I never put myself down as a dog person.
However, I did grow up with a dog – a snappy poodle
the family called Koko. Actually her pedegree name was Coquette of Manorway – I
should know, all those years ago I used to write out the pedegrees for her puppies
by hand with a hard ball point pen. It resulted in the word “bitch” being
inadvertently imprinted on my mother’s best polished table for years.
But I digress.
Koko saw me through much of my childhood – seeing my
father disappear over the hills, my mother remarrying, moving through four
houses and an unhappy change of school, and finally my leaving home for good.
Through all those ups and downs Koko was there – sleeping on my bed, producing
puppies underneath the bed, and amusing us by walking on her hind legs the
whole length of the house in pursuit of an apple core. I think it was Dr. Samuel
Johnson who, as a product of his times, said: “Sir, a woman's preaching is like a dog's walking on his hind legs. It
is not done well; but you are surprised to find it done at all.”
Move forward a few decades, and I am married with a
daughter in her late teens. Can she have a dog? Her best friend found a stray
on the side of the road, took it home to then be presented with a litter of
puppies of indeterminate breed. So we had a puppy we called Cody. Our
misadventures with Cody were related in an old post.
https://occasional2.blogspot.com/search?q=cody
Actually, Cody was a lovely dog, but no sooner did
we take him on than my daughter met her future husband, and ultimately moved
away to a flat which did not permit dogs. (They later moved into a house, and
have had a series of dogs since). We tried to look after Cody, but our work and
lifestyle did not fit, so we had to re-home him. He needed company which we
couldn’t give him. A later phonecall established he’d gone to a good home and
was loved.
So that was us and dogs. Work and lifestyle
continued for a few more decades until the big R (retirement) came along, or at
least semi-R for me. So – the question came up again from Mrs O - why couldn’t
we have a dog?
We decided on investigating a “rescue” dog from one
of the dog’s shelters. It would have to be an older dog, not a puppy requiring
a year or two of labor-intensive chewy-pooey training. An older dog that would
require just one walk a day – a leisurely stroll befittng our venerable years –
and then would go into “couch potato” mode for the remaining 23/24. Researching
it, it seems that a greyhound – or better still its smaller cousin a whippet –
would fit the bill. Bred for racing, there was a glut of these breeds out
there, whose career on the track was over, or in most cases, never got off the
starting blocks.
After an internet search of several dog’s homes, we
opted for one of the nearest, the Dog’s Trust, whose array of appealing smiley
dog-faced portraits looked promising. There was one named Snouty – we assume
he’d been named by a child – with a long pointy face and lean body – who was
part-greyhound – namely a lurcher. We’d go and have a look at him.
Well, we looked, and Mrs O fell in love. He was lean
but not mean, and had obviously been loved in a previous life. His back story
involved a single parent family having to move house to where they couldn’t
take their pet of seven years. It was a sad story. Snouty played fetch
appealingly and accepted food with alacrity. The Dog’s Trust required us to
make several visits and needed to see photos of our home, which was nice and
responsble of them. But with Christmas coming up and the home wanting to clear
the decks a bit, it was rather a rush.
So – we had a dog. Our first decision was to rename
him as Scouty. He wouldn’t know the difference when being called in the park,
but we would.
He was – is – BIG. Like buying furniture in a store
that dwarfs everything else when you get it home, Scouty back at our place was
BIG. When we sat side by side he had two laps to stretch out on, while still
overlapping at both ends.
The biggest change for me was that first night.
Scouty got up on our bed and stretched himself out comfortably covering what
appeared to be the greater part of it. In my best sonorous tones I uttered the
word “Bed” and he got straight up and settled himself down in his own large
floor level cot. Awww. Melt. I was smitten! I was so smitten after a lifetime
of expressing just vague toleration of dogs, that it was a source of much
merryment all around.
Of course, the word “Bed” only had temporary
success. We would wake up in the morning with a huge lump of dog contentedly
snoring between us.
And farting.
I would say that a dog like Scouty could be a most
effective form of birth control…
Scouty now rules the roost. Each morning at a very precise
time he comes and woofs in my face. If I am slow about acting he will take hold
of my sleeve at the cuff and gently lead me to the back door. Scouty’s morning
walk is sacrosanct. My rationale for agreeing to a dog was that I needed daily
exercise. Well, that one worked out. We have a series of routes, and meet other
familiar dog walkers, and it is part of our automatic routine. He has his
preferences for food – and we have learned what works when he has to be fooled
in accepting doggie medication.
We’ve done all the right things – albeit expensive
things. He’s been on obedience courses to be socialised with other dogs and
that brought good results. Having done family history including checking our
own DNA, we did the same for him. There are companies out there that will
accept a swab from a dog’s teeth – there’s a whole potential post there on how
to obtain that and live to tell the tale – and we sent it off and waited for a
most detailed report to eventually come back.
We were a little concerned about a report from a dog
owner who had sent in their own DNA sample - to find that they were 40% Shihtzu
– but I rather suspect that’s apocryphal. Anyhow, Scouty finally came back as
55% greyhound and then an assortment of terriers and whippets and others. They
even gave us general locations and photos for some of his relatives. The
thought of a lurcher family reunion briefly came to mind, but was hastily dismissed.
The report did show the issues lurchers might develop in old age and that was
useful to know.
As befits a “breed” that was part-produced for
racing, Scouty likes to zoom. He had apparently never been given the
opportunity in his past life, so the first time we let him off the lead he
sprinted round and around the field in wild abandonment. But crucially, he then
came back to us. He still does this when allowed. But his haring around the
turf tends to end sooner now, and he’s definitely well out of breath at the
end. But hey – it comes to us all - I don’t run marathons any more.
We have gone from disappointment at not going to
certain places with a dog, to not caring because whole new vistas have
appeared. On the few occasions when we have to go somewhere without him for a
length of time, he eagerly rushes into kennels as his own personal doggie-vacation.
Yes – I’m a convert. Who would’ve thought it?
