Archive for the ‘Jake’s story’ Category

So, we dogs are worth good money. I pricked up my ears when an item on the TV news announced that a sheepdog had fetched a record £5,000 at a sale. What would that make me worth if ever the Vet decided to sell?

Five times that sum at least, I thought, as my abilities far outstripped the sheepdog whose name was Ron. He had sufficient talent to round up a flock of sheep and guide them into a pen, but could he run a gang like mine, dream up ideas to fool our owners or understand human speech and pass on the information?

The more I considered the situation, the higher I was convinced my value would go. I was obviously worth, if not quite a king’s ransom, then a sum that would make the Vet’s eyes water were he aware of the opportunity.

Then I had another idea. While I would not put myself up for sale, I could organise a training school for sheep dogs which would ensure that the boys who passed my tests, and were sold on, would always be housed in the most comfortable conditions.

It is a sad fact that not all my lads enjoyed the sort of home conditions the Vet provides for me. Some were lodged with careless owners who gave the bare minimum in food, housing and sleeping conditions. I have often had complaints that one or two were forced to spend the night in kennels outdoors, or that their rations were so mean they were always hungry. Being members of my gang, I did my best to make sure they were fed, but bad weather in the winter meant that even I could not always provide the nourishment they needed.

If I was to help these chaps, and others like them, I could open my academy for sheepdog training. At the end of the course they would be able to demonstrate to their owners their ability to do the job properly and would, no doubt, be sold to a good and caring home.

So, it was down to choice – I had to decide which were suitable for training and which would not qualify because of lack of physique or the inability to follow instructions. It grieves me to admit it, but a few of the boys were just not capable of understanding the simplest of orders. They were fine as fodder for my gang, but not trainable as sheep dogs.

After discussions with my two lieutenants and my old pal Gus, the Alsatian, I chose three lads in need of a good home who also fulfilled the criteria of the right temperament, alertness, intelligence and, most importantly, age.

I understood that most sheepdogs were at the height of their abilities between the ages of two and four. My three candidates ticked all the right boxes, as it were, and I decided to start their training immediately.

Finding sheep was no problem as numerous farms round the village was full of them, but I had to take care that we were not observed because I did not want the farmers to be made ware of what we were doing – they might have wondered why their flocks were so exhausted at the end of the day when all they were supposed to do was to eat grass and sleep.

Instead, we had them running around like hens spying a fox as the three boys were drilled how to round the sheep up, catch strays and hurry them into an imaginary pen. There was little wonder the sheep in our area were not putting on weight, in fact they were mostly thinning out. A real dilemma for the farmers, but my little secret.

In a short, our boys were proving their worth, at least to me, showing all the skills needed to become proficient sheepdogs.  Now we had to show their owners what they could do and persuade them they had valuable canines on their hands, ready to fetch a top price at auction.

To be continued…

The Vet was discussing his investment choices with our housekeeper, Mrs Kennedy, which was rather strange as she knew as much about financial affairs as I did – and we dogs never have to bother our heads over money.

It turns out that she has a brother who works in a private bank in London and the Vet was hoping to get some free advice. The brother was due to visit Mrs Kennedy shortly and the Vet was angling for a meeting. Failing that, he wanted to give her a list of questions to put to him.

Mrs Kennedy was having none of that, however, as she told the Vet. Her brother was coming for just a couple of days and there would be no time for the Vet’s inquiries. The whole purpose of his visit was to discuss family affairs on the news that their mother had just died aged 100. She had left a property in the capital and it was about to be sold, with the proceeds split between the two children.

It looked like Mrs Kennedy was coming into a considerable sum and the Vet, on hearing that, changed the direction of his chat. He wondered whether she would consider informing him of the results of her talks with her brother, so he might glean a little inside information regarding her brother’s investment advice.

I was taking great interest, as I sat listening under the kitchen table, not because I was looking for similar financial guidance, which would have been wholly useless to me, but to try to help my pal Gus, the Alsatian.

