A quiet spot well out of sight from prying human eyes, it is warm in the winter and cool when we get those isolated warm days in July. Plenty of draughts as the woodwork is far gone, but that does not matter when hair as thick as ours is the order of the day.
Percy’s view was that it failed to meet the minimum standards expected by the gang. We should find a new venue, he droned. Anyway, twice a week was too often. He wanted to gather once a fortnight as, he claimed, there was nothing new or interesting to discuss at more frequent meetings.
I took this as a bid to usurp my power and found some forceful arguments against his opinion on where and when we should meet.
The last thing I wanted was a long discussion and a vote when my authority was being challenged.
I have often heard the Vet advise his close friends, some of whom were on the parish council, that the way to destroy opposition was through telling a few porkies. Never mind the rights and wrongs of the argument, just lay into them with hints of money misappropriations, planning application shenanigans or accepting bribes. Nothing too accurate, so there were no legal comebacks or court cases. Judicious phrasing would do the job, he claimed.
Works every time, said the Vet, who has never served in any public office and had no idea what he was talking about.
Of course his listeners completely ignored his advice and went behind his back telling everyone he was losing his grip. Always good for a laugh in the pub providing the Vet was not in earshot.
My problem was how to adapt his stupid advice to my situation.
I decided on ridicule.
Hybrids were not really dogs in our image, I told the assembled gang. They were not accepted by the Kennel Club or other high-class shows, they had no people prepared to speak up for them and their intelligence was suspect.
That should do it, I thought, and watched as the gang slowly nodded in agreement. Not one came to Chorkie’s defence and he left the barn with head bowed and tail in the drooping position.
Rational and (almost) truthful argument won the day again. I’m still in charge.
The Vet goes bump in the night
I was woken by a howling outside. I had been in a deep slumber, dreaming about my role as a key member of the combined gangs of the county, when this quite awful sound snatched the final scene from me - I am sure I was about to be crowned Jake the Leader.
Dog or fox, I thought, still bemused by my sudden awakening. The urgent scratching at the door confirmed it was a colleague from the gang because we had an arrangement, this was the signal that my immediate attendance was needed, indeed demanded.
Of course, the Vet, sleeping peacefully upstairs, would be woken by the racket and would investigate in the most vile of tempers. I was determined not to be caught this time, as on a previous similar occasion he had come clattering down the stairs, missing the last step and falling heavily not a metre from where I was laying. Normally I would have been wide awake at this point, but a very bad cold and some unspeakable medicine from the Vet had drugged me into inaction.
He cursed and swore hitting out with the heavy stick he kept by the bed for such emergencies. He missed my head my millimetres and I recovered by senses in time to avoid another swipe and ran for the sitting room.
This time he took the steps more carefully but still managed to catch his bare foot on the mat at the bottom of the stairs and slide most gracefully head first in to the hat stand. His ill temper magnified a hundred times and I was out of the door (I can still use the cat’s flap in an emergency) in a flash to see where the disturbance came from. And to avoid the Vet’s violently swinging stick.
I heard and identified the call. It was Jock, Mrs Cuthwaite’s Skye Terrier, who had retreated to the hedge at the end of the garden. Wise fellow, I thought, for no matter what the problem, it would be nothing to the retribution by the Vet who, by this time, was standing by the front door stick in hand and torch at the ready.
That torch was kept by the front door. I was constantly surprised by this fact and wondered why the Vet failed to keep it at the top of the stairs and avoid his misadventures on the staircase in the dark. In his sleep-filled state he had never managed to find the light switch for the hallway, believing that fumbling for it was wasting valuable time catching the burglar, or whoever was causing the racket. He always believed that the scratching at the door indicated someone doing his best to break down it down. It never occurred to him that it might be an animal - and he’s a Vet!
I found Jock easily enough and we both watched as the Vet ventured cautiously into the garden swinging the torch from side to side and holding the stick in the upright position. Of course, it was bound to happen. He missed a large stone right in front of him, recently placed there by our twice-a-week gardener Everard. Over went the Vet, this time dropping the torch and the stick and screaming blue murder that his big toe was broken.
Who he expected to help him his was something of a mystery. Large detached house, half an acre of garden and everyone in the vicinity fast asleep. Not a chance said Jock, who by this time was so intrigued by the sight of the Vet limping back to the house that he almost forgot to tell me what brought him here in the first place.
As the front door slammed Jock said Mrs Cuthwaite had woken him up by prowling round the house with a poker and pleading with him to get up and help her search for a lost earring.
Frightened of getting crack on the head from the poker, he too made a quick exit and ran for my house. He had been in quite a state, but the antics of the Vet had calmed him down and he was now ready to return home. Mrs Cuthwaite has admitted to the Vet to having “senior moments” when she forgets where things have been put, but getting up in the middle of the night to find them is something new.
Jock, now forewarned, will sleep a little less soundly at night, but make up the loss by a little extra daytime snoozing.
Democratic dogs
The more observant of my readers may have noticed an omission in my musings - there are no girls in the gang. In fact, there are very few, just one I think, mentioned in the stories at all.
That was Candy, a prize-winning bitch belonging to Mrs Anderson who, to her owner’s surprise and consternation, decided to spend the night away from home and was believed to be the victim of dognappers.
