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Tag Archives: Doberman

Life Turns on a Sixpence

My Beautiful EricIt’s been two weeks and two days since I lost my beloved Eric. I miss him terribly and my little house seems suddenly too big without him shambling around or barking insanely at the postman or knocking my slippers off my feet as he follows me, too closely, up the stairs.

It isn’t only my grief, of course. As if the tears of my family weren’t enough, I didn’t realise how much he meant to everybody until I discovered that my niece, Medusa, had secreted his collar, lead and muzzle in her school bag. Her consternation when I asked for them back a few days later was so sad to see. We agreed that I could have the lead but she could keep the collar and the muzzle. The muzzle was a recent addition to Eric’s life. I bought it as his condition worsened and his behaviour became more unpredictable. I hated it as much as he did but it was necessary when he was around the kids, lest he snapped at them. I found it strange that Medusa would want to keep it, but she did, and now her teddy bear wears it with the collar. Not sure how Ted feels about that.

Having a dog that was known as a character in the village means I’ve cried publicly several times as I’ve explained to concerned locals where Eric has gone. And so has my sister, St Francis. We are a right bunch of softies in my family.

But every sad ending brings a new beginning.

Loving Homes Dog Rescue, the charity that placed Eric with us, let me know that a female Doberman cross was in urgent need of a new home and I was sorely tempted. She was a truly lovely looking dog but, like many rescue dogs, she had her issues and after coping with Eric’s deterioration, I was exhausted. I needed a gentler housemate. (We are making it up to them by possibly fostering a little six-month-old that was stolen from her owner by muggers who apparently wanted her as a bait dog.) So I browsed various rescue sites on the internet, without any real idea of taking on another dog so soon, until I happened across Great Dane Care and that was that.

I like big dogs. I like all dogs (well, nearly all) but I really like big dogs and I’ve had Danes before so I stopped on the Great Dane Care site and had a look around. As luck would have it, the half-starved and mistreated Alfie was at the top of the page. St F and I made enquiries and exactly one week ago Alfie took up residence in my house. No longer is my home echoing and empty. It’s filled with the snoring, farting and grunting of its newest occupant. I still see Eric everywhere but it is a calm feeling as if some remnant of Eric’s spirit has given his approval – but then that’s the rescue dog prayer, isn’t it? ‘When I go, let another experience the love and care that you gave me …’

Any of you who read my earlier post Int Life Brilliant? will know that I’ve had an Alfie in my life before. We don’t duplicate names, St F and I. It wouldn’t be fair to our Alfie’s memory and it wouldn’t be fair to this chap so St F and I spent that first day watching our new friend to work out what his name could be. A chance remark  from St F about the dog’s very mobile and expressive eyebrows led to me joking about Roger Moore (An actor famous for his being able to raise one or both eyebrows). There was a pause, St F and I looked at each other – ‘Roger,’ she said. ‘I like that.’ And so Alfie the Dane became Roger the Dane. He’s also known as Roger Dodger, Roger the Lodger, Droopy and Slobadan. The last refers to his drooling like a leaky tap, especially at mealtimes.

Starved, beaten, with scars that are quite likely to come from cigarette burns, Roger is a surprisingly trusting soul. Well-mannered, gentle and calm and I am more than a little in love with him already. Thank god for the people who work so hard in rescue centres like Loving Homes Dog Rescue and Great Dane Care, They don’t make any money and they witness the awfulness of man’s inhumanity daily. I am truly glad that people like St F and I are trusted to care for some of their precious creatures.

Roger's first day

Roger’s first day

Look at those ribs!

Look at those ribs!