Gus had just come into money. His owner’s sister had died and in her will Gus was the recipient of a sum large enough to take care of him for the rest of his life – and perhaps even beyond that.

His owner, Mr Parkes a retired butcher, had never married and his sister had been his housekeeper – and Gus’s big friend.  She had inherited money from a distant relative and it was part of these funds that had been left to Gus.

The dilemma was Mr Parkes had no idea how to invest the money. He told his good friend, retired police inspector Frank Ash, he too had received a large sum from his sister’s will and he wanted to find a “good home” for it and Gus’s money.

I believed the best way I could help was to go round to Mrs Kennedy’s house while the brother was there and try to listen to – and understand – the advice he was giving her. This I would relay to Gus, who would have to find a way to pass it on to Mr Parkes.  This was no easy task as there was naturally no communication between them, but I was confident I could come up with a plan.

On the two days in question I spent hours in Mrs Kennedy’s house and by the time the brother had left I had heard enough to decipher the language of finance and understand what he had told her about investing her money.

It boiled down to the names of three companies in which he advised her to buy shares. These were written down on a piece of paper and put into a drawer of her living room dresser.

I had memorised them and rushed to Gus to give him the news. Our tail signals, howls and growls were only just sufficient to pass on the names, one of the hardest tasks I had ever undertaken. It was a good job I followed it up with one of my brilliant ideas.

I knew the names of these companies appeared every day in the morning papers I told Gus to find the right page and put his paw mark against each one. Mr Parkes was a superstitious man and I was sure when he saw the smudged page he would take it as a sign from heaven, a solution to his dilemma.

And so it passed. Mr Parkes duly invested in the firms and looked forward to a tidy profit. Gus’s heritage was assured.

I thought of playing the same trick on the Vet, but was sure he would never interpret the signs.

The Vet’s occasional friend, the Rev Braithwaite, came round for a meal and a heated discussion took place regarding the current upheavals in the Church of England centred on the role, if any, of women bishops.

 Although I half listened to the words, I found it difficult to make much sense of them We dogs, as is well known, have no beliefs in a superior being, we are much too interested in what is going on around us to bother with higher matters – and we have no problem with women leaders.

Quite a number of neighbouring gangs have lady dogs in dominant roles and I must say that in many cases they are far superior to some of their male counterparts – myself excluded, of course.

The gang nearest to us is led by a female and she has never caused me the slightest worry. Her name is Sheba and she is an Alsatian like my friend Gus which means she is physically strong, but sweet natured.

In all the years we have been bosses not a cross growl has come between us and she has bounded to my rescue a number of times when other gangs have banded together against me and the boys and we have needed a bit of extra muscle power.

Once I attempted to increase our territory at the expense of a gang led by a ferocious fiend named Brick. He was built like one but had the brains of a week-old pup, a dangerous combination when opposed.

In my younger days I was hot-headed, always trying to increase the size of my gang and the area it operated over. I was mostly successful, too, until Brick came along to challenge me and the boys.

This could have let to a nasty confrontation if Sheba had not intervened and persuaded me that I was being much too ambitious. She called it unnecessary greed on my part and I was forced to accept her argument. She then went over to Brick and his gang and spent the morning explaining that I was prepared to withdraw my claim, if he stood down as well.

She did a pretty good job as he was spoiling for a fight and had the silly idea that he could win. Sheba explained my superiority in numbers and intelligence and suggested he would come out of any confrontation humiliated in front of his boys and possibly lose his leading position.

It took a while for this to sink in to his tiny brain, but eventually after consulting with his lieutenants he agreed and peace was achieved.

Sheba again came to bail me out when I managed to get into a spot of bother with another gang operating quite a distance away. I had the idea that we should do some of our training exercises on land and in streams controlled by them, as it would show our boys how it felt to operate in hostile areas.
Somehow my plan leaked out to the other gang – I suspected a traitor in our ranks who has since left – and Sheba heard that they were to lie in wait for us and attack when we least expected it, causing considerable casualties on our side.

