Archive for January, 2008

Latest from the Buddies Pet Insurance news team…Australia’s beloved koala is under threat from rising levels of carbon that is poisoning its only food source, the eucalyptus tree. An Australian government scientist has warned that climate change, and specifically the rising levels of greenhouse gases in the atmosphere, is pushing up toxins and reducing nutrients in the eucalyptus leaves. He said the trend would force the koalas out of the trees and on to the ground in search of food, putting them in danger. Changing trees to find new food sources could mean they have to walk across the ground making them exposed to dog attacks.  And if there are roads to cross it means they are vulnerable to cars, as well. The large marsupials, known for their bear-like looks and placid nature, sleep for 20 hours a day because the leaves they eat provide so little energy.

How the Vet came to be lying in a hospital bed and me with a damaged front paw all bandaged up to three times its normal size, is a simple tale.

Regular readers of this blog will be aware that the Vet is not what one might call a competent driver and has often avoided accidents by sheer good luck. This time however his luck deserted him and unfortunately I happened to be in the car with him

It is sufficient to relate that he failed to look carefully to his right at a junction and collided with another car. There were at least 10 witnesses present each one ready to swear that it was all the Vet’s fault, so his usual trick of blaming everyone else for whatever goes wrong, just would not wear this time.

The driver of the other car, a sprightly lady of middle years, was shocked but unharmed and immediately came over to our car to remonstrate with the Vet in words which passers-by did not expect to come forth from such an elegant female.

However on reaching our vehicle she realised that we had suffered far worse from the encounter. The Vet was drooped over the wheel murmuring incomprehensibly using the word “mother” a lot and I was slumped over the seat in obvious pain.

She immediately saw my predicament and ignoring the Vet, opened the door to my side and gathered me up in her arms, cooing words much more appropriate to a small baby than a rather large and elderly dog.

By this time quite a crowd had gathered and someone remembered the driver and decided to call an ambulance. When it arrived the Vet was gingerly extracted from the car still talking to himself and rushed away.

I meanwhile remained in the lady’s arms and she carried me, not without some difficulty for I am quite heavy, to her car and laid me gently on the back seat.

I was a little dazed and my front paw did hurt quite a lot. I decided that unless I made it quite plain that I was in some pain, she would think it alright to drive me to the address on my collar.

As the Vet was not at home, being busy elsewhere having X-rays and medicines applied, I knew that I would lack the necessary treatment. Mary, the Vet’s housekeeper, was a very competent lady, but her skills were generally restricted to the kitchen, and although she watched the Vet give treatment from time to time, I felt I was in need of rather more professional care.

So I began to howl and lifted the injured paw to show exactly where the throbbing was concentrated. I saw a look of great sympathy cross the lady’s face and she made soothing noises again telling me she would be taking me straight to a vet.

That won’t be the one I live with, I thought, as she drove off at great speed but with much more care than the Vet ever demonstrated. In fact she took me to her house where she made me comfortable on a settee with cushions and blankets and encouraged me to take a pill which she said would ease my pain.

By this time the discomfort had subsided considerably, but I thought it best not to let on as I seemed to have landed on my feet, as it were.

She telephoned another vet, thank goodness, and he decided to bandage my paw as a precautionary measure. I was then driven home and sat in the lap of luxury as Mary attended to my every need.

The Vet spent three weeks in hospital and was ordered to attend court later on a charge of dangerous driving. His licence was saved because of his professional need for transport, but magistrates imposed a very hefty fine and gave him a warning that if it happened again he could go to jail. Overall a very satisfactory outcome.

What will they think of next? The latest craze is canine cross-country running, with owners in tow, of course.

I have not yet managed to glimpse this so-called sport and none of the gang, to my knowledge, has actually been forced into taking part in this demeaning exercise. Apparently owners are under the misapprehension that their pets actually enjoy the outing.

I called a meeting to learn some more from those with experience and we met in the usual barn where the atmosphere was rather tense. No one wanted to be the next to suffer these indignities.

According to Billie, the Border Collie, the whole uncomfortable business involved owners put a harness round their waists which is then extended to the dog’s collar or chest and, animal in front, off they went jogging for miles round the countryside.

This “sport” is called canni-cross and owners and dogs are supposed to benefit from the exercise. It’s getting’s so popular, said Billie, that his owner was thinking about taking part in the event which is being organised at Crufts for the first time this year.

A communal shudder went through the gang. When I asked for opinions, not one raised a tail in favour. We agreed that none of us minded going out for the daily walk, a steady stroll was of benefit particularly to the older dogs who need to keep supple, but a cross-country run pulling a human along was another thing entirely.