All turned out well but the episode did make me think about the advisability of inviting girls as permanent members of the gang. I raised the dilemma with the boys on a number of occasions and the consensus appeared to be that we were better off with a male-only rule.
Their reasons were somewhat obtuse. Girls, they thought, were more likely to disobey orders and be less disciplined. Then there was the problem of puppies.
While the boys generally had no objection to pups per se ( I think the use of a little Latin is permissible in these blogs, raises the tone a bit), after all they were once youngsters themselves; it’s the fuss and bother pups bring in their wake that annoys them, and me I have to admit.
They take all the attention after birth and the fathers are forgotten. Our contribution to the event is hardly ever acknowledged and we are packed off quickly back to our own homes after our role is complete.
Whoever thinks about bringing to pups to meet their dad? Very few owners indeed.
When they get a little older are they ever told who their father was? No is the answer to that one.
It’s all about the mothers and their role in bringing up the pups. Why should they have to do this important task without the help of the father. Humans are very fond of emphasising the importance of a male parent in the development of children. Why not us?
For these reasons and because we dogs feel that we are not given the opportunity to help with our offspring, the gang, on a majority vote, decided to not to admit girls. Usually I do not hold with such democratic procedures and feel that my view should always prevail. But in an important decision such as this I decided to let the boys have a say.
The fact that I lobbied quite fiercely for the ban had some bearing on the result I am sure. In fact I took each one aside and explained the problems of having girls in the gang, adding quite a few reasons to those already discussed.
The result could well be more of those pesky pups and the girls gradually taking over – not a situation to be contemplated with any equanimity.
So, I had won again. Life can be allowed to carry on in the tranquil fashion the gang is used to. I feel vindicated in putting on the pressure.
Please, don’t anyone accuse me of disliking the girls. I am the father of numerous puppies.
That proves my point.
Food for thought
The Vet seemed out of sorts last week and I could not discover a reason. I like to know what makes him tick and why he has these mood swings and, frankly, I have decided to put it down to his poor diet. His meals are irregular and contain too much of what is described these days as junk food. However, to give him his due, he is always careful to see that my meals appear regularly once every evening and contain what is generally considered to be a healthy dog diet. So plenty of protein, vitamins, the right amount of fat, with a selection minerals thrown in. Keeps me slim and vigorous and, because of my advanced age, I only suffer the aches and pains appropriate to a human of say 60ish. A little bit of a limp here and the odd twinge there which slow me down a little, but what I lack in agility, I make up for in intelligence far beyond others of my breed, or come to that, any breed you can name. So why can’t he take advice from his friend, the good doctor Jack Simpson? I know they see each other regularly, the Vet to cast an eye over his poodle, Peaches, and the doctor to give advice on human diet. They then squabble over chess moves until I am quite weary of listening and retreat for a nap. It was not quite like that when I was a youngster. In those days there was not the variety available and the food served up to me and my friends was dreary, a diet of just biscuits and a tin of unappetising meat, never worth looking forward to. Today, with the more varied choice, the Vet and most of the owners I know, provide really tasty and healthy meals. This fact does not help poor old Gus, my Alsatian friend. He has been a tricky eater for years and even now will often go for long periods – three or four days – without food. The Vet has tried to get to the bottom of this phenomenon and says that he has never before come across a dog who refused good wholesome food for such long periods. Not even Gus’s favourite food – dried pig’s snout – can tempt him on these “off days”. The funny fact is that he seems to suffer no ill effects from this abstinence and when we, his fellow gang members, try to discuss it with him, he shakes his head and walks away. Some of us believe it is because of a traumatic event in his early life, but we do not pry. The choice of dog food in this country is influenced by what’s happening in the wider world. From what I hear, there are now restaurants for dogs in some cities, although who chooses the food is left in some doubt - does one point to the menu with a recently manicured paw, or does the owner sit at the table and take it upon himself, or herself, to decided what little Fido-darling is going to eat. At least who pays the bill is quite clear. We dogs don’t carry cash, a little like royalty. Dog restaurants are not the only crazy ideas. There is a chain of pet shops about to launch a co-ordinated range of dog coats, T-shirts and jewellery-encrusted leads. Even the Vet found this hilarious, he almost choked from laughing. We, on the other hand, find little funny in this sorry tale. This de-animalising, trying to make us look more like humans, is outrageous and an affront to our dignity. We shall have to start a campaign and the gang was sent home from our last meeting with instructions to come back with ideas. I do not have great hopes of their ability to carry out any lateral thinking, although the new members might be more capable. The others will have no stomach for a fight.
The gang expands
As hinted in previous blogs, I have been giving much thought to enlarging my gang of faithful but rather ragtail followers. Injecting some new blood into the weary warriors seemed like a good idea when I looked them over at our last meeting.
They have never been really introduced, so here is a quick resume of my forlorn-looking followers.
First among equals is Gus, the Alsatian. Although of German descent, the British breeds among us hold no grudges for what happened all those years ago and consider him an all-round good chap. Bright, alert and always willing to help, he is regarded as my number two and takes over when I am unable to make meetings.