She rushed to tell me to abandon, or at least delay, our move until she had time to speak to the other leader. I was sensible enough to listen to her and she soon returned with an offer to cease hostilities if I dumped my idea.

As I explained, all this happened in the days of my youth. I am much more circumspect now and would never contemplate going to war with another gang unless I was absolutely certain of winning.

To that end I made an agreement with Sheba that should either of us be threatened the other would come to the rescue, fighting if need be, or as she preferred, negotiating a lasting truce.

All this has paid off thanks to Sheba’s leadership qualities and her ability to broker deals. She is the equal of any male hound I know – and I think she likes me a little, too.

After much thought and a conversation with my old friend Gus, the Alsatian, I have decided against a revenge attack on a neighbouring gang for the beating he endured a few days ago.

Gus advised against it, despite the overwhelming vote in favour by the gang, and I agreed to cancel the planning.

I was very reluctant to adopt to this line of non-action at first, as I worried about the repercussions it might have on my reputation among the other gang leaders. For many years I have been known as the “cream of the crop”, the wisest and most feared gang boss. This has kept my boys happy while, at the same time, avoiding confrontations where they might be hurt.

In the old days, leaders were expected to engage in one-to-one combat and I had my fair share of those. While I always came out on top I was not sorry when the rules were changed by a conference of all the bosses. In future, it was agreed, a gang was free to take whatever action it deemed fit to revenge an attack.

It was hoped that this would decrease the number of spats between gangs as most dogs enjoyed the quiet life and would only fight if their personal space was violated. And it worked. Frankly I could not remember the last time we had to defend ourselves as a group. The sudden attack on Gus was a rare incident, but demanded a considered response.

I called a meeting of the boys to explain the situation and found that while the majority agreed, there were a few young hot-heads who were in favour of retaliation.

I was tempted to let them have their way because I knew they would get a good hiding without my planning and leadership and that would keep them quiet for a long time.

However, under the new rules, I was obliged to seek a meeting with the other gang leader and ask for compensation for Gus. This could be a little tricky because the boss of this particular gang was a huge brute who might fancy taking a pop at me if things did not go his way and I was getting a little slow in reacting – age was quickly catching up on me.

I could have sent one of my deputies, of course, but this would have been regarded as cowardice on my part, something I could not tolerate. I would have to appear in person and rely on my superior intelligence to win the day.

The meeting was arranged and everyone turned up at the appointed time and place – a neutral clearing in the wood. I had my gang to back me up and he had his, although we out-numbered them two-to-one, just in case.
As I said he was a huge creature, a Dobermann about three times my size and a mouth which did not stop slobbering. An unpleasant fellow to behold and somewhat intimidating, although I could not let that show. But he was not without mental ability. His tail signalling was immaculate and his growls easily understood which meant we could hold a civilised debate with one another.

I explained the circumstances of the attack on Gus and identified his three assailants as members of Dobermann’s gang. He did not deny the facts and asked what compensation we demanded. I had previously discussed this with Gus and we agreed that we should ask for the attackers to be drummed out of his gang and not reinstated for at least six months. This was a pretty harsh sentence as it meant that they would not be allowed to meet their friends or take part in any group activities.

Dobermann’s dribbling increased alarmingly and I thought we were in for a battle as at first he signalled this was too harsh. He suggested a one month ban.

I compromised on two months and he agreed. Meeting over and Gus was revenged without resorting to physical violence. Well done, me.

The recent spate of very hot weather is affecting the gang even more than similar temperatures in previous years. The cause is puzzling, but the effects quite startling.

Twice I have called meetings and few of the boys have bothered to turn up. Those who managed to drag themselves to the barn were so lethargic that I cancelled the meeting after just minutes.

Had I realised that this was going to be the reaction, I would not have bothered, but I credited members with more vigour in the face of this really minor adversity. While we dogs have thick coats, our ability to perspire is far more efficient than in humans and the heat can, in most cases, be easily dealt with. Having sufficient water, however, is a different matter.