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Posted by on March 7, 2014 in Family Life

 

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Two Dry Days In A Row

Yes people, we have had two days without rain! A weekend of aridity after Friday’s wickedly mischievous wind pushed tiles off St F’s roof and sent them hurtling to a soft landing in the ankle-deep mud where her garden used to be. Neighbour’s fences relocated to parts unknown and satellite dishes that once looked to the sky for input were left dangling and swaying on broken stems. The woods are unsafe to enter as possibly fifty trees have tipped into unstable poses, some leaning against their friends, some prone in the leaf litter. The rain-blasted fields could absorb no more water and shrugged the run-off down to the river which rose up and swallowed the road – again. Electricity came and went but still, St F and I managed to turn out a special Valentine’s meal for Medusa and Semtex and their significant others who had come to stay. They had to stay. The village was cut off from the outside world.

But. But. Saturday dawned bright and dry with blue sky. It was still a little windy but I could go outside and remain upright so that was a bonus. St F and I celebrated by taking the dogs out for a run.

Eric has a girlfriend, a black spaniel called Madge. And he loves her. As they’re both rescue dogs, they’ve both had ‘the snip’ so it’s fairly certain that their’s is a simple and pure relationship. Eric is a very Alpha male so his interaction with other males is all about dominance but with bitches he’s better behaved – sort of. He’s got a strong prey drive. All he wants to do is chase things. Deer, pheasants, bicycles, joggers – and Madge. This is a good thing because Madge lives in a flat in a nearby town where she doesn’t get to run free (because she’s a sod to catch) so, when she comes to stay with us, she has a lot of pent-up energy. And she runs faster than Eric who will tire long before she does. And she’s a feisty little creature who will give Eric what for if he annoys her too much. Perfect.

There is one drawback to this happy image of two furry, black smudges haring around on a hilltop and that’s Eric neglecting to watch where he’s going. So intent is he on catching up with the smaller, speedier Madge, he fails to notice the vulnerable humans in his path i.e St F and me. Twice now he has bundled into me and then trampled my body into the ground. I don’t know if I should blame Eric or Madge or maybe the unseen shade of Alfie the original Doberman cannonball. (Int Life Brilliant?) Is he laughing in the shadows of the hedgerow and whispering to Madge, ‘Go closer to the people. Lead Eric towards his family. At full speed. Snigger, snigger?’ Is it his revenge for the flashing reindeer antlers that Medusa forced him to wear one Christmas?

Meantime, Ernie the collie, oblivious to ghostly dogs and high-speed canine romance stares at St F from a short distance away.

‘Throw the ball,’ his expression says. ‘Throw the ball. Please throw the ball.’

Flat out exhausted

Flat out exhausted

Back home after chewing up the kindling, and ensuring that I have to grub around the carpet for splinters of wood to light the fire, the lovers retire for the evening. Note that Eric is no gentleman. He gets the bed. Madge gets the floor. However, he’s so whacked from his outdoor exertions that he won’t stir – not even if I walked through the room banging cymbals together – and he won’t know when I call little Madge up on the sofa. Ha ha ha, serves him right.

That was the first dry day.

Sunday was warmer, sunnier and almost windless. I went alone to the hill with spaniel and Doby. The grass in the field had sprung back to vertical after the hammering wind and rain had flattened it. Deep, shimmering blue arched over the landscape and reflected itself in the sea encircling the headland. The dogs chased up rise and down dip and I found a boulder to sit on where I could watch a buzzard circling below the quiet clouds. After a while, Eric tired of the chase, leaving Madge to pursue an annoyed and vocal pheasant who had a safe head start, he came to stand by me.

Quiet communion. Woman and hound sharing a small moment of peace. Then it was my turn to chase Madge around the field. Seems she didn’t want to go back on her lead.

Has Madge gone home? Oh. I could have caught her, you know. If I'd reallt wanted t...zzzzz

Has Madge gone home? Oh. I could have caught her, you know. If I’d really wanted t…zzzzz

 
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Posted by on February 17, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Autumn Has Landed

Just like that!