To be absolutely honest, Gus is probably the purest among us. The others, often without the knowledge of their owners, are not the aristocrats they believe they are. The Vicar’s two beagles, for instance, have a touch of French blood and police inspector Frank Ash is not prepared to answer question about his Cairn Terrier Spot’s antecedents. But I do not judge them harshly and they have been good supporters over the years.
Now is time for a change. Mrs Cuthwaite’s Skye Terrier, Jock, is an admirable fellow and deserves a place among us, while I thought it wise to bring in Percy the Chorkie – a mix of Yorkshire Terrier and Chihuahua - to give the hybrids a chance.. After all, we are not Crufts, or members of the Kennel Club.
I am sure everyone will get on and to encourage acceptance of the newcomers I have instigated some training sessions. For instance, they will have to learn our barking and tail-wagging codes. I am reluctant to admit that not all current members have mastered these to the standard I had expected, but I have high hope of the latest recruits.
Gus is good teacher and will be responsible for making sure there is steady progress on all fronts. I expect them to pick up the less-complicated barking procedures quickly, so that in a couple of months or so we will all be able to be in touch in code – a vital part of keeping our plans away from prying human eyes and ears – and, dare I say it, possible spies among us. Tail wagging is taking much longer than I anticipated. Only the rudiments have been mastered.
These ways of communicating become ever more imperative as new rules and regulations are forced upon us by the authorities. Only the other day there was talk of dog restrictions in parks. No longer will we be able to run freely in public places, but must be kept on leads. Already many breeds are forced to wear a muzzle guard when out for walks.
Then there is the new rule about weight, or more correctly, overweight. A dog’s obesity is regarded as being entirely the responsibility of owners who face a crippling fine if they are caught. They say it is for our health. More likely it is to raise revenue for the local authorities which are supposed to police this silly law.
I, for one, will be most annoyed if my favourite chocolate bites and the odd cream cake fail to appear on the menu in future.
The gang has spent many hours discussing these petty and spiteful rules and have come to the conclusion that resistance to them now would be futile. Like the early trades unions we are just too low in numbers to effect any changes. But like them, our time will come and we will get organised. I see myself as leader of a massive protest movement of dogs. Quite a picture.
Tall tails
I wish I could have been consulted before learned professors decide the way we wag our tails is an indication of the thoughts going on in our heads. I have only one comment – absolute rubbish.
Who better to know the reasons for wagging to the left, the right, up or down, than a dog.
I overheard of this research while the Vet was speaking to one of his clients, Insp Ash, owner of Cairn Terrier, Spot, who had been brought in with a spot of bother with his tail (sorry about that, but I could not resist the temptation for a little humorous repetition).
I suppose it was Spot’s inability to move his tail at normal speed which started the Vet off on that latest piece of ridiculous research, which came from Italy, I believe. The nonsense stated, in brief, that we wag our tails to the right when we are happy and to the left when we are not.
I think I remember telling readers that my gang had a code based on barks so that we could communicate - what I did not reveal at the time was that we had another trick up our fur coats: codes based on tail wagging when it was not appropriate to bark.
Our code has everything to do with tail position and nothing whatsoever to do with our state of mind. Simply explained, the message depended on the position of the tail in relation to the sun’s progress across the sky (in winter this still applied because we are all able to visualise the arc without having to actually see it). The sun rises in the east and sets in the west all the time. All we had to do was wag the tail into the appropriate position on the arc, hold it there for a couple of seconds, and the message was clear.
Simple and foolproof. I cannot go into the details, because I am sworn to uphold the secret message code from human understanding, as were my male forbears going back countless generations.
Just let’s say it takes years of practice to perfect. Not one of the gang has managed to master the full intricacies, but most have enough knowledge to communicate fairly successfully. Misinterpretation is always a factor, which has led to some amusing situations. There was the time Alsatian Gus was attempting to tell me one snowy morning that there was danger ahead, but what he actually signalled was “keep going, no problems ahead”. I fell into a deep ditch, eventually climbed out unharmed, but was somewhat shaken.
I ordered the gang to practise signalling every day after that incident.
Those two Italian professors claimed that understanding their theory would help vets treat dogs who came in to see them. If my Vet adopts that stupid idea he will finish up going crazy trying to work out right from left, up from down, and a circle from a square. What a delicious prospect.
You may recall that in a previous blog we were concerned about dognapping and feared that Jack Russell Candy was in the hands of criminals. Owner Mrs Anderson was told to expect a phone call demanding bags of cash in exchange for her return.
When this was discussed by the gang we decided to carry out our own search the following morning. Naturally we found her in short time as she had never been in the hands of dognappers.
She had fallen asleep in a dilapidated barn a couple of miles from the house and failed to wake up before darkness fell. She heard no calls and slept on peacefully through the night ready to go home in the morning. Then we found her. One of the most comfortable nights ever, she told us, with little shame over putting her owner through such turmoil. Jack Russells can be quite heartless.
Dognapping fears in the village
The news was flying around the village and took only minutes to reach the Vet’s surgery. I was in the kitchen eating my supper when I heard a scream emanating from his room. I left the food to finish later and padded out to the corridor.