Beside the barn there runs a stream with clean water in abundance, so even if getting to the meeting in the heat causes some discomfort, once good use is made of the stream all should be back to normal. So, I was not prepared to accept excuses that the lads were overcome by the heat.

As soon as the weather improved and cooler temperatures returned – in this country we don’t have to wait too long for that change – I called a meeting at which attendance was compulsory. I made this known by a secret signal I had devised some years previously.

There is a large oak tree at the spot where we enter the woods to get to the barn.
A certain pattern of scratches on the trunk indicates the importance of the gathering being called. Each member was asked to observe the tree regularly, first to find out if a meeting had been called and second to be informed of its urgency.

It’s a foolproof system devised by myself. It even works in the winter if there is snow on the ground. I am able, standing on my hind legs, to reach a spot above the snow and scratch the appropriate markings. But as I grow older this has become a little harder, so I have inaugurated my two deputies, Charlie the Bassett Hound and Candy the Jack Russell, into the mysteries of the code. More and more I am calling on their help, even though I am loath to admit to any weakness, but the pain of reaching up has got almost beyond endurance.

The new meeting was scheduled for early morning, as I have found afternoon gatherings were waste of time as most of the gang fall asleep, no matter how hard I tried to retain their interest. This time there was almost 100 percent attendance with just my good friend Gus, the Alsatian, missing.

He had a good excuse – while out walking a few days previously, he was set upon by a mob of roughs from a neighbouring gang and was badly bitten and scratched. Being the brave fellow he is, Gus fought back with spirit and just managed to see them off. His wounds were pretty serious and, having visited the Vet, his owner Mr Parkes, the retired butcher, was told that Gus would have to rest up for a good few days.
In fact, this incident was the reason I called the meeting. I wanted to discuss with the boys what form of retaliation we should take for the attack. There was no question of ignoring it, for my reputation was at stake. I was expected by all the gangs in the area to respond pretty quickly if one of my lads was attacked.

When I gave the reason for the meeting, everyone became animated, some calling for immediate revenge, others advising we wait. But there was unanimity in that something had to be done.

This pleased me and I signalled that a counter-attack should be prepared for just two days ahead.

I wanted to avoid an all-out gang war, so suggested that we retaliate in kind – pick out one of their gang in a lonely spot and teach him a lesson, nothing too drastic, but just enough to get the message across that no dog messes with us.

This received unanimous support and we got down to the detailed planning.

We are expecting visitors and the whole house is in turmoil because our guests are the Vet’s relatives from Holland and he wants to provide them with as good a time he enjoyed while staying with them. Of course, this will not include the nightly drinking bouts which ended with the Vet going to hospital with a mild case of alcohol poisoning.

Meanwhile, Mrs Kennedy our housekeeper, is rushing around preparing food, pestering the Vet every five minutes with queries about what English dishes would appeal to the foreigners. She decided on loads of pies and roast meat, fresh fruit and cream for afters and piles of home-baked bread.

I was more interested in whether they would be accompanied by their two dogs and was relieved to hear from the Vat that they were bringing just one, a Collie they used for rounding up the farm’s sheep and cattle. She is called Damka, which means Little Lady in one of those outlandish languages spoken on the Continent, and I was at a loss to understand the point of bringing her to England.

The Vet told Mrs Kennedy that she was to be introduced to some thoroughbred here in the hope that her pups would fetch lots of money back in Holland. I decided not to pursue the matter when I met the gang in case it gave them ideas.

Being a farm dog, Damka slept in a kennel at home, but the family had requested that she be found warmer accommodation at our place. When I learned that they were going to put an extra basket in the kitchen – which I considered my own exclusive territory – I was not at all thrilled.

The Dutch family duly arrived on the appointed day and they all settled in well, apparently enjoying the fare Mrs Kennedy prepared, including Damka who was given special rations.

