Jumble and sweetshops

This photo is of Jumble our first family dog who was a perfect gentleman. We found an ad for labrador/spaniel puppies somewhere in the pre-internet age. We drove down to a farm or smallholding in the wilds of Dorset, passing hills where army regiments had carved their crests into the chalk of the green hills. Arriving at the smallholding was like stepping into rural history, Phoebe and Izzy were fascinated that the lady of the farm was carding wool from her sheep which she spun on the kind of spinning wheel might give Sleeping Beauty cause for concern.

The mother of the puppies was a Labrador Waynetta Slob. When she was not knocking over mugs of tea so that she could lap it up off the carpet she was grabbing one of the puppies by the leg and dragging it around regardless the squeals. Young Jumble was on top of a pile of cardboard boxes - king of the castle.

When we left, the lad of the smallholding opened the gate and muttered ‘I reckon it were the Saluki’. We returned home and looked at a book of dog pictures, there was one of saluki pups. We also reckoned it were the saluki.

Jumble loved to observe small animals. The staff of the pet shop in Richmond let us leave him gazing into the guinea pig / rabbit/ hamster cages. When we returned from shopping, he would still be sitting enraptured by the floorshow.

Rocco and I regularly go to the pet shop in East Sheen, this is like taking a child to the sweetshop. These are our 'dad and dog' moments, we don’t include our guests as these trips are a reward for Rocco sharing his home with the others. At first the guy in the pet shop would let Rocco forage around and shoplift from the bins behind his counter (he would just add an amount to the dog food bill). The shop was bought-out and in the shiny new pet shop the staff are still pleasant but are more po-faced about Rocco helping himself. They have taken to selling animals and insist on Rocco being on his lead as he shows too much interest in the kittens in the cages, ('Hey dad, lets buy a cat in a box').

Speaking about visiting sweetshops, I can remember when sweet rationing ended. My father took me to the corner shop and he bought the usual measly amount of confectionery plus a single chocolate bar. I could not understand it - we were permitted to have bought everything in sight (my plan) - yet we came away almost empty handed.

...

Sadly, Frank Carson the Northern Irish comedian has died, he was the only person who could make a joke about the troubles. I saw him interviewed on TV in the early seventies at the start of the violence. Ending a somewhat sombre interview, the newscaster asked Frank to crack a joke. Deadpan, he replied, ‘I don’t dare, I might get elected’.

Bobby

 We have Bobby, an affectionate and cuddly four-year-old greyhound, staying with us on a pro-bono basis, whilst a new family is being found for him. He is a rescue dog with a sweet nature, he enjoys being part of our pack. He has filled-out a bit since the summer when the photos were taken.


If you know of any likely new homes (without cats), please let us know. 


A great thing about greyhounds is they pack a lot of energy into their walks then crash out until the next meal. To a lesser extent the same is true of lurchers and related breeds.


Today we also are looking after a pair of nutty spaniels, trouble is they are working dogs in what seems to be a time of high spaniel unemployment (the government cuts)?  They are not really house pets. If there were some way to utilise their energy a couple of power stations could be decommissioned.

Rocco has retreated to his Office. This is the back seat of our car, a good place to chill out and keep an eye on the neighbourhood cats. It is called the Office as at one time or another he has heard Judy or myself say we are ‘going to the office’ then driving off, so in lurcher logic, the car must be The Office.


I wrote the above yesterday. Least you think that the canine hospitality trade is all sweetness and light, no sooner had I finished, the day took a turn for the worse. I picked-up two other dogs, both emergency bookings, a visuala and a boxer, both about three years old. I met-up with Judy for the afternoon walk which went well. Bobby had the pack racing around us - we were encircled covered wagons, threatened by apache attack.


Judy went back to work after the walk, back home it transpired the recent arrivals were Montague and Capulet, (‘You bite your thumb at me sir?’) The spaniels enjoyed raising the temperature as boxer faced up to Visula and visa versa. I went through a full repertoire of distraction, fascination, persuasion and it must be said resorted to providing Danegelt. Rocco, Mooli and Bobby had slunk off to smoke a packet of Silk Cut behind the bike sheds. 


In the evening after the spaniels had been collected, things calmed down and the erstwhile foes became best friends. They slept the night with adjacent baskets.

Throw the ball, Throw the ball, go on throw the ball, Throw the ball, Throw the ball, Throw the ball, Throw the ball, Throw the ball, Throw the ball, Throw the ball, Throw the ball, Throw the ball, Throw the ball, go on throw the ball, Throw the ball, go on throw the ball, Throw the ball, Throw the ball, Throw the ball, Throw the ball, Throw the ball, Throw the ball, Throw the ball, Throw the ball, go on throw the ball, Throw the ball, Throw the ball, go on throw the ball, Throw the ball, Throw the ball, go on throw the ball... 