“My dog’s been kidnapped,” screeched the voice I just recognised as belonging to Mrs Anderson, the owner of a fine Jack Russell, Candy. “I came home from doing a bit of shopping and there she was – gone. Mrs Anderson hardly drew a breath. “I thought might she was in her favourite hiding place near the cellar door, but no. Then I searched the garden thoroughly, in case I had left the back door open and she had got out. Nothing, no sign of Candy anywhere.”
With that a flood of tears began as the Vet tried to calm her down. “I am sure she will be somewhere, maybe she decided to go for a walk,” he suggested, a little lamely I thought.
Candy is a very valuable bitch, winning prizes all over the country, even getting a certificate at Crufts one year. Mrs Anderson was well aware of the spate of dognappings happening in nearby counties, and was obviously afraid she would never see her little darling again.
I, of course, keep up with the news and so knew that this crime was happening not just nearby, but throughout the land. Dognappers were on the prowl everywhere, but this was the first time they had come so close to home.
My gang members had nothing to fear from these criminals, as they concentrated only on dogs of some value – my friends, mostly mongrels, could relax. Five pounds would have bought the lot of them
Nor was I in danger. The years have crept up on me and although I might have been a champion at rounding up sheep in my younger days, now I find it difficult to run to the bottom of the garden. I was certainly no target. . My consolation was that with age came increased savvy – a word learned recently from the Vet – which enabled me to outwit other hounds and guarantee my role as gang leader. This would be particularly useful when we broadened the membership. My understanding was that working dogs were snatched who could be sold on, along with others who were worth a ransom demand. Perhaps Mrs Anderson could expect a phone call. I know she would pay whatever was demanded.
The Vet sent her on her way and returned to phone the police. They were too busy doing other work to worry about a lost dog and Insp Frank Ash, himself the owner of a valuable Cairn Terrier, was most apologetic. He said he had his hands full with a spate of burglaries in the area.
What are things coming to, I thought. It was getting quite lawless round here and the gang agreed when I got round to calling a meeting later that day. We spoke about setting up a vigilante sub-gang, made of the strongest members and drafting in more muscle from the village dogs. The weaker among us supported the idea, the others were more wary.
However, we did decide to start our own search in the morning for Candy using the intelligence system we set up some years ago and which is still working well. Dogs united and all that.
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Hybrid hounds
The fact that spring has sprung earlier than usual this year means a lot to me and my fellow canines. We are just as aware as you humans that nature bursts forth in all its glory ever year, usually on time, and that we, too, feel an extra bounce in our step. Whether out for walks with our pals or strolling in the woods near the village, the many new smells are enticing and even I, a dog in his middle years, feels slightly playful.
This energy is transmitted to everyone in the gang and where dark humour filled our meetings in the winter months, we now gather in the ever lighter evenings to discuss plans for the sun-filled days that lay ahead.
Just one thing, one dark cloud, appears on the horizon – the dreaded summer holiday. Most of us are unlucky enough to accompany the family when they set off for the rented cottage by the sea or the hotel lost in the depths of the countryside. More and more are accepting dogs as they see a profit can be made in housing and feeding us in quite acceptable, but by no means luxurious, accommodation.
The fact that dogs prefer to stay in familiar surroundings does not seem to occur to pet owners and we are dragged, for the most part reluctantly, into the car for the long, uncomfortable and quite boring journey to our new home for the fortnight.
Gus the Alsatian, is perhaps the most travelled of us all, although I have endured the Vet’s company on his fishing trips many times. Gus, however, goes to the seaside, and has to put up with the dampness, the sand – often in his food – and the extraordinary long hikes by the crashing waves. And, of course, the cold, - because these holidays are taken in remote spots in Scotland, scarcely identifiable on a large-scale map. The chances of meeting other hounds are most unlikely, but last year Gus got lucky and met a dog on the sands which quite took his breath away.
Being an intelligent sort of fellow, Gus was familiar with most breeds, but this one was like nothing he had experienced before. Small, fluffy-haired with keen eyes and a mouth which seemed to be in a permanent scowl, this fellow was a Cockapoo.
Of course the gang had never heard of such an animal and greeted the name with howls of laughter, when Gus told us the tale. I, however, being of superior intelligence to those scruffs, was familiar with the name. According to stories I have heard at the Vet’s surgery, this was a new breed, a mix of cocker spaniel and poodle.
As I explained to the boys these hybrids, as they are called, are appearing more frequently as some of the better-known breeds loose popularity and fade from the shown ring.
But when I am addressing the group, most of who have never managed to trace even their own fathers, I have to remember that their understanding of breeding is somewhat limited. I thought it a waste of time bothering to explain this new phenomenon and merely gave them a couple of other new names to be thinking about.
Chorkie, a mix of Yorkshire Terrier and Chihuahua, I met when the owners came to see the Vet and personally I thought it looked rather forlorn without any of the better attributes of either parent. I heard the Vet say that this could often be the case with hybrids – there was no guarantee that they would inherit the good genes.
I tried to get into conversation with the Chorkie, but they kept him on a short lead. However, I know the owners, Mr and Mrs Cousins, and where they live, so I can call round for a chat later when they let the Chorkie – named Percy by the way – out in the garden.