That first night, I thought, was going to be tricky. I know I tend to snore in my sleep and it was not unknown for me to dream vividly and wake up barking in the dark. I wondered what little surprises Damka had in store for me, so I decided that it would be best to try to hold a serious conversation with her before lights out, to set the boundaries for our sleeping arrangements.

I was relieved when she recognised my tail signals which meant we could converse easily. Apparently Dutch dogs, like the people, are bi-lingual.

I thought I would start off with an apology and a warning that her sleep could be interrupted by my little nocturnal sounds and, while I would try to keep them to a minimum, they were really beyond my control.

She signalled that she understood and I was not to worry. In fact, she added, she was prone to noisy dreams herself, so we could find ourselves holding conversations in the night which neither would remember in the morning.

After that first night we got along fine and I invited her to meet the gang. Just so they would not get any ideas about our relationship, I said I would introduce her as a lady passing by who would be returning home to foreign shores in a couple of days.

The gang were captivated by Damka’s tales of living in another land and one or two members questioned her about the rules covering dogs emigrating from the UK.
I soon put a stop to those ideas and assured them that staying here was to be preferred and if they managed to change countries they would leave behind some very unhappy owners.

That seemed to dampen down their enthusiasm and Damka finished her visit to the barn with a well-timed and flattering thank-you to the boys which had them swooning at her paws.

I was glad to see our Dutch visitors were staying such a short while as I feared for the future of the gang if Damka became a permanent fixture and was made an honorary member – in fact I do believe my own position could have been in some jeopardy.

Football and Gus, my former deputy – the two subjects much on my mind of late. Dealing with football first, the World Cup has had the village turning into a raging camp of super- nationalists, waving English flags from houses, cars and lampposts. This excluded the Scots, Welsh and Irish among us who cleverly kept their heads down.

I might add that we dogs, too, were untouched by this mass hysteria and I planned to call more meetings than usual so the gang could get away from their homes and televisions which seemed to be showing a game of football all 24 hours.

Suffering the most were those whose owners were addicted. This became particularly riotous when the home team was playing and I issued an open invitation to those poor hounds to come to the barn to get away from the bedlam. I even laid on rations in case they were being deprived at home.

As for me, I suppose I was lucky. The Vet’s interest in the game has waned over the years and he hardly bothers to watch, so giving me the chance to enjoy my evening nap in peace.

But the problem with Gus was not so easily solved. His request to rejoin the gang and my insistence that he comes back as one of the boys and not as my number two, weighed heavily on my conscience. After all, he was, no still is, my best pal and a valued adviser.

When I left him that evening after giving him the choice, he said he needed some time to think it over. Well, it did not take long. Bright and early the next morning he was round to my house with his answer, yes, he would come back as an ordinary member.

I thought that would be the end of the matter until the next meeting when I would announce Gus’s return. But I had forgotten how quickly rumours circulate round the boys. Within 12 hours there was scratching at our kitchen door. When I went outside I was met with two unhappy dogs – Charlie, the Basset Hound, and Candy, the Jack Russell, by recently-appointed deputies.

I took them to a quiet corner of the garden and there they poured out a long tale of woe, practically accusing me of secretly firing them and appointing Gus in their place. I demanded to know where they had heard such nonsense and they sheepishly owned up to monitoring my conversation with Gus when they were on their way home that evening.

I accused them of eavesdropping from behind the bushes and they admitted that was the case.

�
Well, I signalled, surely they must have seen the end of the discussion where I signalled that Gus could not return in his old role. Yes, they replied, they had witnessed that, but knowing how close the relationship was between Gus and me, they wondered if in a very short time they would be hurled out on their ears.

I realised I had to placate them if they were to be of any use to me in the future, so I took to flattery – always a useful ploy when there was a problem. I congratulated them on the fine job they were doing and signalled that I was considering increasing their responsibilities.

I even suggested that they could take it in turns to perform my duties at meetings when I was unable to attend, which up to now had been rare, but could in future become more frequent. I used the old ploy that I was thinking of semi-retirement, now that the years were taking their toll.

