A tale of two litters

Merlot (age two days) and his mother, all puppies in this litter are alive and well - see the last paragraph

By in large the British treat their dogs as if they are members of their families, indeed their dogs regard themselves as such. A generalisation with undoubted exceptions such as genuinely working dogs, I know.

The urban French I imagine are much the same, less so their country cousins. M Bernard, the friendly farmer who owns the vineyards and farm neighbouring our maison secondaire in the Charente Maritime, is a charming man who has offered us nothing but help. He speaks zero English but at least speaks French slowly so I understand much of what he says. His mother, in her late eighties lives at the farmhouse (he lives elsewhere).  The dogs on his farm are farm animals and treated as such. An elderly yellowish Alsatian cross guard dog is chained to a tree. A couple of labradors, a black male and yellow bitch seem to run free. They regard themselves as having an easement into our garden so as to avail themselves of its facilities. He also has a couple of spaniel types who are given their head when the shooting season starts in September but otherwise seem to live in a pen behind the farmhouse. All dogs seem to live in harmony with free range flocks of sheep, geese and hens.

A couple of years back an aggressive boxer/something cross joined the menagerie. Rocco and I had a couple of confrontations with him during our September holiday. The next month, whilst the English lady, who looks after our house whilst we are away, was talking to the farmer, the dog ran out of the farmyard and bit her on the leg, an entirely unprovoked attack. The farmer drove her to hospital. She stopped looking after our house, but for other reasons. Representations to the local mayor (Mairie) of the commune failed to get any resolution. An English woman bitten by a French farm dog gets little sympathy from a Mairie, himself a farmer. Rural France is run by and for its farmers. You might add this is also pretty much true of the EU. 

Clearly we couldn’t let the house out to holidaymakers with this dog on the loose. The following spring, the first time we were back in France after the attack I went over to the farm. I had mugged-up on as many variations of ‘Your dog must be under strict control or put-down’ as my schoolboy French could manage. Fortunately, the new lady now looks after our house, volunteered to join me, she speaks very good French. There was no sign of the dog, the farmer was out and we met his elderly mother. Her farm kitchen, earth floor and pot of stew hanging over the fire in the hearth, was straight out of a nineteenth century Zola novel. I was able to present her with a Dundee cake I had bought and after talking at cross-purpose for a while, we brought-up the subject of the dog.

“Oh, that dog was shot in the winter,” she said, “it attacked one of our farm workers.” It turned out to belong to the son-in-law of the farmer’s girlfriend.

Last year when we were again out opening up the house for the season, the farmer waved me over to talk about our barn, which we keep locked-up. I was not sure what he was on about but opened up the large barn door for him. It turned out that his Labrador bitch had found a way in and had just produced a litter of puppies behind a mountain of straw. The farmer and one of his men removed the straw and a few hidden empty oil barrels and got the puppies out, we provided a large cardboard box and admired the litter. The farmer seemed uncomfortable with our interest. When I saw him the next morning I asked after the puppies. They had been drowned. One can't help concluding that this is cheaper than having the bitch spayed.

Merlot and sisters

On a happier note back when the renovation of our house was underway we were over in May for a conference with our builders. We stayed in a gite owned by a British Airways pilot and his wife who had retired from flying. The have a pair of splendid retriever labradors one of which was due to give birth. We ended up taking the soon-to-be dad out for a long walk so that his partner could have some peace. We came back to admire six splendid tiny retriever labradors. They were all spoken for except one fellow, now called Merlot, who has stayed with his parents.

omg

just snoring now

omg, omg, omg.

rocco here, I think he has finally flipped. he’s got spotify on his mac – sounds bad - and it is. it was sort of ok but hes found werewolves of london by warren zefon and he thinks it funny to sing it on our walks. any singing is bad but the lyrics – if they can be so described – mainly comrise of 'ahhooo, werewolves of london, arghhoooo, arghhoooo,' etc, embarrassing or what. he thinks he is being funny. omg. stop him somebody, shooting is too good, or get him back to van morrison, he doesn’t know the lyrics of van’s stuff despite having heard it all for years and years. omg

sorry can’t manage caps on the keyboard.

More on our pack's thoughts

Ou est les chats? Rocco en France - nothing to do with this post - just wanted to publish this shot.