It was pointed out by my number two Gus, the Alsatian, that dogs were not expected to do all the work as the owner was meant to keep up and not become a drag on the animal. How many times had we heard that, I commented.

I suggested that we all return home and keep our ears open for any more information about cani-cross and meet again in two days to decide what action we could take if the event was suggested to one of us.

In my house there was an animated conversation on that subject going on between the Vet and Mary the housekeeper. He had read just that weekend about the so-called sport and the article had included the information that owners were advised to consult with a vet to make sure their pets were up to the strenuous exercise.

A gleam entered the Vet’s eye when he related this, as it suggested that a new revenue stream was likely to land in his surgery. He looked like he was going to advise all his clients to enter their dogs for the competitions. Mary, being the sensible one, suggested that not all dogs would be suitable for such an exhausting exercise. Lurchers, for instance, could find it hard to concentrate under great physical stress and other breeds would surely wander off the track to investigate the undergrowth and interesting smells.

The result could be chaos, not to mention a number of fatal heart attacks, and the Vet could find himself sued for compensation if a weak dog were to indulge in the sport on his advice.

Mary’s mention of possible cash compensation hit the Vet where it hurts most – in his pocket - and he agreed to be circumspect in his advice, although he was still in favour of making the sport more widely known among his clients. A small brochure, might to the trick, he told her.

When I reported all this back to gang, I learned that many of their owners were discussing the same article, but few were thinking of entering the sport. I, of course, was quite safe. Neither the Vet nor I are in the least bit athletic.

I called the meeting to order and most members obeyed. While those getting a little deaf ignored the command, others, suffering from the effects of old age, were still chasing their tails to find a comfortable spot.

Eventually they all managed to settle down and I spoke about the subject most on my mind: the need for dogs to take more care of their owners.

There had been horrific stories of late concerning accidents happening when owners try to call their dogs to order and make them obey simple commands. When they stubbornly refuse owners tend to go berserk and break out in fits of tantrums.

This has led in one or two cases to sudden heart attacks and the dogs, mindful of their duties, have tried to summoned help from the nearest passersby. Dragging the uncomprehending man or woman to the prone figure on the ground takes a lot of strength and dogs have learned to be wary of those people carrying walking sticks. There have been instances of dogs being clouted on the head and the poor victim ignored. Long spells in hospital were often the result.

In my opinion all this can be avoided by the simple expedient of dogs doing what is asked of them. Short, sharp commands are best, of course, because that is what we understand, but when the owner goes into a long explanation of why his pet should, for instance, sit, neither dog nor master is really in command. Confusion reigns, tempers flare and pets get very agitated.

So, I told the lads, obedience is best, saves everyone a lot of trouble and owners can continue under the misapprehension that they are in charge. It is a question of wills – who will be obeyed.

The Vet has noticed  that in recent months all sorts of so-called training advice is available to pet owners, for a fee of course, while (he told our housekeeper Mary) he dispenses sound  counsel on training inclusive of his treatment fee.

But, he says in sorrow, people don’t seem to accept his wise words because they are free. The thought had crossed his mind to add an extra charge to people’s bills but even he felt this would not be universally accepted.

Taking up his point with the gang was a natural progression, as I am aware that occasionally the Vet does talk sense and I am happy to pass on these nuggets of wisdom to the boys.

I continued my lecture by telling them that obedience was not a sign that they were giving in to humans, but a wise move to keep harmony in the relationship between man and dog.

Their reaction was somewhat muted as they felt this was against the advice I had been giving them for years that whatever happens they must be the dominant one in the partnership.

Disobedience was an integral part of that relationship, to be practised at all times and in all circumstances, I used to tell them.

My change of mind was accepted as a sensible move and by a show of tails they gave me a large majority.

There are going to be some pretty happy pet owners in the village from now on, I believe.

Sunday mornings in the Vet’s house are usually rather laid-back affairs with late breakfast, a generous read of the papers and often an invitation to take me for a walk. Last week, for some reason unknown to me, the Vet decided he wanted to visit a Sunday market and said he would take me along.

So I jumped in the car with, I must admit,  a little trepidation as the Vet’s driving skills are more in the thought than the action. Off we drove to a massive field covered by hundreds of stalls selling everything from dog kennels to gardening tools. We avoided a couple of near misses on the way, mainly because of the corrective action taken by other drivers who waved fists and made rude gestures which the Vet completely ignored.

Although I sit in the front seat next to the Vet, I deliberately turn my head to one side pretending to look out of the side window to avoid seeing which accident was waiting to happen.

