Dogs

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?