UK weather forecasters predicted rain and flash floods. Our area had amber alerts for adverse conditions but we awoke to blazing sunshine and unbearable heat. We watched news reports of rain-lashed, wind-tossed northern towns and went off sniggering behind our hands to splash around in my sister’s giant inflatable pool. Oh what jolly fun. Then, yesterday morning, I opened the back door and invited Eric to go out for his morning pee. He looked at me. He looked at the rain hammering down on the swamp that was our little patch of lawn and he refused to budge. It takes some doing to lift your foot up to the backside of a 40kg dog and shove him out the door but I managed it – eventually. Four feet have more traction than two but I’m bigger than he is and equally as determined. Out into the downpour he went and, because the wind was cold, I shut the door on him. Oh! Now I can really appreciate the expression ‘hang dog’!

I’m not sorry though. I’d rather mop up giant, muddy footprints from my kitchen floor than a yellow lake, if you get my drift. And anyway, aren’t Dobermanns big, tough, fierce animals? No, sorry, got to stop typing – laughing too much. Oh the tears …

Besides, I’m a nice doggy guardian. I have made a throw especially for the couch that he likes to sleep on. That way I don’t have to endlessly wipe off paw prints before a human can sit on it. I just whip off the throw and ta da! Nice clean seat. I even – wait for this – allowed him up on to said couch when he finally did come in out of the rain. And I cuddled him. And I thought about getting him a blanket if he was cold. He sulked for a bit and huffed and grumbled but he forgave me in the end. He had to. Of the two of us, I’m the one who knows how to light the wood stove.

Yes it’s that time of year. No more long days and short nights. No more keeping all the windows open to let in night breezes (and half the insect population). Heat seeking spiders the size of Volkswagens are appearing in the nooks and crannies of my house (and are being helped out again with glass and paper) and instead of trying to move away from Eric when he takes up residence across my bed, I huddle up to him. For the warmth. Strictly for the warmth.

Oh yeah, and cos I love him.

 
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Posted by on September 9, 2013 in Family Life, Nature

 

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Aside

I was a little girl once. I still am, though my external self appears to be a middle-aged woman. Inside, among the jumble of anxieties, responsibilities and disappointments, are still a few shiny memories that not only encapsulate a moment in my long ago but also still affect the woman I am now.

That all came out rather complicated. How can I explain? By giving an example, I guess.

The Gambia, 1973. It’s the dry season which my mother, brought up in Uganda, claims is the chilly time of year. I don’t agree. I spend my days wandering about dressed only in my knickers and I’m plenty warm enough. I’m practically feral at this point – I don’t see much of my parents and my little sister, St Francis of Assisi, is in the care of our home help so I’m left to swim, explore the bush, ride horses and, best of all, hang out with a baboon called BooBoo.

Ah, the days when I knew no better. Looking back, that poor animal must have gone out of his mind tied to a tree and being teased by the tourists in the beach-side hotel I called home. Now I’d want to liberate him, then, I just enjoyed being with him. We loved each other, we were pals and I was the one human he didn’t bite.

When a second baboon appears, tied to the same tree, I absorb her into my life and make room in my affections for her. This baboon, Maxi, is a baby. She is half the size of BooBoo but there are those to whom age is no barrier and I often arrive at the tree in the morning to find Maxi taken from her side of the tree to where BooBoo can reach her. I don’t have the vocabulary to say that BooBoo is sexually frustrated but I know that’s why Maxi’s been moved. There’s always an audience that’s highly amused to see BooBoo trying to hump her. I am not amused. I separate them and take Maxi back to safety. The audience breaks up, perhaps they don’t want to take on the fearsomely prudish little English girl who, despite frustrating his desires, can count on BooBoo to protect her from any threat. And no one wants to piss off a baboon.

One afternoon, when the breeze wafting in from the ocean was barely enough to stir the strands of sun-bleached hair that perpetually hung over my eyes, I sat on a low bough of the baboon’s tree with Maxi in my arms. She’d been moved again and I’ve re-moved her. BooBoo is consoling himself with a plate of fruit that I’ve brought but Maxi isn’t hungry. Maxi is tired. Closing her eyes, she rests her head on my chest, hugs my waist with all four limbs and sleeps. And sleeps. And sleeps. I look down on my tiny companion, not daring to breathe, not wanting to disturb her. Flies fuss and flitter from the remains of the fruit to my bare skin and back again. Sweat forms and runs from my pores, I need to pee but I will not move. I believe that Maxi feels safe in my embrace, that’s why she’s allowed herself to fall so deeply asleep and I feel honoured. This furry baby has given me her trust and I will not break it even if I have to wet myself.