Although oblivious of any danger to us, the Vet keeps up a running commentary on the faults of both drivers and pedestrians we pass. His comments of their driving abilities and pedestrian behaviour are scathing, with mutterings about the inefficiency of the police for not jailing the lot.

When we arrived, the smell of cooking meat teased my nose from all sorts of directions and I hoped the Vet would dig into his pocket for a snack.

However, he was on the look out for specific items, mentioned to Mary, the housekeeper, the previous day. He had started to collect old medical tools particularly associated with the veterinary trade and some one had told him that these markets were the places to find such items at cheap prices – two words which gladdened his heart.

He kept me on the lead as we walked around, telling me in a whisper it was for my own safety although he knows I can’t stand being dragged along at his whim. In the first hour we had managed to see only a quarter of the stalls and found none that sold what he was looking for.

I was getting pretty fed up, but no matter how many times I kept vigorously shaking my head, the Vet failed to get the message and we continued the search.

Finally after another hour of agony for me he found a stall he was looking for, filled with instruments of torture from a bygone age – or as the Vet would have it a cornucopia of very desirable artefacts.

He picked up three or four and started to haggle with the stall holder, a large bearded man who looked like a good wash would have done no harm. They went at it like two prizefighters and even I was embarrassed by the shouting and screaming. Much of it done by the Vet.

It got so heated that the bearded man came round from his side of the stall and rushed up to the Vet with an arm raised as if to strike. The Vet, to give him his due, refused to retreat and continued with the insults, accusing the stall holder of robbery and worse.

The raised fist came down on the Vet’s shoulder causing him to stumble and fall, almost on top of me. He scrambled up and actually raised his hands in a stance I had seen only on pugilist posters of 100 years ago. A crowd was gathering and I did my best to pull the Vet away. A security man arrived alerted by the commotion and listen patiently to both stories.

He then asked the Vet politely to leave the market and escorted us to the car.  Not a good day for either the Vet, or me.

New Year, new recruits to the gang. For some reason I cannot quite fathom, there has been a rush of applications for membership. Of course, no forms are filled in or emails sent, the recruits simply turn up at barn where we meet and file in one by one.

It has been so hectic that I have had to make it a rule that I will not consider any hound who does not come with a recommendation from a current member. But even that has not stopped the rush.

In lieu of formal applications there is a barking test, a check on whether the applicant will be able to master the code of tail-wagging and an investigation into each background – who is the owner, where do they live and do they treat their pets well.

This all takes up a lot of my time, so much in fact that I have had to call on my number two, Gus the Alsatian, and my number three Jock the Skye Terrier, to assist with the more tedious tasks. Naturally the final decision is mine alone.

The there is the question of how many more members do I want, or need? The current level of 11 is really quite sufficient for me to handle but I can expect some to drop out over the winter, either through sickness or old age, and going on previous years this figure could be as high as six. When the dogs get into their dotage, not only do they fail to move about easily, regularly bumping into doors and walls, but their thought processes go all awry and I get little response to quite simple questions like: “Can you remember what you ate this morning?”

If  I move on to anything more complicated such as setting a walking test during which they have to note any obvious scent of other animals, they are inclined to go to pieces and refuse to continue.

Better, I feel, to get rid of this unhealthy lot and introduce some new blood. I recently recruited three new members, Billie the Border Collie, Charlie the Basset Hound and Aaron the Airedale Terrier, all of whom are turning out to be good choices. Charlie is a little slow on the uptake but faithful and caring to the other members. He should stay.

Out of all the applicants who passed their tests I rather liked the Cairn Terrier Bill, Bertie the Beagle, and a strange looking animal with intelligent eyes, the like of which none of the gang had seen before. He passed all tsts with ease and was therefore in the running to join. But first we had to find out who and what he was – the breed is most important.

I delayed a decision until more was known about this animal who said his name was Otto. He spoke with a strange accent and was obviously not a home-grown variety. But I did take to him and sent Gus out to find more details while I continued with the interviewing.

When Gus returned the mystery was solved much to Otto’s relief as his tail was quite sore from all the wagging trying to convince us he should become a member.

I had to tell him to calm down as no one understood what he was saying, although I doubt he followed my advice because he followed what I was saying, but fell silent out of pure weariness.

When Gus returned he informed me Otto was a rare breed in this country – an Australian Cattle Dog. No wonder we could not understand what he was saying, the accent was so strong.

These dogs are reputed to be very intelligent and eager to work and learn, just the chap we are looking for. He belongs to that strange new resident in the village who no one can understand. Obviously Otto’s Australian boss.