I was much more impressed with the Labradoodle. A cross between a Labrador and a Poodle he came in for his injections just a week ago and looked like a dog of intelligence, much more on my level.
I heard the Vet say these animals were being used as guide dogs for blind people and I thought he could be a welcome addition to the gang, raise the tone a bit and show the others what a few brains can do. I am little tired of being the only one of superior intelligence, although I must not go too far - competition and all that.
My aim now is to make contact, tell him about the advantages of joining us and reveal our secret meeting place. I look forward to more stimulating meetings.
Blood and Crufts
Interesting happenings of late. We have become blood donors, a new idea which I hope will not go any further with my Vet. He gave me suspicious glances when this particular item made headline news on the television one day last week.
Normally I don’t take much notice of what appears on the box even though the Vet watches every news broadcast in the evening after surgery closes. Naturally I am by his side, mostly dozing, but when this story came on I was immediately awake. I could not believe my floppy ears.
Luckily, the Vet has not yet caught on that I am able to follow programmes on both radio and TV and can relay what’s happening to my coterie of close friends. They, of course, do not have my unique ability to understand human language – except for the odd command. Their total vocabulary is no more than 20 words, while mine runs to hundreds. Luck of the draw I tell them. But it does keep me in power as leader of the pack as they rely on me to inform them what is happening in the world.
Anyway there it was on the TV news – with graphic pictures. This poor dog was having blood siphoned from his body while the vet blathered on about how he felt no pain and loved every minute of the operation.
Some hope, I thought. I have never seen a pooch look so miserable and I have been around. The vet also said that as a large dog, he could easily give a bag full of his best blood and feel no ill effects. The blood was needed, added the vet, to help other dogs who through illness or accident, required a large helping or two to speed recovery.
Can’t argue with that, agreed the gang. The one feeling queasy was Gus, the Alsatian, who noted that only large dogs were expected to contribute, which at least left the rest of us off the hook. Hard luck Gus, we thought.
The Vet is into animal medicines, quite naturally - it is how he makes his very comfortable living - and all the literature that flops on to the doormat every morning is read assiduously. There is always something new coming on to the market and the Vet decided a visit to Crufts might be to his advantage.
We dogs are not allowed to attend the show unless we are actual participants, so the Vet would have to leave me behind. Something of a mercy, I felt, as mixing with 22,000 dogs in a shed is not my idea of a fun day out.
Looking round the hut at the gang I saw that, quite frankly, there was not a show specimen among them. A pretty bedraggled lot they are, not even worth an entry in a local show where standards came nowhere near those at Crufts.
But that fact did not prevent us wanting to find out what exactly goes on there. We have a Rottweiler in the village called Tiger who belongs to the post mistress. His duty is to sit beside her all day to deter thieves and hooligans. He looks fierce enough, but is a real softie. The postmistress decided this year to enter him for Crufts.
After his showing – he won nothing – he came back and it was quite a while before I could arrange to meet him. The postmistress needed him every day and he was not allowed out alone in the evenings, as people had complained that their children ran away when they saw him.
Finally we arranged a meeting and Tiger explained what went on at this show. He told us this amazing story of thousands of dogs in this huge building, all sitting or lying in these little cubicles, or cells as Tiger called them, waiting to be called into the ring.
They could go out on leads into the fresh air, otherwise there was absolutely nothing for them to do. The gang looked particularly interested in this litany of laziness, somewhat jealously, I thought.
Tiger’s turn came and he did his best to appear alert and intelligent. After a few turns round the ring he was pulled up and a lady judge arrived who started feeling him all over. Not a painful experience, but one he would have rather gone without. All the breed lined up while the lady called out the winning names. Tiger was ignored and the postmistress, showing a little annoyance, took him home and has never mentioned Crufts since.
Meanwhile the Vet toured the stands looking for free samples and managed to collect two large carriers full. I heard him telling Mollie, the receptionist, that he considered the four hours there well spent as the freebies he amassed would save quite a bit of cash. He even mentioned going back the following year, this time with a large rucksack.
I help the vet choose a new car
Man’s fascination with cars has baffled me ever since I grew into a fully-fledged adult dog. The Vet is among those people who treat their cars almost like pets – he even gives them names! And they are always for girls.
It’s Penny this, Claire that, even Rachel once. I find it all incomprehensible and so does Gus, the Alsatian, my best friend, with whom I have discussed this subject on many occasions.
He did once try to suggest that a car to a man was something like a large juicy bone to us – to look at and savour until the time came to take it outside and enjoy a good chew. The analogy is quite clear, Gus claimed, but I found it hard to accept man was capable of feeling for his car what we feel for a bone newly arrived from the butcher shop.
Every couple of years the Vet drags me on a round of garages, asking the sales people to let me jump on the back seat to “test its doggy comfort.” Naturally these people are most reluctant to let me into their brand new vehicles – just as I find it so embarrassing to leap up and pretend to lie down, tail wagging to show how much I like this or that car. Quite frankly they are all the same to me. And the smell of fresh leather is not my favourite scent, it causes sneezes and runny eyes. The Vet always says he will give me something to soothe the allergy when we get home, meanwhile I should buck up and stop acting like a puppy. He always insists on leather.
And the sales people have to put up with my antics to placate the Vet who they view as a potential customer.
