Archive for January, 2009

Latest from the Buddies Pet Insurance news team…A woman who triggered the controversy over pedigree dog breeding on television has admitted that she has been “beaten” by the dog world. Margaret Carter who highlighted the genetic condition in Cavalier King Charles Spaniels known as syringomyelia – skulls too small for their brains – is to sever her links with the breed club, according to The Times. She was ousted from the committee of the 80-year-old club last October for collaborating with the TV programme Pedigree Dogs Exposed, but was urged by supporters to seek re-election. When she did and was voted on the committee again, senior officers threatened to resign. Mrs Carter, who said it was never her intention to damage the club, withdrew her nomination. She is the leading lay expert on the condition in spaniels and is now preparing evidence for the inquiry into dog breeding.

I have been remiss these past few weeks in not taking the trouble to reveal more personal details about Mrs Kennedy, our housekeeper. I have already described her success as a cook and her efforts to maintain the house in an orderly, indeed, immaculate manner. She has the ability to succeed, where other housekeepers have failed, in accepting the strange routines the vet is apt to impose and view his often bizarre attitudes to world affairs and politics in general with an understanding smile.

But there are secrets that Mrs Kennedy prefers to keep hidden. How do I know? We dogs hear things that humans ignore, or do not understand. Mrs Kennedy’s pet, Tiger the Rottweiller, is a talkative fellow and never misses a meeting of the gang.

One day he came into the barn looking a little flustered and was soon telling us about his mistress’s strange behaviour. She had just closed the post office for the day and locked all the doors before retiring to the upstairs parlour for her supper.

A loud banging interrupted her preparations and she rushed downstairs to see what the commotion was about, making sure to take Tiger with her for protection. He was actually more interested in eating his evening meal, he told us, than playing protector, but he recognised his duty and loped downstairs after Mrs Kennedy.

Before opening the door she peeped through the blind and gave a shriek. Tiger said her hand went to her mouth in horror and she fell to the floor. Of course the poor dog knew there was nothing he could do to help except plant a few slobbering kisses on her face in a sympathetic gesture. This seemed to help because she rose from the floor and went to the door which she proceeded to open.

In stepped a man Tiger had not seen before, but he decided to carry out his duty and began to growl in his most threatening manner. The man pulled up and said: “Mum call this beast off, will you, he looks like he is about to tear a lump out of me.”

Mrs Kennedy (by the way no one ever knew her first name) recovered her composure and pulled Tiger’s collar to get his away from the man. “Good boy”, she said to Tiger, “don’t fret, it’s only Sidney, my son.”

Well, Tiger nearly had a seizure himself. He told us he had never heard of Sidney and Mrs Kennedy had not once mentioned she had a son, not to anyone in the village nor to customers at her post office.

She ushered the man into the parlour and Tiger, still believing his services might be required, followed them into the room and was able to hear the conversation between mother and son.

It seemed that the two had not met for many years and Sidney was in a spot of trouble. He did not want to bother his mother after such a long time, but unless he could lay his hands on a considerable amount of money, a gang of crooks was planning to separate all ten fingers from his hands.

I have mentioned previously that Mrs Kennedy was not a woman to panic unnecessarily – her fainting spell at the door was an exception - and she sat patiently as the story unfolded. Something to do with gambling debts, Tiger believed, but was not too sure of the details being unfamiliar with this strange human compulsion to loose money on horses running round a track.

Mrs Kennedy asked him to stay the night, but – and here was another revelation – he said his wife and two children were staying at a small hotel in the nearby town and he had to return to make sure they were alright.

Mrs Kennedy immediately went to her desk and wrote on a piece of paper Tiger heard was called a cheque, and gave it to her son. He almost fell to his knees in gratitude and she ushered him downstairs and out of the door.

She said the money was his on condition he never returned and told no one about the transaction.

She did not even ask to meet her grandchildren, which Tiger and the rest of the gang, thought was most unusual. But as Billie, the border collie, remarked, families can be a burden.

Mrs Kennedy, our housekeeper, is a meticulous cleaner. She goes over every square inch of the property once a week in stages until by the end of the five days – she refuses to clean at the weekend - every room is spotless and, in my opinion, hardly needs touching again for at least a month. But on Monday morning the routine starts all over again.

The exception is the Vet’s surgery. She is not allowed in there and no matter how many times she offers, the Vet refuses to allow her entry. As only the Vet and his patients see the inside of this room – admittance is denied to any clients bringing in their pets – there can be no witness to the condition of the place.

