Archive for July, 2007

Very occasionally, when the mood takes him, the Vet will go on a regime of exercise which includes sessions at the gym and visits to the local swimming pool. The benefits are not usually apparent and after a couple of weeks or so he gives up and returns to his unhealthy eating habits.

I have to wait in the car when he indulges in these fantasies of svelte figure and reborn health which does give me time to ponder on the human condition where looking good has become an obsession among many of the Vet’s clients and acquaintances. I cannot vouch for his friends, as he has so few they do not come into the picture.

I was musing the other day while sitting in the car that we dogs have no such thoughts or worries about weight and exercise, although there are claims that we, too, are suffering from obesity tendencies.

The fault, if it’s true - which I doubt - lies squarely at the door of owners who over- indulge their pets. We eat what we are given and usually know when we are full and so refuse to finish what’s in the bowl. I will admit to something of a sweet tooth myself and to enjoying a small piece of cake when they are offered, which in the miserly household run by the Vet is just a couple of times a year. Hardly a fat-inducing diet.

The gang, on the other hand, are generally a crew of fatties. With the exception of my best friend Gus, the Alsatian, they all show what it means to eat too much, exercise infrequently and sleep at every opportunity.

I know they suffer from a variety of complaints ranging from diabetes to heart palpitations, hardening of the arteries and arthritis. As a gang they are just not up to the rigors of the training exercises I have tried to introduce.

I wanted them to show me what they are capable of when it came to tracking, chasing or even playing stick and ball games. Not a chance.

They wheeze and puff like very old dogs, falling down when they are tired – usually after just ten minutes of training — complain all the time about their medical problems and actually refuse to carry on unless they have a long break.

And some are in their prime of life. Jock the Skye Terrier is just three years old and the vicar’s beagles are no more than four. The doctor’s poodle, Peaches, is even younger but has all the symptoms of departing this life in a couple of months.

I must find fresh blood for my gang.

This awful weather is putting a real damper on the gang’s activities. We are, in the army phrase, “confined to barracks”, or more correctly to our homes because the shed where we meet in flooded and walks in the pouring rain have no attraction to owners or hounds.

Contrary to what you might believe, dogs are not frightened of water, just unable to cope with damp coats, wet paws or waterlogged ears. That’s why most owners keep towels at the ready when we come home sodden. A good shake can help, but a warm fluffy cloth is always welcome. Yet coping with recent downpours is getting beyond even the most caring owners. They prefer to stay indoors.

The Vet, too, is fed up with the incessant rain and has been talking about taking a few days off to journey to the sun. But he never gets round to booking. His inherent meanness always gets the better of his desire to seek a Mediterranean holiday, for which I am most grateful. Now that dogs can have passports there have been threats of my going with him overseas and what’s worse, his driving to the south of France via the ferry.

But all this talk of rain and holidays does not solve the problem of keeping the gang happy while the heavens open up all day every day.

I sometimes think that my refusal to countenance dog coats was not the wisest course. Waterproofs might come in handy at the moment. Such garments are, I am advised, available in some countries such as the United States and that most dog-loving country of all, France.

I have been told that the French quite regularly take their dogs to restaurants, coats and all, something quite repugnant to the British. I have no wish to be fed titbits under the table anywhere but in my own home.

Pubs, however, are a different matter. The Vet is not much of a drinker, but once a week he goes to the village pub, more for the company than the alcohol, and often I am taken with him.

My role is to lick up a beer while he enjoys a brandy or two, sit by his feet and listen to the conversation of the regulars. After about a year of these visits I developed a taste for beer and the landlord now keeps my own bowl behind the bar.

A pint and a warm fire in the winter are very welcome and I believe the Vet enjoys my company, too. Sometimes on the walk home he will hum a little tune to himself and reflect on life, directing his thoughts to me. I listen closely because in these reflective moments I might be able to pick up intelligence useful to me and the gang. Plans for the future are sometimes unwittingly revealed and I am able to counter any I dislike.

Oh yes, and it’s one up on that cat Biggins. He is never taken to the pub.

Wimbledon fortnight is over and everything returns to normal in the Vet’s household. Except for one thing: Biggins the cat is missing.

Normally this would not attract any sympathy from me, but the effect on the Vet is terrible to see. He walks around with a face matching the weather – miserable, damp and permanently cloudy. I suspect he has shed more than a tear or two in secret.

Biggins failed to return home for a couple of weeks after he went missing and for the first couple of days the Vet did not worry. It had happened before and the silly animal had always come back, looking somewhat dishevelled and pretty worn out. I do not ask him where he has been because I do not expect a truthful answer. His antics in the neighbourhood are none of my business, although there have been complaints to the Vet because of his - Biggins not the Vet’s - continued wailing in the night.