Of course, he never buys the first car he views. He organises test drives – often for cars he knows he won’t be buying – and spends weeks before making up his mind.
I am often used as the excuse to pass up on a model.
“Jake can’t get comfortable, I can see he is quite distressed,” says the Vet stroking me with one hand while he waves the other in the direction of the so-called lumps in the seat.
It got so bad on the last trek that I decided to jump up and down with glee, barking madly on every back seat, so the Vet had no excuses to turn down the cars on my account. The sales people were perplexed, thinking that unlike all other dogs they knew, I showed enthusiasm for everything to do with cars.
I actually heard one salesman whisper to another that here was a dog they could use in the showrooms to demonstrate to pet owners how their animals would love this or that model. Unfortunately I did not receive any offers.
I would not say the Vet took any particular delight in making the lives of car sales people over a wide area very miserable. He just muttered on the way home: “Let them work for their money.”
There was a very disturbing incident in one showroom where the sales lady decided to demonstrate to the Vet a contraption she called a Dog Seat Belt. I found the very idea of being strapped in most undignified and fought her all the way as she tried to buckle me in. I won, she gave up and the Vet was not impressed with her, or her c cars.
My friend Gus has to submit to the seat belt on every trip and complained to me that he, too, feels a fool wearing it. “When,” he asked me, “have you heard of a dog being saved by a belt in a crash?” I must admit the answer was never. Finally the day arrives when the Vet makes a decision and we go to pick up the new model. I accompany him and wait around while the sales people explain the various knobs and switches. We drive away from the garage and I immediately jump from backseat to passenger seat. That is my designated place, I feel, much more in keeping with my position as pet dog to the Vet. Anyway, I sneeze a lot less sitting up, looking out of the front windscreen. I think the Vet understands and appreciates the savings I am making on the cost of medicines.
The heavy foot of the law
The heavy thud of boots woke me from a pleasant dream. Surgery had just closed and in the welcome quiet I thought I could look forward to a long snooze. But an unusual noise jarred me into instant wakefulness. After all, a dog’s duty is to be aware of possible danger at all times and it would have been a disgrace to my breed if I had slept on. The word would soon have circulated among my friends and further afield that Jake, the Ever Ready (a nickname I had come to relish) had been derelict in his duties. Dogs have been severely punished for lesser offences.
I can think of friends, particularly those who assist the police and fire and rescue service, who have been returned to civilian kennels in disgrace just for failing to answer their wake-up call within the allotted time.
So, there I was, alert and ready for any eventuality when these boots came crashing through the door. Actually the door was open, but such was the racket that it seemed to me it had been brought down by brute force.
The two men made for the surgery, one boot just missing my tail by inches. It could have been a nasty incident. I growled in my most menacing voice, but they took no notice. One, local police inspector Frank Ash, tapped on the door and the other, a sergeant named Timmins, waited outside as the Vet called in his boss.
Timmins took a seat near me, fondled my ears, and relaxed. Then he shot up and made for the surgery. I think he had forgotten his orders to be present as a witness at the interview with the Vet. It was a very anxious half hour later that the Inspector came out followed by a grinning Timmins.
The Vet immediately went to the phone on his desk and dialled a man I know was his solicitor, Mr Biggins. The Vet’s side of the conversation went like this: “I have just had the police round here and I need your advice. Of course it was the police, they were wearing uniforms. Anyway I have known Inspector Ash for years, he has a bad-tempered Cairn Terrier, Spot, which goes around nipping everybody – although the victims see no point in reporting it, the inspector decides who to prosecute. I always have to give him a sedative before treating him – no not the inspector, his dog.
“They have accused me of talking into a mobile phone yesterday as I drove home. With six points on my licence already, I can’t afford another conviction, anyway it’s a case of mistaken identity I don’t drive and speak, not even when I have a passenger. Silence and concentration on the road is my rule. Has been for years.”
I knew this was not quite the truth, for the Vet often carries on a lively conversation with anybody travelling with him, including me. However, it was true that he uses his mobile sparingly – he finds the cost of calls prohibitive and only accepts incoming ones in case an emergency demanding his services.
“It seems I have been reported by an old client. No, not the Vicar, we have patched things up, some other fool who does not like the size of my bills.” He slammed down the phone in exasperation.
Of course, we are talking here of at least 20 possible whistle-blowers, although the Vet would never admit to that many dissatisfied clients, I quickly ran through the list and came to the conclusion it was Mr Parkes, the village’s retired butcher. He has been known to carry a grudge for years.
His pet, Gus the Alsatian, is my best friend and I have often heard tales of the butcher’s dislike of the Vet because of an incident on the cricket field which goes back so far in the mist of time that no one else in the village remembers how the ball was thrown by the fielding butcher into the body of the Vet who was bowling at the time. There was lively debate for weeks in the pub whether this was deliberate. Most people who were at the match agreed it was.
But Gus tells me how that accusation still rankles with the butcher. At this stage I needed to confer with him to find out who had “fingered” the Vet. We dogs have a signalling system if we wish to meet up which consists of coded barks. That done, Gus and I would meet next time I passed his home.