I don’t know how long I sat there that day. Maybe it was ten minutes, maybe it was an hour. Time is different when you’re eight, but it left a lasting legacy. Since then I have had many animals, from monkeys to lambs, fall asleep on my lap. Babies too – human babies, I mean – and I have never, ever lost that sense of being honoured when a skittish, wary creature allows itself to fall into a vulnerable state of deep sleep in my care.

The reason that I’m writing about this now is Eric. He’s two and a bit now and, even by Doberman standards, he’s a bloody big dog but he’s still a puppy. One of his most endearing habits is his need of physical contact with me while he sleeps. I have had to lift his head away from my keyboard so that I can type. He’s grumbled and moved a whole half an inch for me. The heat he’s throwing off is making me unbearably uncomfortable and he’s heavy and I wish he’d move away a bit but guess what? I won’t move him (mainly because he weighs forty kilos). Instead I’ll sit here and think about an afternoon forty years ago when I learned the real meaning of trust.

Letting Sleeping Dogs Lie

 
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Posted by on August 19, 2013 in Musing

 

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A Story of Infidelity, Going on the Run and the Unkindest Cut of All

I didn’t intend to be unfaithful, I kind of resented it at first but, after that, it was easy. Zack’s intelligent, brown eyes favoured me with a questioning gaze and I melted like a chocolate fire guard. It didn’t take long for him to get from my kitchen to my bed. Black and sleek, he wasn’t as tall as my true love but by crikey he was beautiful. And we’d only met that afternoon. I’m not ashamed, I’d do it again, especially for Zack.

My sister, St Francis, and I only went to his home to meet him but ended up coming back with him and all his kit in the car.

‘How the hell are we going to explain to Eric, Ernie and Floyd that we’ve brought home another Doberman?’ I asked St Francis.

‘Very carefully,’ she replied. ‘And anyway, never mind them, what about Moriarty?’

Ah yes, Moriarty the villainous feline, arch-enemy of small scampering creatures and nemesis of Floyd, was chased up the stairs once too often by Eric and Ernie and had left home some days earlier. St Francis fretted, Medusa wept and Floyd enjoyed unimpeded passage through the cat-flap (see Moriarty’s Rap Sheet for explanation). Then, the night before Zack came into our lives, Medusa spotted Moriarty in the field in front of the house. With haste she brought him in and offered him Rufus’ bowl of food. Strangely, after so many days on the run, Moriarty wasn’t particularly hungry. No doubt there’s a trail of feathers, bones and small scraps of fur  leading back to wherever he was hiding out. Clearly able to feed himself, the cat would be unlikely to stay home when he discovered another fruit-loop dog hanging around. Tact, diplomacy and keeping Moriarty and Zack apart were definitely high on our list of priorities.

Zack comes from a loving family and is well cared for but he needed a new home due to circumstances beyond his family’s control. Parting was such agony for them all that they pleaded with St Francis and I to take him straight away and get it over. So, we drove away with the sad, quiet dog. He met and made friends with the other dogs, one at a time, was ignored by Rufus and, mercifully, never clapped eyes on Moriarty. he had a long walk with Eric, down by the river, and enjoyed his dinner but … he couldn’t settle. He howled when left alone for a bit. He refused to go sleep even though his head was nodding. He whimpered and couldn’t be comforted. Zack was very sad. St Francis was sad for him. I was sad for him but there was another problem that occupied us as well. Unbeknown to Ernie, he was going to the vets in the morning and we had to keep him away from food (and the cats’ bowls, the left-overs, the bin) after 8 p.m. He was going to have a general anaesthetic and when he awoke, he would discover a long line of stitches where those two little round things used to hang between his back legs. St Francis felt guilty. She needed to spend time with him.