A Princess

The Princess walks out so as to provide the rest of the world with somebody to adore. She trots along confident in the cut of her fur and that her topknot is just the smartest thing - as indeed it is. But there is another side to her…

…One of Richmal Crompton’s William stories concerns Violet Elizabeth Bott, dressed in a frilly pink frock, demanding that she join William and the Outlaw’s red Indian games in the woods. They did not want her but as ever she bent them to her will. That evening William tried to return her to Mr & Mrs Bott at the Hall, but they failed to recognise William’s mud-covered companion as their own sweet child. Eventually, as she was led away towards the bathroom, Violet Elizabeth wistfully lisps ‘I like boyth games.’ The Princess also sometimes likes boy’s games and her owner is unimpressed by my returning with a bedraggled Tibetan terrier.

Baxter, a spaniel we walked when we first started looking after dogs, was a retired police drug sniffer dog. Nobody had told him he was retired, needless to say he could be fun when walking on Barnes Common on a sunny day. Sadly now he is employed in a celestial squad checking that there are no angels hiding dubious stuff in their harps.

Humbug, actually a delightfully affable fellow, we suspect of mentally compiling a long, long list of things not quite up to scratch on his stays with us. Hrumph, see that? Got fed third bowl down, not first. And another thing, the dalmation has grabbed the corner spot on the sofa again. What did the brochure say about sofa positions? And another thing…

What to do on a walk

Many years ago when Jumble our last dog was a carefree un-neutered male a walk contained for him numerous elements. Of course, he would meet various of his mates, check their digestive systems, watch out for cats, squirrels and other annoyances. Even if he saw none of the above there was the olfactory importance of reading the parish notices, checking his mail and leaving answering messages. Not least were the lonely hearts advertisements to post and answer – ‘Handsome stud seeks hot bitch to pursue mutual interests’ etc.

Fast-forwarding to today’s world, every male seems to be neutered and the importance of leaving pee messages has diminished. Certain trees, bits of street furniture and landmarks on the common, formerly covered by invisible message boards, once oh so fascinating, are passed without so much as a sniff, not that I complain, but I recently got to thinking about what each of our floating population of pack members looked for in a walk.

Coca, for instance looks for the admiration and love of friends and strangers, ever keen to sit on a foot (immobilizing her admirer) and bask in their affection. Beyond that she looks for supplements to her diet, ‘I say, there’s fresh bunny poo over here’.

Mooli lives for the opportunity to ‘bounce’ some poor other dog. In the distance he sees a Fothering-Thomas of a pooch, happily minding its own business, saying as it were ‘Hallo Clouds, Hallo Sun’ in the way that attracted Molesworth’s scorn. Mooli’s head goes down into hunting mode, he pauses, then he charges, growling fearsomely in the hope the Fothering-Thomas will turn and run and be good for a snarling chase. When he returns oozing self-satisfaction he finds it hard to comprehend the lack of admiration. Admiration is what he clearly deserves as any fule kno.

I am ashamed to admit young Mooli developed this appalling behavior in association with young Rocco - yes this is a secret of the otherwise laid-back Rocco’s guilty past - Mooli acted as Rocco’s henchdog. Needless to say Rocco nowadays is above all this, ever keen to control his pack to walk in a crocodile holding hands. When I see Mooli’s head go down in hunting mode, I distract him sometimes with a ‘treat.’ He has amplified this into a protection racket - when he sees a Fothering-Thomas he catches my eye, ‘gimme a treat or that wimp gets it’.

Nessie, a black Labrador, is chiefly interested in food, (it is said that once a couple of centuries ago, a Labrador missed a meal, the breed have vowed never to let this happen again). Nessie (‘oh, no not Nessie’ used to be her full name) launches herself at any picnic or any person suspected of picnicking like a heat seeking missile. Otherwise, it must be said, she is a delightful companion. 

Archie is a natural scientist, ever interested in the flora and fauna, flotsam and jetsam, etc and etc that he comes across. He plays a reverse version of ‘Grandmother’s footsteps’ – whenever you look back to see where he has got to, he is twenty yards behind you trotting happily, bound to catch-up with you in a moment. You look away and know he will instantly stop to examine some fascinating leaf. You look back once more and he is twenty yards behind you trotting happily, bound to catch-up with you in a moment…

Bobby, the greyhound we are fostering, never looses an opportunity to greet people to impress them by his affability otherwise he is a keen squirrel chaser though a fairly hopeless one, he works up such a speed that he will over run the tree up which his prey disappeared by twenty foot.

More to come...

A meeting of dog walkers

Bobby's idea of a good time, needless to say this sofa is out of bounds for dogs. The photos by Phoebe,  have nothing to do with the content of this post.

When I first saw Crufts Dog Show on TV I was appalled by the judges, all battleaxes in skirts made of horse blankets. The more I learnt about the Kennel Club the worse it seemed to be. Today public pressure has meant that certain of their approved breeding practices are being reformed, if at glacial pace. Well done the BBC, declining to broadcast the show which probably has been the biggest catalyst for change and well done the programme Horizon for keeping the pressure on. 