I must admit that I laid it on a bit thick, but gradually I could see them coming round. One more thrust and I would have them, I thought, so I pulled a real ancient chestnut out of the fire, so to speak. I signalled that I could soon announce the date of my departure. The Vet, I added, was considering moving home and of course I would go with him. The destination was many miles away, so my continued leadership was in doubt.

That did it. Their hopes had been raised and they left me with contented looks on their faces. Another battle won.

When we arrived home from the Vet’s visit to his family in Holland, where I accompanied him of course, we both soon settled back into our respective routines. The Vet holding his surgeries and insulting most of his clients – the human ones obviously – and me calling an early meeting of the gang to tell them about the trip.

We assembled in the barn as usual and I was gratified to see a full house, my deputies having done a grand job of informing the boys the day and time of the meeting. Charlie, the Basset Hound, and Candy, the Jack Russell, were proving a good choice on my part and, after a bit more training, they should prove invaluable allies.

I told the boys about my experiences in Holland and to my surprise as soon as I had finished, tails wagged and voices howled – the message to me was that I was not the only one to have travelled to distant parts. Half a dozen of the gang had passports and had been to a variety of countries, although I was the only one to have flown. They all went by car.

I thought it only fair that one or two be allowed to tell their stories and I sat down ready to be bored. Billie the Border Collie went to Scotland with his boss the Rev Sebastian Braithwaite and spent most of his time lying down outside innumerable churches which the vicar found fascinating. Billie became so bored he did a runner on the fifth day and found himself in a remote Highland village where every household had at least two dogs, kept mostly to herd the sheep which seemed to be numbered in thousands.

Billie was taken in by a farmer and was soon learning how to round up the animals when a car arrived and out popped the vicar, flustered and almost incoherent, partly because of his asthma, but more because his English pronunciation obviously baffled the farmer. It took a couple of hours to clear up the misunderstanding and Billie was bundled into the car and was driven straight home.

Spot, the Cairn Terrier, was taken by his master, retired police inspector Frank Ash, over the sea to Ireland where he had numerous relatives, most of whom had to be visited. So he found himself on the back seat while Mr Ash drove hundreds of miles along roads which seemed to have no signs. He spent much of his time asking the way from locals, who also had trouble making out what he said. He is a gentleman of very short temper and had blazing rows with most of them, so he and Spot only managed to see two sets of relatives. And they spent three nights sleeping in the car when he became completely lost.

Both were happy to return home and he vowed never to visit that country again, stating that if family wanted to see him they could “jolly well come over here.”

There were other stories were of similar comical mishaps so we finished the meeting on a high note. As I strolled home I heard a cough from a nearby bush and out sauntered my old number two and great friend, Gus the Alsatian.

Naturally I was delighted to see him and asked him to accompany me. Gus was never one to avoid coming straight to the point: he wanted to rejoin the gang and take up his old position as my deputy.

This request stopped me in my tracks. I found it difficult to signal my thoughts which were all jumbled. On the one paw I wanted to leap at the chance, but on the other I had already given his job to Charlie and would not be very popular if I reinstated Gus and demoted him.

I told Gus that although I was in favour of having him back, he might have to return as an ordinary member of the gang and work his way up again. That would only be fair to the others.

He saw my point and asked if he could have time to think it over. Of course I agreed and we arranged to meet away from the barn in a few days.

As I have always said, leadership has its downside too. Having to make Gus rejoin the ranks was the best I could do in the circumstances, no matter how painful it was.

My ten days away from home visiting the Vet’s family in foreign parts was most enjoyable and allowed me to understand a little better those bits of the Vet’s character I had previously found extremely puzzling. They were, in the most part, all down to his unEnglish childhood.

The country we found ourselves in is called Holland, or the Netherlands, where the Vet’s family owned a large farm. It was here he was brought up, having by all accounts a happy childhood (so his cousins said), attending the local school and looking forward to taking over the farm from his father.

