Those readers who remember my writing about Rocco biting a jogger on the towpath back in February might like to see how a real writer tells the story...
C'est la folie: badly behaved, moi?
Dear old Pike, the rescue dog with a heart condition. Surely this endearing character’s bark must be worse than his bite...
29 May 2012
Centuries of being slapped in the face with the wet flannel of disappointment have taught the British to be wary of looking forward to anything. Instead, we warn each other against tempting fate and counting chickens; claim not to be superstitious and touch wood if we catch ourselves banking on anything. Don’t sell the bear’s skin until you’ve killed it, the French say. They touch wood, too. The people of most European countries do, except the contrary Italians, who touch iron – tocca ferro – instead. This may be where they’ve been going wrong all these years.
We are terrified of losing something good by wanting it too much. But what about when it’s the other way round: when we expect the worst, yet things turn out just fine, or better? We all live with so many swords suspended from horsehairs above our heads – the credit crunch, global warming, asteroid strikes, superbugs, drought, the Schmallenberg virus, the varroa mite and Simon Cowell – that every extra moment we manage to eke out on the planet really is a miracle. Having no word for whatever is the opposite of disappointment, we can barely even shape this emotion in our heads. But there is such a feeling, and it’s more than simple pleasure or relief. It’s what you feel when you have been told that your adored rescue dog is likely to die of congestive heart disease before Christmas, and he is still going strong in April.
Actually, my emotions about Pike’s survival against the odds are complex. Mostly I feel grateful and amazed. But I feel ever-so-slightly embarrassed, too, having publicly anticipated his death months ago, with perhaps a few too many violins playing the Ave Verum Corpus in the background. In my defence, the stages of congestive heart disease are graded in severity from one to six. And the Jolibois vet, shaking his head with a mournful smile, classed Pike as somewhere between five and six.
At first, it felt as if the vet had passed a heavy sentence upon us, and it was hard to look at the little fellow – Pike, I mean, for the vet is actually quite tall – without a pang. But I have managed to stop picturing his diseased and enlarged heart as a ticking time-bomb, liable to explode at any moment. After all, the high-speed pleasure he takes in life makes it easy to forget how sick he is, and the vet’s prognosis merely makes us appreciate him all the more. “Even if it is to be,” as Seneca puts it, “what end do you serve by running to distress?”
Today, Amélie and I are out walking with Digby and Pike before breakfast. I’m not sure who spots the runner first, but now Pike is off, sprinting in the direction of the tall figure in black Lycra who is lolloping towards us. I am expecting Pike to sprint up to the runner and sprint back again, his duty as chief scout done. This is his usual technique with walkers. And, because he is a timid terrier and only about the size of a briefcase, even the French – who are often far more fearful of dogs than are the English – tend to be amused.
So I am stunned when the runner suddenly emits a high-pitched shriek, clutches his bottom as if he has been peppered with a 12-bore, and starts screaming that the little dog has bitten him. His legs spasm like Galvani’s frogs. Tears stream from his eyes. And he wails à la Beaker from The Muppets in an anguished falsetto, with such histrionic wretchedness that I can but stand there, open-mouthed, and gawp.
I do not mean to make fun of him. I am merely attempting to express how extraordinary the young man’s response to a greeting from a little dog appears to be. Initially, at least. You’d think the poor chap had been Tasered; that he has been watching too much grand opera, or premiership football. Pike is still running in circles around his ankles, visibly gobsmacked by the soprano ululations, leaping up with the excitement of a Callas groupie wanting to give yet another ovation after an encore. More spasms, more screams, more tears.
I run towards them both, calling for Pike to come back. I can see that I have a problem on my hands, even before Digby gets involved. He lumbers up to the runner like a well-meaning St John’s Ambulance volunteer, wanting to see if he can help. And the man kicks him so hard that it quite makes my eyes water. Digby’s, too. I know what this means. It means that the man has been pushed beyond his limits. And now he’s not just hurt. He’s angry, too.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell him, in French, grabbing Pike. “He’s a sweet dog, but I can see he gave you quite a scare.”
“Il m’a mordu! He’s bitten me!” he howls. His face is wet with tears.
“I really don’t think so,” I reply, glancing at the man’s shorts, and wondering if he’s got a no-win no-fee lawyer tucked inside them. Pike has never bitten anything before.
And then the man points at his left buttock. My jaw drops. A square of Lycra hangs flapping in the wind, like the door of an advent calendar. Behind the door, I can see a slash of red on white. So I was quite right about Pike not biting the man. Unfortunately, he appears to have knifed him instead. With one flick of a razor-tipped canine, he has sliced through the man’s shorts and carved an angry welt in the skin beneath.
My apologies are fulsome and heartfelt and, frankly, a bit desperate. Thank goodness the young man is so forgiving, when he has every right to feel aggrieved. He agrees to accompany me back to La Folie, so that Nurse Alice can patch him up, and I can find some cash to pay for his shorts, before he continues with his 14km run.
As we go, I attempt a little male bonding by telling him about my own running training, and asking about his.
“I’m cross-training for le vélo,” he explains. “I’m currently champion of Haute-Vienne, and hoping next month to become champion of France.”
“Ah, d’accord,” I gulp, badly wishing Pike could have chosen a less distinguished buttock to lacerate.
While the champion of Haute-Vienne runs off into the distance, Alice and I stand looking at Pike, wondering what on earth we are to do with our wayward invalid. From now on, he must stay on his lead for the duration of our walks. This is no bad thing, for slowing him down should reduce the chances of a heart attack in mid-stride.
Even so, the stain on his record means that our every walk must henceforth be conducted with a new sword hanging from a horsehair above my head. And, more than ever, I shall be craving my daily shot of that nameless emotion which is the opposite of disappointment, when you expect the worst, yet everything turns out just fine. I’m sure it will, too. Touch iron.
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