‘Why don’t I take Zack to my house?’ I offered.

St Francis thought for a moment. ‘OK,’ she said. Eric can stay here. He can sleep in the kitchen.’

Leave my Eric? Spend a night without him hogging the bed? That’s where the resentment came in but it ebbed away as soon as Zack laid down beside me on my hearth-rug and fell asleep. The quiet of my little house, the lack of all other life-forms apart from me (and a couple of small spiders) meant he could relax at last but, when I moved away, he snapped awake and came to follow me. He didn’t want solitude and who can blame him? He’d had a tough day and was probably very confused so I took him upstairs.

Smaller and more polite than Eric, he took up a lot less of the bed but just like Eric, he snored like a chainsaw and farted non-stop. I’m so glad I left the bedroom windows open. In the morning, while Ernie went to meet his destiny, Zack and I charged around the house playing. Then the phone rang. Zack’s family couldn’t live without him. Would we bring him back?

St Francis and I were sorry to let him go but the sight of that dog belting up the garden path of his rightful home and throwing himself back into the bosom of his family made everything better. He is back where he belongs and, best of all, he was safe from Moriarty.

As I write this post, Ernie is recovering well from his operation, though he is keen to get the healing over and chase sticks again, Moriarty is still at home purring like a small generator and Eric, after sniffing around the house for Zack’s scent, has forgiven my infidelity and spread himself across the bed with his head on my knee.

All is right with the world.

Who are you, then?

Who are you, then?

.

Zack left, Eric right.

Zack left, Eric right.
Asleep at last

Asleep at last

'You'll have to catch me first!' says Ernie

‘You’ll have to catch me first!’ says Ernie

 
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Posted by on June 15, 2013 in Family Life, Uncategorized

 

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Risk, Responsibilities and Big, Daft Dogs

I am lost. I tried to resist but I was only kidding myself. I’m in love. And he loves me back. It’s led to an awkward  triangle situation and my new love has been duffed-up a couple of times by my old love. I still hope to find a way for the three of us to live together in harmony, though.

Big, butch and still only a baby

Big, butch and still only 18 months old.

Isn’t he lovely? How could any dog-lover not be smitten by such magnificence? Let me state, here and now, that I’m still deeply in love with Floyd. We are best mates and his place on my bed is sacrosanct but this post is about Eric. My sister asked me to write this – more specifically, she asked me to write about giving a home to a rescue-dog. Especially a rescued adult Doberman.

There are many wonderful charities looking after or re-homing disadvantaged or mistreated animals and it was through one of these that Eric came into our world. He’s not our first ‘rescue’ animal, he’s not even our first rescue Doberman, but it’s only since he joined my family that I noticed how many rescue-dogs are out there. It seems that every second dog I meet is rescued. I met a gorgeous Bull Mastiff/Great Dane cross, the other day, who leaned companionably against my leg whilst I chatted to her foster-carer about the cigarette burns that covered her body when she was finally brought out of the shed where she’d been kept for three years.

Thank goodness for the rescuers, foster-carers and forever-homers and what a terrible shame that any creature ever needs rescuing from cruelty.

Giving a home to a dog is very satisfying. It gives you a warm glow. Reputable rescuers will come to inspect you and your home before you get anywhere near any dogs. They’ll suss you out and decide if you know what you’re talking about, then they’ll tell you all about your prospective dog. This may take all of fifteen seconds. Did the dog come to them with its history? Probably not. Is their knowledge of the dog merely what they’ve been able to observe since they’ve had it? Probably. But the important thing here is, they trust you. Having seen your home, heard your experience and met your other animals (should you have some), the rescuers agree to let their damaged doggy come and stay with you. Yipee!

Hopefully, if they are a reputable group, they’ll come back and see that the dog has settled in and that there are no problems but … There is going to come a time when it’s just you and the dog and you have to get on with it.