One of my gang, the Alsatian Gus, explained that cats have a habit during certain periods of the year, to go out hunting female friendship and stay out for long periods.

Obviously the Vet knows this, but on this latest occasion, not a peep was heard which, the Vet confided in Mary the housekeeper, must mean something sinister has happened.

He tried a couple of theories, ranging at the top with Biggins falling foul of an erratic driver, to a catnabbing (Biggins was a pretty valuable animal, he explained to Mary, probably worth a good few hundred pounds – something I was not aware of and would dispute if given the chance). In between there was the possibility that he had found a more comfortable berth without the inconvenience of having a dog around (me) or he had just forgotten his way home.

The latter was highly unlikely, the Vet confided, as cats were notorious in finding their way back even after an absence of weeks or even months.

There had been no reports of cats lying incapacitated on roads in the vicinity of the village, nor of ransom demands. Could he just have caught the eye of a cat lover and tempted into a new home with superior food and bedding?

It was on my mind to ask the gang to conduct a search, but realised in time there was no love lost between Biggins and my friends who were more likely to ignore a sighting and deny any knowledge of his whereabouts.

Then one morning a large car drove up to the Vet’s front door and out popped Biggins in the arms of well-dressed lady. The Vet was so overjoyed he almost forgot his manners and after kissing and hugging the cat invited the lady into the house.

I was not allowed inside, but waited for the lady to come out. There were profuse thanks from the Vet followed by vigorous handshakes and off she went.

It turned out that Biggins had fallen down a disused well shaft in her garden and been rescued by her husband who heard pitiful cat noises and decided to investigate the old well. Rather the worse for wear, he had been cared for by the couple until back again in rude health. A chip in his neck had identified his owner.

Was I disappointed that he had come back? I am not prepared at this juncture to admit my feelings, it is sufficient to point out that the morning following his return saw an almighty fight between us. I won, of course.

Wimbledon fortnight is a strange time in the Vet’s house. As an ardent tennis fan, the Vet prepares very carefully for the event.

First, he brings in a locum. As the locum sleeps on the premises and is fed three good meals a day, works more than the eight hours they are paid for – this is a prerequisite as the Vet demands value for money – and is expected to go out every evening so the Vet is not disturbed, there are few volunteers for the post.

Particularly as the front door is locked at 11 o’clock sharp and no key is provided (there have been a number of helpers in past history forced to sleep in the garden shed for being just ten minutes beyond the curfew hour).

How, readers may wonder, does he ever attract any takers for the post? The answer is that he has a secret extra benefit none of the potential takers can resist. He allows them complete freedom.

I have no interest in tennis, but the choice of locum is always worth a viewing. Those who leave after the first week receive no pay at all, others that bang continuously on the sitting room door receive no response and it is not unknown for Mary, the housekeeper, to have to call an ambulance to take away those who start to act strangely.

One poor fellow was screaming gibberish as they led him to the vehicle, while another was slobbering all over the place. He would have put a dog to shame.

I promised to reveal how the Vet released himself from the tangle with the girlfriend Fran. He refused to give up his pets, as she requested, and after arguing for hours, he walked out into the garden howling in the night. After an hour she left, never to return.

I suspect it has come as something of a surprise to my readers to learn that I can speak to Biggins, the cat. Different species, different languages, I hear, but that is not always the case.

Having lived with Biggins all these years and spent many hours studying his mews and meows when he is in touch with other cats, I have deciphered his wailing down to a few score necessary words I can understand. Even speak, I might add.

This has enabled us to hold reasonably erudite conversations, although I have restricted these to only those words necessary to keep up, what humans declare to be, civilised relations.

While there has been usually a great antipathy between us, there have been times when I have found it essential to call a short truce while we sort out a mutual problem.
This has been, without exception, to do with the Vet.

I do admit to some jealousy when Biggins sits purring with contentment on the Vet’s lap while I lie on the floor. But I usually put that emotion to one side because the number of times this happens is small indeed compared to the Vet’s stroking and obvious fondness for me.

If Biggins gets on my nerves I try a short, sharp kick to his rear end and that normally settles the argument. He knows better than to retaliate as I am bigger, heavier and by far the best fighter. Thus peace, if not complete respect, normally reigns between us.

Sorry to digress. I had planned to speak to Biggins about the lady friend of the Vet, called Fran, who enters the house just as we are kicked out the back door. I wanted to know if the cat’s abilities to spit, screech and snarl would result in Fran’s exclusion on a permanent basis if he brought this ability to bear every time she left the house..

However, we have been saved by a furious row between the Vet and Fran last week. She claimed her sneezing fits have become more intense while in the house and demanded that the Vet gets rid of both of us – for ever. Our hairs on the furniture were to blame, she insisted.

The set to, and how the Vet’s dilemma was finally solved, will be explained in more detail in the next blog.