Archive for March, 2007

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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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.

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.

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 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.