Eric came with some basic training already but in a new environment some of it went straight out of his head – including house-training. Oh yes, my bedroom is where the back door leads to the garden and as Eric is not good at asking to be let out, I have discovered many a mountainous dog poo on my carpet. Thank god for reasonably priced steam cleaners.

I grew up with a prejudice against Dobermans. We had various dogs throughout my childhood – a Great Dane (rescued), a black and tan mongrel (rescued), a Canary Island dog (rescued), a pie-dog and many others but alongside these we always had an Alsatian (German Shepherd). That was my father’s preferred breed and Sis and I grew up with a long line of huge, fearsome and utterly lovely dogs.

We weren’t afraid of big, fierce dogs but Dobermans? My mum said they weren’t to be trusted. She said you couldn’t read their expressions and I believed her.

I’d just joined a ship when Sis rang and told me she’d been given a badly beaten two-year-old Dobe that she had called Alfie. I was not pleased. I thought she’d lost her marbles. Then I met Alfie. Game over, I was in lurve. What a dog. We walked miles together, Alf and me. He is an utter gentleman (unless you’re a waterfowl minding it’s business on the river …) and I fell in love with his breed. I might even say that if asked to make a choice, I’d pick a Dobe over an Alsation now! Alfie is still around but he lives in quiet retirement with a dear friend and we don’t see much of him. He’s happy, that’s all that counts.

Alfie – still looking mighty fine for a twelve-year-old (-ish)

Now we share our lives with the great lumbering oaf that is Eric. It’s all Alfie’s fault. He responded so well to my sister’s kindness and patience and blossomed into a big, barmy, but always gentle friend so when Eric came up as needing help, we knew he was the one for us. But have we bitten off more than we can chew?

Eric is responding to training but it’s a long process and, now that we have the internet at our fingertips, I have researched and discovered that Dobes are prone to bouts of bloody-mindedness. That explains a lot, I can tell you. If you’re ever in the west country, passing a large muddy field, and you’re accosted by a black missile that’s being chased by a woman shouting ‘come back here you sodding dog,’ you’ll know that Eric is having an off day. Luckily, unlike Floyd, Eric is mostly friendly when we’re out but what if he wasn’t. My sister and I are tall and strong and as long as we pay attention, Eric can’t pull either of us off our feet but what if he decided to go for one of us? Let me reassure you that he has never, ever given us cause to believe that he would but we don’t forget that we are sharing our home with what could be a lethal weapon. It’s a sobering thought when the dog rescuers have gone away and you’re the one who’s responsible for such an animal but then that’s the risk you take with any dog, I suppose. It’s just that taking on an adult – and a very big and powerful one with a difficult past at that – is perhaps upping the ante a bit.

Having said all of that, though, Eric is actually about eighteen months old. Still a puppy in many ways, he needs to cuddle at night. A Doberman is a very ‘in your face’ dog and will be two inches away from you wherever you go but Eric’s extra tactile and from about 8pm onwards, he must be snuggled up to his favourite human of the moment. (Our TV volume is turned up high in the evenings because Eric, Floyd and Rufus snore like the horn section in the Royal Philharmonic – eeeeeee it’s great living with animals.)

Early evening harmony in our front room

Early evening harmony in our front room

At bedtime he goes with either sis or me. He’s supposed to sleep on the floor, on his bed, but the poor dear suffers from the cold ( Another Dobe trait. Try getting him to go out for a wee when it’s raining. Hah!) so really he needs the warmth of the bed… And he is very cuddly … And now that we’ve adjusted his diet, the farting has almost stopped.

So there you are, Little Sis, I have warned the blogosphere of the trials, tribulations and risks of re-homing rescue-dogs. I have written specifically of the difficulties of living with a maltreated Doberman. Hopefully, I have put off all but the most determined of dog-lovers. Those who don’t mind being woken from a nap by a heavy-duty rope ragger being dropped in their laps because someone wants to play tug-of-war. Those who can cope with an animal that stands 27″ at the shoulder curling up on their knees. Those who can deal with the knowledge that the kitchen units are just not high enough to stop the dog nicking any food that isn’t nailed down.