Today we have been joined by charming spaniel puppy (not the dog above) who is one of those sweeties convinced their allure will be immeasurably increased but a long roll in fox poo. I am not sure which of us got more soaked in the subsequent shampooing. She now smells of both fox poo and lavender. Bless.

Half term (and working for Securicor)

The half term break is over - the roads are congested again*. It has been a full-on young dog experience for us. The great thing is that our regular guests get on well with the new ones. We had lots of puppy cockerpoo fun.

Cockerpoos and springerpoos are welcome new additions to Barnes and Putney Commons. Labradoodles have been around for five years or so. Somewhere there must be some pretty smug un-neutered poodle males.  

Before cockerpoos, the young dog of choice in SW13, SW14 & SW15 were labradors, charming if hungry, fellows all. Were you walking a couple of them on the permafrost of Wimbledon Common and you came across a thawing woolly mammoth carcase, it would vanish in the twinkling of an eye and the dogs would still go home wondering what was for supper.

One of the Dog Hotel’s first guests is the much missed gentle giant Luca. A wonderful laid-back Rhodesian Ridgeback. The voice Phoebe gave him was deep and slightly regretful, (‘Oops, you mean that I was not supposed to upend that German Sheppard?’) in a mildly South African accent. Sadly he is now hunting lion on the celestial savannah. His owners now have a Ridgeback puppy bursting with inexhaustible get-up and go. She is a devotee of ‘Surface surfing’ whereby despite her diminutive size she will clear the kitchen worktops in the blink of an eye. She was a guest last week, a sparing partner for the young spaniel.

Luca's idea of a good time, if only Mooli would stop singing.

*My post art school job was driving for Securicor’s cash-in-transit business. I had regular early morning runs, the route intersecting with school-bound traffic in several places. I quickly learnt armoured Ford Transits stand no chance against estate cars driven by sheepskin-coated mums with children playing-up on the back seat.

Many years later, I art-directed a group photo of Securicor’s management for their annual report. The slightly camp photographer insisted on calling each manager by his Christian name and job title. The managers were grumpy and unsmiling until the photographer asked, ‘Could Dick head of communications move... Nothing but smiles after that, except from Dick head of…

Highwaymen (highwaydogs)

The Thames at Barnes

I want to avoid Disneyfying Rocco and his mates, as mentioned above. I also don’t want only to celebrate his positive side – his usually affable laid-back lurcher personality. A recent morning walk reminded me that he used to have ‘Mr B’, (short for Mr Bastard) as a nickname. Policemen on horses, Wimbledon rangers on horses, joggers wearing flappy clothing, cyclists, dogs meekly accompanying joggers – there is a fair list of those, who in his youth, he regarded as provocative. He has mellowed over the years but Mr B has never entirely vanished. Mind you all dogs (and all of us) have a Mr B lurking deep inside.

Mr B

We live close to Hammersmith Bridge, the Thames towpath is a couple of minutes away, a good place one might suppose for a walk. Rowing used to be my sport, I enjoy watching the crews training on the river and greeting Steve Fairbain’s monument at the Milepost however the towpath is not Rocco’s favourite walk. He has never been in a fight, he knows he can outrun any dog showing aggression. His sense of security has always been that he can escape any situation. So open space is preferable to a towpath offering only going forward or back options. 

Mooli leads a search for lost confectionary - a one in a million chance.

As it is half term the Dog Hotel is full. Judy took most of the guest off for a morning walk on Barnes / Putney Common and I took Rocco, Mooli and another down to the river where snow was thawing, I let them off the lead. Our rule being dogs we look after wear leads on pavements but don’t away from traffic (all things otherwise being equal).

I was soon distracted, busy with a poo-bag (joy of joy), when I heard a yelp from a jogger. ‘Your dog bit me.’ He exclaimed. Mr B was back, I stood there mouth hanging open. How to explain the inadvisability of jogging with loose straps dangling at waist height? 

‘Did he bite you or your clothes’? I asked and the runner, bobbing up and down on the spot, admitted that it was a strap that got tugged. ‘I’m cool with that,’ he said pleasantly and whizzed-off. I was mortified.

The point is that a person in charge of a dog is responsible for that dog’s actions, if a situation brews-up, it must be nipped that in the bud. If you walk several dogs you must be in control of them at all times, on or off the lead. Excuses such as ‘He only wanted to play,’ might be true but are beside the point.

I had words with Mr B, but evidently not to good effect. Five minutes later as a carefree golden retriever trotted towards us. Mr B began a highwayman ‘Your money or your life’ routine, Mooli proving an excellent henchman. The golden retriever retreated, I grabbed the putative highwaymen and they spent the rest of the walk on their leads.

