Archive for November, 2009

The second most dreaded night of the year – Halloween – causes no end of trouble for we dogs.  For instance at our place there is the constant ringing of the front bell, heavy banging on the door and the loud chatter of the children as they try to persuade the Vet to hand over a treat – then their disappointment when they are turned away empty handed.

I feel sorry for them, but they should know better than to expect the Vet to part with anything, money or sweets. Year after year they keep trying despite their parents being fully aware that, even when they were children, he was the hardest nut to crack in the village and for miles around.

In fact, his reputation and that of his parents before him, was such that at one time the villagers were thinking of hanging a notice on the front gate warning off “trick or treaters”. They did not do it because they were worried that the action would be reported to the police- a threat the Vet makes every year when those not in the know ring his doorbell.

His warning is bellowed through the letterbox and the poor kids retreat, some crying and others, more bravely, shouting insults back at him.

All this activity is, of course, disturbing for me and other members of the gang whose owners also fail to get into the spirit of the night.

It got so bad that after one year when there were more upset children wandering the street than merry ones, we had a gang meeting to see what we could do to stamp out the killjoys.

Gus the Alsatian and my number two, said his owner, Mr Parkes the retired butcher, was quite a merry soul when his wife was alive, but since she died he, too, had fallen into bad habits and, like the Vet, refused to hand over any treats to the children.

Billie, the Border Collie, had similar problems with his owner, the Rev Sebastian Braithwaite, also retired, whose reaction to knocks on his door was to turn out the lights and pretend no one was at home.

I was beginning to wonder if there was any gang member who had a different story when Peaches, the Poodle, swung into tail action and confirmed that Dr Jack Simpson his owner welcomed children to the house with cakes and sweets. His wife was renowned for her baking skills and the children, who now are always accompanied by an adult or two, made her house their final port of call.

Going round the rest of the gang resulted in a split adown the middle between the “good” owners and those refusing to allow the children to enjoy the evening. I felt it was up to us to set an example and put a motion to the gang that the following year we would do our best to ensure children always received a treat, no matter which house they visited.

A great idea, they said, but how do we put it into action?

No problem, I replied, we just collect as many treats as we can from our owners and then follow the children round, dropping off the sweets, chocolates or biscuits, as required.

Thank goodness no one recognised the flaw in my suggestion, which I was aware of almost as soon as I had stopped signalling. How do we carry the stuff around without being spotted and reports made back to our owners that something was amiss with their pets.

Thinking very hard, I got over that problem by saying we would collect all the goodies and dump them in our meeting barn. We would then take note of the children who collected no treats and distribute our offerings first thing in the morning on their doorsteps.

Great idea, but unfortunately it did not quite work out as planned. We were unable to find enough treats to make the exercise worthwhile, so I agreed that we dropped that brainwave until we could come up with an improved proposal. Unfortunately, we never did.

Some time later the Vet returned and obviously did not notice anything was wrong as he drove straight off and headed for home.

I was in something of a dilemma. Obviously I could not tell the Vet what had happened and thought about drawing his attention to the lock on the door in case it showed signs of tampering. Instead, I decided to do nothing and watch how events played out.

My most obvious move was to see Spot and find out what he knew of his master’s behaviour. So, the next morning I went round to the inspector’s house and told Spot what had happened at the airport.

He wagged his tail in glee signalling his answer: The inspector had the previous day delivered a letter to the Vet who was sitting in his car. It contained allegations of possible criminal activities of a newcomer to the village who was something of a recluse.

The inspector thought he recognised him as a top criminal on the run and wrote the letter encouraging the Vet to go the authorities. Only the next morning did he realise he was mistaken, but by then the Vet had driven off to the airport.

The inspector was too embarrassed to ask for it back and decided to use his old skills to retrieve it.

Now I knew what it was all about, but would the Vet realise something was not quite right when he finds the letter is missing?

The Vet took me to the airport the other day when he went to see off an acquaintance travelling to warmer climes as a prelude to leaving these shores permanently. To his consternation, he found out that “civilian” dogs were not allowed inside the terminal as it might upset the police dogs which patrolled the place.

Therefore he had to leave me in the car which, to tell the truth, suited me well as I needed the peace and quiet after a long journey with the Vet and his companion, who happened to be a lady and who lived in the village.