All these details were revealed in chatting between various family members and the Vet. Luckily for me the language they used was English as the Vet had lost much of his Dutch since leaving as a young boy for England.

The circumstances surrounding the departure of the Vet and his mother were not clear, but had something to do with his father’s gambling and drinking habits. No one there, it seems, wanted to delve too deeply into this aspect of his life, which I found most disappointing as I had a keen ear for juicy gossip.

The Vet and his mother settled well into English life and he succeeded in gaining a worthy degree at university and opening his own successful practice. Everyone accepted him as the archetypal Englishman and he never spoke about his childhood.

However, he made contact with his Dutch family some years ago and visited them on a regular basis. Taking me with him on this trip was a big surprise to them, perhaps even bigger than it was to me.

Being a farm, there were numerous animals around including two dogs, but they were never allowed in the house and kept strictly to their kennels in the yard. When the family suggested that I might be housed in a similar fashion, the Vet, to his credit, explained that I was a house hound and used to the comforts of a warm bed in the kitchen.

They obliged and provided me with a soft basket, specially bought, and an array of food which Mrs Kennedy, our housekeeper, would have found a little bizarre, but which suited me well.

Each evening the family would sit down after the meal for a chat and counting all the cousins and their children, the room was overflowing and very noisy. I had to pick my spots carefully, otherwise I would have missed the best tales about the Vet and what he got up to as a child. It was obvious that he was held in high esteem by all and he responded by becoming more cheerful and jolly as the week went on.
I had never seen him in these moods before and wished that they would stay with him when we returned. Unfortunately these nights were accompanied by copious amounts of beer and by the end of each evening the adults staggered away a little worse for wear.

The Vet, however, was not a beer drinker, much preferring wine, so the family had stocked up with numerous bottles and he indulged freely and on the night before we were due to leave,  much too copiously.

Everyone was having a good time – including me who was being fed titbits throughout – when the Vet suddenly stood up, waved his arms round the room and collapsed.

An ambulance was called and I waited in the house amid the babble of Dutch of which I understood one word – “father”. They were obviously making comparisons between the Vet’s drinking habits and those of his father, who I gathered days earlier had died from alcoholic poisoning.

After a night drying out in hospital the Vet was returned to the house and we left to catch our plane. He seemed none the worse for the experience and spoke about returning the following year.

I hope he takes me with him – but next time travelling by car.

Uncanny similarities between me and the Prime Minister

With politics taking up most of the Vet’s spare time and with me being forced to listen to every news bulletin on the hour as I sit by his side, I have been thinking about my own position.

It seems pretty clear that in the human world a leader has a few years at the top, a few more when he, or she, is intensely disliked and finally a humiliating farewell. They never seem to be able to make a lasting success of the job.

My position is not unlike that of the British prime minister. For years I schemed for the top job in the gang, finally making it after the previous incumbent fell from favour over the matter of a little treachery and managing to stay at the top using a mixture of flattery and guile – plus the odd threat or two.

But have I been in that position so long that I am unaware of the feelings of the gang towards me? Is resentment building up among the ranks and could I face a coup without any warning? Finally, do I really want the job so much that I have to spend all my time watching my back?

The parallels between my situation and that of the country’s leader are uncannily close – and then he suddenly resigns. This poses a new problem for me. Should I follow suit?

I was determined to sleep on the matter as hasty decisions seldom work out for the best. In addition, I felt I needed to consult with my former number two, Gus the Alsatian, who has kept in touch with the gang despite retiring from active service.

I arranged to meet him alone in the barn and, good chap that he is, he turned up on time and willing to discuss my problem – not for the first time, I might add, as whenever I have felt threatened in the past, I have consulted with him.

Of course, Gus has also kept in touch with the political situation in the country, so I had no need to tell him why I was feeling so insecure. He realised that my career and that of the Prime Minister were almost mirror images of each other.