The point of the rant above is that I am wary of professional doggy people en mass. Ironic I guess, as I am a paid up professional doggy person myself now.

Bobby feels Judy should share out her birthday chockies

Judy and I went to a meeting of dog walkers last night to discuss what positive response could be made to Richmond Council’s proposed Dog Order. My uncharitable heart sank when I saw 22 of my fellow dog professionals. I have rarely met a dog walker I did not like, each individual a member of a great breed, loving their charges and the fresh air they walk in. However, collectively it must be admitted, we are all (as Rocco would say) barking mad. 

The meeting was well run by Lucy Bonnett (www.riversidedogs.co.uk) who had talked to David Allistair (head of parks, Richmond Council) and had formed the opinion that the council were deadly serious, not least as other councils had brought in controls so shuffling the vans of rogue dog walkers into Richmond. Lucy chaired the meeting well letting everybody have their say, no matter how barking (see above).

Lucy accepted a cap on numbers of dogs walked by one person was inevitable and it was decided that we should try and persuade Richmond that six was acceptable. Everybody favoured the idea that dog walkers should be licensed but apparently the council thought this would involve great expense. Lucy had drafted a Dog Walker’s Code of Conduct, whereby we would keep to a maximum of six charges, pick up their poo, have public liability insurance etc. We signed-up to this and will try to get other dog walkers not at the meeting to do likewise.

Our friend Penny emphasises the importance of writing to the council but warns that communications must have an address on them else the council will disregard them. So please write to David Allistair (the address is on a previous post) and/or sign the online petition: http://www.ipetitions.com/petition/set-the-dog-limit-at-six

Shot (professionally)

These photos were taken when Phoebe was shooting a commercial for Jumbones (from Pedigree Petfoods). She thought Dalmatians would be perfect for the camera (and one in particular) however the focus groups plumped for beagles* - the finished ad derives from Phoebe’s vocalisations of Mooli’s thought processes.

Phoebe mentioned Mooli to the director who said she would photograph him, at the end of the shoot. So I was summonsed to bring Mooli and Rocco to an industrial estate in Perivale (one of the industrial estates that time forgot) where the shoot was taking place. The fundamental rule of all shoots is that they always take far longer that anybody could believe. Mooli and Rocco and I had plenty of waiting time, in the dark, to discover why Time was so keen to forget the acres of crinkly metal buildings and discarded industrial junk that comprised this industrial estate. Mooli was rather miffed that the director thought that Rocco was more photographic. Still, Jumbones all round.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wkPBiDnvwnQ

The Pedigree Petfoods client team has a sense of humour, they went along with Phoebe’s agency April Fool stunt last year. Presenters on a live shopping channel pretended to sell Doggie Dentures, previously seen in a Dentastix ad.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?NR=1&v=a3boXty-naU&feature=endscreen

*Mooli: “Everybody knows beagles smoke.”                        




Traumatic times at the vets.

Rocco last year

A neighbour kindly gave us a bone for Rocco on Monday. It was a cooked gammon one, as far as we can recall. It is not the best idea to give bones that have been cooked to dogs as they can splinter. Previously Rocco has had no problem with these bones, he eats an end then Judy will scoop out the marrow for him. However this time we think bone fragments have caused him considerable discomfort. He did not eat on Tuesday and was constipated, yesterday he was no better so we took him to MediVet.

The lady vet was the kind of angel everybody would hope to look after them in moments of need. Poor Rocco was desperately embarrassed by her attentions and remained constipated, he stayed with them for an x-ray and further overnight treatment. At the time of writing he is still there. The walk this morning was one where I had three young daytime guests romping about in wonderful spring sunshine whilst Bobby put on a show of his lightning speed (ignored by Mooli). I wished my pal was with us.


(Edit 23 March, Rocco cheerfully came home last night and almost back to normal).
(Edit 26 March, normal service resumed).

A dog and bone story – When I was a fourteen, on a family holiday in Yarmouth, Isle of Wight, I took Rolley, our Labrador retriever, for an afternoon walk, we started on a green by the yacht club then a beach until a path took us through some woods eventually reaching a country church. The vicar was conducting a burial in the churchyard, well attended by soberly dressed mourners.

What followed was pure gothic horror. Rolley disappeared amongst the grassy tombstones only to surface with a large bone in his mouth decorated by earth, grass and dried blood. He dashed amongst the scattering crowd of mourners, to proudly present me with the bone. I had vamoosed back into the wood. The bone was from an ox, showing traces of a butcher’s saw. I never walked through that wood again.