They talked all the way, covering every conceivable subject, until my ears began to hurt and I covered them with my paws and went to sleep on the back seat, only to be woken  by the Vet and told to accompany him to see her off.

Finding his way barred into the terminal and unable to persuade the security people that I was his guide dog – “where’s your white stick and where’s his distinguishing yellow coat?” were questions he could not answer, so back we went to the car.

There I settled down to another snooze, but was kept awake by a scratching at the door. Remembering it was my duty to protect his property I roused myself and let out a ferocious bark as a warning.

But still the noise continued and two more loud growls from me did nothing to deter whoever was trying to enter the car.

This meant I had to prepare myself for some close combat and took my hackles to their top height while growling as loud as possible. The door then clicked open and a hand appeared. The light was pretty bad in the car park and neither smell nor sight caused me to recognise the hand’s owner.

The person slid into the driver’s seat completely ignoring my attempts to act the vicious guard dog. He just turned to me and muttered “Just behave yourself, Jake, I need to take a look round the Vet’s car.” To my complete surprise I did recognise that voice – it belonged to Inspector Frank Ash, the retired police officer and owner of gang member Spot, the Cairn terrier.

I relaxed and waited as he rummaged around the various cubby holes in front of the car. “That’s it”, I heard him exclaim and he turned round to pat my head before leaving and closing the door quietly behind him. I then heard a click as he turned the lock.

What a curious incident, I thought, whatever could he have been looking for and why did he have to break into the car?

I followed the Vet home in a sombre mood, really hoping that Gus made a complete recovery from whatever it was that ailed him, particularly as I did not want to make a decision about his successor at the moment, realising that the two candidates I  had thought of earlier were not really suitable for the job.

It takes a dog of great character to be my deputy because I was not looking for a “yes hound” but one who would think for himself and even argue with me if he thought I was wrong.

I am afraid that over the years I have intimidated the gang so much they are wary of  crossing me and settle for a quiet life by acquiescing to my every wish. All very flattering, but until Gus came along to tell me I could be wrong, I realised I was getting out of control.

And that could the answer to my dilemma – find a new member for the gang, as I did with Gus, from outside our circle and tell him it was his job to be my critical shadow. Naturally the other gang members never did find out what I said to Gus that first day and he has always kept our secret.

Come back soon, Gus, we all miss you.

My deputy leader of the gang, Gus the Alsatian, is ill again and I am busy trying to discover how serious it is this time. Poor Gus has had a run of ill health in the past couple of years, but has carried on bravely with his duties as my closest advisor and the enforcer of discipline with hardly a complaint.

I marvel at the dog which can be so brave in the face of such adversity - although that has not stopped me reflecting on his possible successor. There are a couple of candidates who will not be named now as gossip in the gang is rife and their possible elevation to high office would upset the balance of the gang.

I was also ruminating on the way we dogs face ill-health compared to some of the humans I know. In short, we face it well with few quibbles, while humans make a great fuss and dance about a mere cold or slight twinge in the leg.

This is particularly true of those of us who are getting on in life. I once went round the golf course when the Vet was playing with some of his conies, all of a certain age but actually much younger than Gus or myself, if you take into account the seven-to-one ratio of our years to theirs.

All four were hobbling around using their clubs as sticks and complaining continually about their various aches and twinges, the number of pills they consume in a day and when their next operation was due. It was moan, moan, moan right round the course, yet the Vet carried on when he arrived home, telling our housekeeper Mrs Lewis, what fools the three others were for whinging and then promptly doing exactly the same by describing his physical failures in such detail that both she and I had to leave the room in something of a hurry as he was in mid-stream.

Just the other day I saw a dog I knew vaguely who was out with his mistress and hopping along quite happily on three legs. I must admit to being shocked and was busy looking for the fourth limb in case I had missed it the first time, when I realised there wasn’t one.

Even the Vet was surprised and stopped the woman for a chat while I had a few words with Campbell (just remembered his name in time). A road accident was the cause, he said, but once he was used to getting around on three legs, life hardly changed.

What a hero, I thought, and immediately asked if would like to join my gang and be an example to us all how to carry on in adversity. He politely refused, pointing out that his missing leg would be a handicap when we went on manoeuvres and other scenting activities.