However, there have been occasions when I have sneaked a crafty peek and been considerably surprised how immaculate the place is. The mystery is: when does the Vet clean and what does he use for cleaning materials?

In my experience, and that of most of the gang, the smell that accompanies household cleaning is overwhelming and obnoxious. When Mrs Kennedy comes anywhere near me with her bucket and implements I beat a hasty retreat to avoid the fumes from the concoctions she uses on the floors. I usually keep away for at least half a morning.

The boys in the gang advise me that they, too, get out the house when floor cleaning is in progress, but my problem is that every day one room gets the treatment and the stench permeates the house for a couple of hours.

Luckily the surgery and waiting room are at the far end of the house in an extension built by the Vet about ten years ago, so neither he nor his clients suffer as I do. The area is air conditioned, so any whiff that manages to get in is soon dispersed. The Vet always complains about the cost of the extension and the air conditioning, but realises that he could not conduct his business if everyone, including the pets, were coughing and spluttering over aromas emanating from the main house as Mrs Kennedy goes about her work.

The simplest way out of the dilemma, I have always thought, was to agree with Mrs Kennedy to change the polishes she uses to some brand less likely to give offence, but the Vet seems to be reluctant to mention it to her. Perhaps the other types cost more money and the Vet refuses to authorise their use.

But all this does not explain how the Vet manages to keep the surgery so clean with no apparent effort. I have talked it through with the boys and no one could offer an explanation other than he creeps back there in the small hours of the morning and wields the duster like a professional housemaid.

What absolute nonsense, I told them. Once the Vet goes to sleep there is little that wakes him although his persistent and loud snoring often keeps me up. We decided to take it in turns to watch the surgery in case help was being smuggled in – perhaps in the guise of a client with a “sick” pet. But that proved a waste of time.

All the visitors were authentic clients and they came with only sick animals. Anyway, there was little time for them to carryout a thorough clean during the Vet’s examinations. He is particularly quick with his diagnosis and clients seldom spent more than 15 minutes in his surgery.

There had to be another explanation for the dust-free atmosphere. I decided to keep a close watch in the evenings when the surgery was closed but when the Vet often spent time at his desk, writing up notes and invoices.

It was a summer evening when the mystery was solved. That night I was peeping through the window when I saw the Vet go over to a switch on the wall and pull down the button. Immediately there was a whirring noise and a gust of air flowed through the room. The Vet stood to one side and made sure all paperwork was held down as the dust was sucked up through a duct in the ceiling.

Of course, at the same time he had air conditioning installed he had bought, for a very cheap price I am sure, an automatic dust buster that cleared the room through powerful suction and completed the job in minutes.

I have often wondered why there are more of them around.

The Vet has slipped a disc. I am not too sure what that means, but I heard the doctor explain to Mrs Kennedy, our housekeeper, that was the diagnosis after being called to his bedside very early in the morning.

The Vet’s screams were shrill and never-ending and, of course, they woke me – and I believe everyone in the village - and perhaps in a ten-mile radius of our house. At first I did not quite comprehend where the noise came from as it sounded more like a trapped animal than a human being.

The longer the racket went on, the easier for me to pin-point its origin and I hurried upstairs to find the Vet hanging over the side of the bed and apparently unable to push himself back into the prone position. I was hardly in a state to help him, as I had been feeling a littler twinge in my own back these last few days. I decided the best thing to do was run to Mrs Kennedy’s house and alert her to the emergency.

But there was no need. She had obviously heard the commotion he was making and rushed over. With a little pushing and a lot of shoving she managed to get him to lie down with a couple of extra pillows under his head. But the groaning went on and she was hardly able to make out his attempt to deliver a coherent message.

Eventually she deciphered that he wanted her to call the doctor and to bring as much medication to ease the pain as was available in the well-stocked bathroom cabinet. In the state he was in he would have probably taken pills from his surgery intended for dogs, cats and horses and I was tempted to raid his stock, just to see what effect they would have.

However, it was time for my breakfast and I retreated to the kitchen to sit with Mrs Kennedy as she drank a few cups of tea and ignored the terrible sounds from the Vet’s bedroom. We were both feeling refreshed when the doctor arrived.