Those who understand that a Doberman isn’t a pet, he or she is a right royal pain in the arse who WILL take over your life and make you profoundly grateful that they did.

For all you Floyd fans out there, here’s a picture to show you that he is still house boss Cos that’s actually Eric’s bed he’s invaded) and he’s secure enough in his masculinity to carry off that dressing gown.

 
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Posted by on January 24, 2013 in Family Life

 

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And Then It Was 2013

Hello Blogosphere.

I have been absent for far too long. My apologies. I came home from my ship and Christmas preparations and school nativity plays swallowed me whole. It is only now that I can emerge, blinking, into the pale dawn of a new year to take up the reins of my life again.

Well, I say reins. Actually I’m mostly found clutching the end of a dog lead or two. One is standard, long enough to reach the ground from my hand and has the small but perfectly formed Floyd on the other end. The other is long, double thickness, double strength and has the enormous, muscular and somewhat dim Doberman, Eric attached to it. Forgive me if you dislike my calling him dim but Eric is our second Doberman and, like his predecessor, Alfie,  he isn’t blessed with a high I.Q. My sister is certain that as a breed they are closely related to Goldfish.

An example of this is;

‘Eric get in your bed.’

Clickety-clickety-clickety (sound of dog claws on floor boards), ‘Hummmmmmmph.’ (Sound of grumpy dog lying down.)

15 seconds later, clickety-clickety-clickety.

‘Eric! Get back in your bed. Go on!’

Blank stare from dog as if to say, ‘Who me? Me? You want me to lie in my bed? Oh.’ Clickety-clickety-clickety, ‘hummmmmph.’

15 second later, clickety-clickety-clickety.

‘Eric! For God’s sake!!’

And so on. This can go on all day. Floyd, meanwhile, nicks Eric’s dog chew, throws the pillows from my bed and sneaks under the duvet with it. Eric is ten times Floyd’s size but Floyd wears the trousers in this house – so to speak. We have even been greeted by the ridiculous sight of Eric trying to curl up in the tiny round bed that Floyd used to love and live in whilst Floyd spread-eagles himself across the vast expanse of Eric’s fleecy single-bed sized mattress. Catch him at it and Floyd will wag his tail and look meekly harmless.

‘Please don’t tell me off,’ his big brown eyes seem to say. ‘I’m sure I don’t know how I came to be on Eric’s bed, honest I don’t.’ His little tail pat-pats against the mattress and between his paws will be whichever toy Eric is currently fond of. Yes, there’s no doubting who’s boss in this house.

Luckily though, both dogs have a sense of humour which is just as well or they’d both have left home fairly quickly once they’d got to know us.

Let me prove with pictures from Christmas Day;

You ain't seen me, right?

You ain’t seen me, right?

And,

Please can I go back to the kennels? Please?

Please can I go back to the kennels? Please?

Needless to say, our indestructible cat, Rufus, took a great deal of interest in the dogs’ plight …

Mr Indestructible

But hey, we are just soooo glad that Rufus made it through another Christmas. And another New Year! He needn’t be awake, we can hear him snoring from all over the house and that’s good enough for us. (If you are a stranger to Rufus and why we are glad he’s still here, might I humbly suggest you check out, He’s Too Sexy where all will be revealed.)

Meanwhile, out in my bedroom, Moriarty the Master Criminal is hiding. He doesn’t like Eric. Eric thinks he can chase Moriarty across the back garden but worry not for Moriarty is biding his time. Small, fast and merciless, this black cat will wait in the shadows as he did when he was a feral kitten, and he will strike without warning. Eric will get his comeuppance. Christmas has been a time of truce. Eric and Moriarty didn’t exactly climb out of their trenches to play football but they did avoid inflicting damage on each other – now that the festive period is over, I fear that hostilities will resume quickly. Look out Eric, you big daftie, Moriarty is stalking you from the shadows.

Don't scratch me, I'm lovely

Don’t scratch me, I’m lovely

 
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Posted by on January 3, 2013 in Family Life

 

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