His advice was to sit tight for a while longer and wait while he had the chance to take more soundings of the gang’s attitude to my rule. He promised to contact  prominent members – my new number two and his deputy – to find out how they felt about me and then a couple of rank and file boys with the same objective in mind.

I must admit to a little nervousness as I waited and this was not helped by having to be beside the Vet every evening watching the news unfold and the chaos the political parties seem to have created.

 While they blather on about the “national interest” when they really mean the party interest, I too must consider what is good for the gang, rather than just for me. In the past I have paid lip service to putting the gang before my own narrow advantage, but luckily have never been found out.

Gus spent a couple of days on his quest and asked me to attend a meeting with him in the barn, again just the two of us. First he told me to relax as he had nothing to report which should cause me problems.

The general feeling on all sides was that I was doing a good job and no one wanted me to stand down. Great relief. However, Gus discovered an underlying feeling that old age was beginning to catch up with me and I should perhaps consider giving more responsibilities to my deputies.

I thanked him for his efforts and wandered home. Of course, there was no chance of diluting my powers – in fact I thought I might tighten my grip by using that old favourite “divide and rule”.

I shall appoint a couple more deputies and share a few responsibilities among them, not too many to give them ideas of taking over my job, but just enough to keep them busy and stop any plotting.

It was a much happier dog who sat down that night with the Vet to watch the scheming of human politics. I felt I could still teach them a thing or two.

After breakfast the other morning the Vet told our housekeeper that he was going away for a few days. I thought nothing of the conversation until, that is, he turned to me and said: “OK, Jake my lad, we are off on a trip.”

Complete surprise. The only time he and I went on journeys together was the once-a-year holiday to a remote spot by the sea where I shivered for a week and he insisted on going for long walks along the desolate coastline in what he called the “bracing air.”

I sensed that this time it was going to be different. For one thing he carried only one small suitcase instead of the usual three large bags and took a photograph of me for some document he called a passport.

I had no idea what this all meant until we were in the car and after a couple of hours arrived at an airport. Even I could not avoid the impression that we were about to undertake a long, and for me perilous, journey.

I was encouraged to get into a box which was hardly big enough to take in my tail, then carted off to a space in the hold of a plane where I was deposited with not so much as a goodbye from the Vet.

I won’t go into detail about the journey except to say it was uncomfortable, cold and frightening. As my readers know, I am usually a dog of steel and nothing frightens me. This time I succumbed to all sorts of terrors and by the time the plane landed I was something of a wreck. Of course, the Vet was in his usual self-absorbed state and did not notice my condition when we finally met up at the airport’s kennels.

However a nice lady worker was more sympathetic and offered me food and water which cheered me up no end. I recognised I was in a strange country because she spoke to me in a language I had not heard before and the vegetation round the airport was totally unfamiliar.

When the Vet arrived behind the wheel of a small motor car, I was invited to jump in and instantly realised that the he was sitting behind the wheel on the wrong side and I was in the seat which at home is reserved for the driver.

By this time I had gathered my wits and watched with interest as the countryside rolled by. The Vet had the radio playing the kind of music that did not emanate from ours at home. It was a sort of wailing sound which the Vet hummed to himself and I found most annoying.

However, the Vet was obviously in a good mood and I was thankful for that. When we stopped for petrol I heard him speaking to the attendant in an unknown language and realised we were in a country which the Vet originally called home.

I knew that because he kept patting my head and shouting “We are here, Jake, soon you will meet my family.”

Well, well. We had come to the Vet’s ancestral home and I wondered what joys were in store. Were they all like him and, more to the point, how would I be able to understand what they said to each other and to me? However, my first consideration was for my food and bed.

But I need not have worried. The Vet’s family turned out to be completely opposite to him. They were warm and welcoming and made my stay so comfortable that I was reluctant to return home when the time came. And they all spoke English to me.

In my next blog I will go into detail about our stay, the highs, the lows, the even more strange behaviour of the Vet when among his own which led to a short stay in hospital where he underwent treatment for what the medical staff termed “over enthusiasm”.

All in all a holiday to remember.