Gus confirmed my own suspicion. It was the butcher. But good old Gus, who always keeps his ear to the ground, tells me the Inspector later admitted to his sergeant that the matter could not be carried any further because a ruling had just come through that only a policeman who has actually witnessed the offence can institute a prosecution.
The Inspector decided to let the Vet stew for a few more days before informing him he was off the hook – something both Gus and I agreed with. Serves the Vet right, we thought.
The Vicar comes to call
When the Vicar walked through the waiting room door a frisson of excitement rippled round the people already waiting there. Glances were exchanged even as the seated men and women greeted their spiritual leader. They knew the antipathy that existed between the Vet and the Vicar.
Of course I, as the ever-present companion of the Vet, also knew of this state of affairs. It was at least as old as I am and almost certainly went back two or three generations before I came on the scene.
I had heard whispers from friends now in their dotage - perhaps 13 or 14 years old - they had learned from their parents or grandparents that the feud started because the Vicar, a bachelor who always kept two dogs, objected to a bill he had received for their treatment one winter.
The Vet had prescribed some expensive medicines and the Vicar had looked them up in his care-of-dogs books when he got home. What he read made him grow hot under the dog collar, he thought he found similarly effective cures at a quarter the price.
It should be remembered at this stage that the Vicar was exceptionally careful with his money, despite having inherited a considerable fortune in his younger years. People said that before the inheritance he had been a generous man, but all that extra cash had turned him into a miser – and a misogynist as he feared to share his possessions with any woman.
The Vet, of course, was aware of all this and continued to allegedly over-charge him at every visit. Why, asked the village, did the Vicar continue to attend the Vet’s surgery all these years and pay out what he considered to be excessive amounts of money?
The answer was because they both enjoyed the bitter verbal confrontations that inevitably ensued, leading at one time, it is claimed, to a full physical fight. Both have denied that story, but there are people who say they remember the screams of pain during that visit - which certainly did not come from the dogs.
On this occasion I took up a strategic position by the door and waited expectantly as the Vicar walked in with his two beagles. I followed them into the surgery, making sure to leave the door ajar. The greeting from the Vet was mild and seemed to be genuine, much to my surprise. On all other occasions the ill-will flowed from the first moment. It was if the Vet sensed a change in the Vicar.
The Vet then asked to examine the dogs and said they both had bad colds and he would prescribe appropriate medicines. Everyone in the waiting room sat on the edge of their seats. Here it comes, they thought.
But no. The Vicar accepted the medicines and the bill that came with them without a protest and paid up promptly.
As he left the surgery he called out over his shoulder. “I have misjudged you all these years and wish to apologise. Your prices have been most fair, as a colleague has proved to me. Good day to you and God bless you.” With that he strode out.
I subsequently learned from one the beagles that the dispute finally reached the ears of the Vicar’s Bishop who not only proved the Vet’s bills to be quite fair, but thought harm was coming to the parish because of the bitterness engendered by the dispute. The suggestion was made that it should be brought to an end. And that was as good as an order to the Vicar.
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Regarding my recent blog on dog coats and our (my friends and I) determination not to wear them. We solved the problem quite simply by rolling on our backs, paws in the air whenever attempts were made to fit them on. The Vet and other owners soon tired of tussling with the buckles and belts and gave up pretty quickly. I did not hear the Vet mention the subject again.
Tale of a Dog Coat
It is easy to become lazy when you are well looked after, but I make a point of exercising regularly, sleeping a full 8 hours a day (and some eight again a night), not forgetting the odd nap in between. A dog needs all the rest he can get when his duties include keeping a watchful eye on all the animals treated at my Vet’s surgery – and their owners, of course.
The other day in walked a lady I recognised as Mrs Cuthwaite dragging her handsome young dog on a long lead. Nothing unusual in that you might say, but two things caught my attention. The first was the change which came over the Vet when he entered the waiting room to see Mrs Cuthwaite there. The second was what I took to be a tartan rug over her arm. This I found a little odd, as the reception area is well heated.
The Vet could not stop fussing around her. Please come into the surgery now Dear Lady, he crooned, ignoring the six other people who had been waiting when she walked in. Attraction between humans had always been a mystery to me and when I told my gang of four closest friends about the Vet’s behaviour towards Mrs Cuthwaite they had no explanation either.
On this particular day I crept up to the surgery door to listen and caught snatches of the conversation between the two. It really did not make much sense as I missed too many words. But the drift I managed to catch concerned winter, cold snaps and coats.
Naturally I surmised that they were talking about her Skye Terrier, Jock, who did have an extra-long luxurious coat which I believe was trimmed just once year in the Spring. I scrambled away as they left the surgery.
Yes, she said in farewell, we must think carefully about how we should approach the problem - and swept out dragging poor Jock behind her. Although not a member of the gang, Jock was a pleasant and trustworthy fellow and I made contact the following day by walking very slowing past his front gate. As usual Jock was sitting nearby gazing into the distance, but this time looking really sad.
I was eager to get to the nub of the conversation between Mrs. Cuthwaite and the Vet and demanded to know from Jock what went on. Then out came the sorry tale. What she had been carrying was a Dog Coat and she wanted to know the Vet’s opinion on this particular piece of apparel, which I might add was anathema to most dogs of my acquaintance.