Still, its a lot better than sitting in meetings with folk whinging-on about the cost of authors’ corrections to the Notes to the Accounts…


PS Rocco would like to present the case for the defense. 'When I play rough games with my human sister Izzy, nipping is permitted. So how am I to know the difference? 


If you won't accept that, M'lud, then could you please take 37 other counts of towpath harassment into account? 

Greetings and goodbyes

First an apology, I can’t get to grip with the visual appearance of this blog, picture sizing and placement seem different every time I look back at what is already up and the typography is crude beyond belief, mortifying to one who spent years as a graphic designer. These things will improve.

Regarding content I am keen not to anthropomorphise Rocco and our guests however they are all strong characters and communicate clearly to us. I am also concerned not to come over as a Pooter but that is the risk every blogger takes.

Back to the subject of this blog...


As a rule dogs don’t say goodbye, (the possible exception to this is Teddy a Border Terrier who is ever punctilious in his interactions). The lack of a goodbye is felt both by an owner leaving a guest who dashes to our side door to greet old friends and it is felt by us when someone who has professed itself as our best, best, best friend when it whizzes off at the end of its stay to joyfully to rejoin its family.

Dogs are very good on ‘Hallo’, they are magnificent in their greetings, it is the next thing that matters. It is legendry that they are loyal friends but it is the friends they make as puppies who stay close to their hearts all their lives.

Ziggy seen here with Rocco (both lurchers seemingly thinking dark lurcher thoughts) and seen with Maisey. Ziggy is one of Rocco’s oldest mates. When they were young they both played the puppy game of ‘bite yer face’ distressing to watch – how can they avoid harming each other? – but the participants know the boundaries exactly. When they meet each other after a break of a couple of years Rocco and Ziggy continue where they left off.

Phoebe, our eldest daughter is a genius at finding a voice that exactly encapsulates the character of a dog. When she voices Ziggy’s thoughts he comes across as a Russian gangster, which suits his ruthless pursuit and killing of squirrels and in his youth, waterfowl on Barnes Pond. Once when she saw Rocco dashing ahead of Ziggy towards a Wimbledon Common rabbit warren, she called out in Rocco's voice 'Run, baby bunnies run, Ziggy is coming'.

Chasing animals is Rocco’s passion, thankfully however he does not kill. He was a rescue dog, discarded in Birmingham by gypsies, as his lack of a killer instinct rendered him a useless hunter. We found him through Saluki Rescue’s website (he is at least half saluki) we drove up to the Droitwich Dog Show to collect him from his kindly foster family. He was great friends with the boys in that family and would greet the youngest, strapped in his pushchair, with a ‘Saluki kiss’ - a lick in the ear. He retains a fondness for this greeting we watch carefully but many a pushchair-bound toddler in Barnes has been surprised by the affectionate greeting.

Puppies

Rocco, if he were to express a view on puppies, would mutter that they are more trouble than they are worth. Accordingly we tended not to to take them as guests, but that was then. Now we have a great rota of young 'uns who delightfully jazz the place-up no end.












Rocco and Mooli tried to pretend that this younger generation do not exist and certainly regard their reserved places on the sofa as sacrosanct. Usually a new guest is subjected to a greeting of a snarl or two (the puppy's owner wondering if he/she has made a terrible mistake). But this is just Rocco laying down the law, the guest accepts its place in the hierarchy, no more is said and the guest is now under Rocco's protection. 

On one summer walk, Rocco was studiously ignoring his pack which included a new guest. This puppy started playing with a couple of collie-cross types, and squeaked as the game threatened to turn rough. Instantly Rocco, who had been minding his own business twenty yards away, inserted himself between the puppy and the others, giving them his best snarl. Once they were gone he resumed his pensive indifference.


I was recently asked how I kept the pack together during walks. I guess the answer is they tend to follow Rocco and he follows me, mainly out of politeness. A pocketful of treats also helps, at various point on a walk Rocco will decide when everybody should have one (he starts bouncing at me) so we pause for a general distribution. 

It is half-term week, or more exactly fortnight, at the moment so the Dog Hotel is busy. I guess we have had so many mild winters that one is surprised by cold weather. 

The bean bag by the fire is much in demand. The definition of a door - something between a dog and where he wants to be - is never more true in our house at the moment when an icy breeze accompanies our guests as the peer out of an opened door then decide that their 'comfort stop' can wait awhile.

One of our favorite guests is the Princess pictured here. Somewhat obviously the photos were taken last year. 

The Princess knows that she is the most gorgeous creature imaginable and like Mary Poppins is practically perfect. Close examination of her waistline (should anybody be so disrespectful) might indicate an area where she might look to find an improvement but, Hey, it might just be what she calls her winter coat. 

She insists on traveling on the front seat of our car en-route to a walk. This she maintains is 'First class', riding on the back seat (as our boy insists on doing) is 'Business class'. Those in the tailgate are 'World Traveller'.