After a careful examination and renewed sobs from the Vet, he came downstairs and informed Mrs Kennedy of the slipped disc. Lots of rest and pills to relax the muscles in the Vet’s back was his advice and he gave Mrs Kennedy a prescription, saying he would return the following morning.

Mrs Kennedy looked at me as she put on her coat. “Keep him company Jake and try to calm him down,” she ordered as she left for her car. The first part was simple - I would go back to his bedroom and sit quietly by his side, but the second part of the instruction was somewhat harder to achieve.

The pain threshold of dogs is far greater than with humans and although we do cry out when in intense distress, normally we bear it with fortitude and composure. The Vet, on the other hand, was still screaming.

I went to his bedside to let him know I was there and it did seem to have the desired effect. He stroked my head muttering what a good boy I was and then fell asleep.

The sudden silence was a blessing and I, too, nodded off. Within seconds he started up again as he tried to turn on his side and the pain intensified.

I could do nothing to help except go into the corner and try to cover my ears, hoping that Mrs Kennedy would return quickly. But she had to drive to the next village to get the prescription filled and could be some time.

I decided to retreat to the kitchen and buried my head in the blanket covering my basket. The noise from the Vet was so unnerving that I had to get out the house and find some peace. I went to the barn where we hold our gang meetings and was relieved to hear the screaming was more distant and almost acceptable.

Some hours later after a fairly restful snooze I returned to the house. All was quiet. I crept through the dog-flap into the kitchen to find Mrs Kennedy reading the paper and enjoying her fifth or six cup of tea.

I promised the gang that in the quiet period between Christmas and New Year I would come up with a plan to keep them both amused and occupied. The trouble is that much as I have been wracking my brain for a good idea, I have drawn a blank.

This could be quite serious, as my position as leader depends on keeping my word to the boys and never knowingly letting them down. It has happened only once before.

On that occasion it was mid-summer and quite a few were due to go away on holiday. I told them I would work out a plan before they disappeared for annoying as many villagers as possible. We would keep a tally and the gang member who scored top marks would be rewarded with a couple of weeks as my assistant.

As they all went about their tasks, I stayed behind in the barn and because of the heat, fell asleep quite quickly. I woke up some time later to discover I was all alone and dusk was beginning to fall. Not one of the gang had returned to tell me how they got on and I was ready for my supper. So I went home.

On the way I noticed a small crowd gathered in front of the pub, all animatedly talking about “the accident”. Curious, I joined the outside of the throng to hear the vicar rant on about the people who selfishly kept vicious dogs and if he had his way they (the dogs) would be tied up during the day and not allowed to wander.

I crept round the corner so I would not be seen and listened more intently. The vicar was droning on about his pet rabbits and how a dog – unnamed but known by sight – had crawled into their cage and frightened the life out of them. They became so agitated that he had to take them into the house and calm them down with a drink and a few extra special cabbage leaves.

Tut, tuts all round from his audience and of course one clever soul demanded to know the name of the dog and its owner.

Imagine my surprise when the vicar called out my name and blamed the Vet for not having trained me properly. I crawled a little further away and decided to hide in a bush.

To the best of my knowledge, I had been asleep most of the afternoon and had not ventured outside the barn. How could I have disturbed those precious rabbits?

Obviously a case of mistaken identity and I began to have my suspicions about the non-appearance of the gang. Meanwhile, the angry group was making its way towards my house seemingly ready to give either myself or the Vet some verbal abuse.

I took a short cut at a steady run and arrived before the crowd. I rushed through the dog flap on the back door and made for the kitchen where Mrs Kennedy our housekeeper, was preparing supper for the Vet and myself. She saw me and gave a warm greeting which I acknowledged with a few wags of the tail and then retreated to my basket in the corner. I am sure Mrs Kennedy had no idea where I had been all afternoon, in fact she could easily be persuade that I never left the house.

I got up, stretched and walked over to my bowl which was the usual signal that I was ready to eat. She piled in a large portion of my favourite meat and biscuits and I started to eat.

There was a loud hammering on the door. I heard the Vet answer it and the accusations came thick and fast. The Vet refused to be intimidated and marched into the kitchen where I calmly carried on eating. He saw me and questioned Mrs Kennedy about my movements that afternoon. She was a bit vague, but said she thought I had been near her all the time.

That was enough for the Vet to return to the waiting crowd and berate them for false accusations – and then slamming the door in their faces.

I was saved, but there was still the mystery of how I came to be accused.

To be continued…..