According to Jock the Vet told her he was in favour of putting coats on all dogs in very cold spells and was thinking about carrying a selection in the surgery for sale.
My heart dropped. I have never seen any dog who did not look like a complete idiot in a coat. It just did not make sense – we have natural coats which for centuries have done the job quite adequately.
This affectation is more to do with owners’ wishes than their pet’s needs and I have met only the occasional Chihuahua who could have a genuine claim to a coat – after all the breed comes from South America where temperatures rarely drop below 30deg C, so our winter weather was a strain on the poor creatures.
Jock’s information could have dire consequences for me and my friends and I could only hope that with global warming on the horizon, extremely cold winters will be a thing of the past.
However, the Vet just might carry out his threat and I could find myself wearing one of those dreadful tie-on blankets. This called for immediate action and a meeting of the gang. Somehow we had to come up with an idea to foil the Vet’s coat ambitions.
Our solution, which even if I say so myself is quite ingenious, will be made clear in the next blog .
The Colonel
Once peace ruled in the surgery after the morning meyhem , the Colonel can be seen sitting patiently waiting to be called in with his dog Rufus, a great pal of mine. We often meet in the nearby woods for a stroll together. Today the Colonel thinks Rufus is looking a little “livery”, his word for anything from drooping watery eyes to pimples on the nose. The truth is that Rufus is in the best of health, but the Colonel, a childless widower, lacks company and finds a twice weekly visit to the Vet a good excuse for a chat. Other regulars have learned to avoid him in the waiting room, as his conversation rather wanders around incidents in the Second World War in which his heroic exploits are painstakingly revealed. Those in the know believe he was actually in the Catering Corps where he reached the towering rank of second lieutenant. The title of Colonel was self inflicted years ago.
Rufus, however, is a dog after my own heart. He bears these visits and examinations by the Vet with great fortitude, even tolerance, much as he puts up with the monthly bath he is subjected to in the large tub upstairs. Piping hot water in a freezing cold room. The Colonel does not believe in central heating, having a giant log fire in the study which keeps him and Rufus happy.
They have a “lady what does” who comes in every morning to light the fires, cook breakfast and tidy up the house. She is called Katarina and comes from some outlandish country way out in eastern Europe. Her English is poor despite having lived in the village for 25 years. Rufus and the Colonel have great difficulty in either making themselves understood or in understanding what she says. Rufus tells me it’s a bit like the Himalayan tribes, except there is little hope that Katarina will one day disappear. She is 65, in rude health and with a brood we have never quite numbered accurately. There is even a rumour that all these children came from four different husbands, three buried in the churchyard and one seen occasionally, ghostlike, walking round the house. He does seem to be a man who is depressed about his future.
Of course Rufus is not my only friend. There is a long line of them and they will be introduced to you gradually as time goes on. Living with the Vet gives me a unique advantage regarding meeting other dogs (and cats, budgies, rabbits, even the odd horse and pony) but, while conversing with these other creatures is not beyond my ability, they are nowhere near as interesting as my own kind.
Annual photograph
Today the practice’s annual photograph is due to take place – a prolonged, tiresome affair for all dogs. Once a year the Vet warns his favourite clients that he has arranged for a professional photographer to attend at whatever time he thinks best and invites their attendance, with pets of course. These are restricted to dogs only.
This is an important event in the village calendar and those invited are judged to be the cream of local society, or more truthfully, the Vet’s top-spending clients. The invitations are most sought after and often lead to terrible squabbles between members of the same family. We have an uncle and nephew still not speaking after a row, now ten year’s old, over which seat to sit on. Each wanted the front row and only one, the uncle, was able to fulfil his long-held dream. These seats are reserved for those whose vet’s bills exceed some exorbitant sum which the Vet keeps a closely-guarded secret.
In fact, the Vet is quite careful with the seating arrangements, recognising the sensitivity of all the guests, and solves the problem by having three rows of banked seats each one numbered. Those allocated the second or third rows and argue about it are flung out unceremoniously. There is a queue at the gate eager to replace them. Every year at least five guests are expelled and advised to take their dogs home. The humiliation is a delight to watch.
The reason everyone wants to attend this event is not just for the photograph (the Vet insists on each guest buying ten copies at grossly excessive prices) but the lavish buffet and drinks selection provided afterwards.
The only fly in the ointment, if one is permitted to mix metaphors, is that rather silly cat, Biggins, the bane of my life and the other household pet. War between us is never ending and at times quite vicious. He has a terrible temper, while I am inclined to stay calm, no matter what the provocation. However, a sharp kick from me is usually enough to send him squealing to the nearest hedge.
Cats, as you know, are mainly creatures of the night and Biggins spends little time at home, day or night, showing that distinct streak of independence for which these animals are famous. Surprisingly, he never gets lost, unlike some friends of mine who often have to be returned home in a recovery van.
When the pictures have been taken and the food demolished, it is time for the Vet’s speech of welcome. His droning voice goes on and on and all the dogs fall asleep at their masters’ feet.
So, being a loyal companion, I was forced to listen to the Vet and his endless stream of stories about how he made his way in the world, from a poverty-stricken youth to his current pre-eminent position.
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