There are few of us who have never had a close encounter with a dog during our lifetime.
I was brought up on a farmlet and we had one dog that I can recall with clarity, Darkie. Darkie did not have a charming temperament, Darkie was prone to nipping anyone who unsuspectingly walked by, Darkie seldom obeyed his master’s commands, Darkie was not a household pet, but a working dog … when so inclined.
Vaguely I remember another older dog whose name escapes me. Either I was too young or this dog gave me no particular cause to keep him in my memory.
For a year or two we minded a friend’s bulldog-cross dog. These animal lovers had encountered problems with their neighbours as regards their pet. He had a profound liking of cats and other dogs and to show his feelings he chased them over his domain, around their domain, down the street and across the footpaths. Often he gripped them in a loving embrace, squeezing their throats until they ceased to breathe. This was not acceptable behaviour and complaints were made. To save the life of their pet he was transported to our place. Bags of dog nuts arrived weekly to ensure this animal did not starve. It was our considered opinion he would have done much better on a diet of bones and water.
Many years later one of my sons bought a Rottweiler pup that was endowed with the distinguished name of Clive. Clive was lovable, Clive chewed up several mats, shoes, items of clothing, and towels before reaching maturity, Clive had a wrinkly forehead that gave him the appearance of an old man worrying where his next plug of tobacco for his pipe was coming from, and Clive had his favourite people. I was high on that list.
For a few years my son, and Clive, lived down the street. Clive, bored with being home alone would wander along to me. Clive had been shut inside in the morning, but Clive quickly learned there were several exits that needed little persuading to open, especially if they had not been locked. I kept a piece of binder twine [the green twine the holds hay bales together] at the back door and whenever Clive visited I promptly tied it to his collar and marched him back home. I found the toilet a good place to leave him … lock in place! He was not without water in the toilet! One day Clive visited crawling on all fours along the footpath. I was horrified.
“ Poor Clive,” I crooned. “ Have you been hit by a car?” [We did live on a busy street with trucks, cars and buses frequently plying to and fro.]
Clive jumped up a look of relief on his face [oh yes, dogs have expressions], and raced towards me for a pat. Clive got a shock! I instantly grabbed the twine and returned him home.
The old saying that life goes in circles is true and once again dogs have entered my life. Here at the hotel there are dogs. Two dogs are in permanent residence and another visits during the day. I met these dogs on my first night. In the half-light of the late evening they welcomed me with barks, licks and jumping up. I did not look for them the next day! Don’t get me wrong, I like dogs, but I don’t like such an enthusiastic welcome.
Gradually I got to know the dogs. The senior citizen is called Wombat. I suspect Wombat receives more than his fair share of the kitchen scraps ... if he were human it would not be incorrect to call him obese, a candidate for a heart attack or a prospective diabetic. I have, carelessly called Wombat the 'fat one', and encountered raised eyebrows at that!
Then there is Bear, who is younger than Wombat. They are both lovely dogs, now that I have got to know their idiosyncrasies. There is a sign … "Beware of the Watchdogs". OK, they do watch, they even bark, but should anyone reach out to pat them I am positive they would lap that up.
And there is Tigger! Tigger is a ‘roo dog, which means he has been bred to chase kangaroos, not that I have seen evidence of him actually chasing anything. Tigger is a teenager! Tigger is a pest. He is part greyhound, tall, lanky, looks like a giraffe, though whoever named him thought otherwise … unless he looked like Tigger when he was a pup. Yesterday Tigger was in my bad books! Washing the tea towels is a task that falls to me. During a quiet spell cooking breakfasts, I hurried out to the washing machines loaded the tea towels in congratulating myself on multi-tasking.
Several breakfasts later, and after I cut up what seemed buckets of tears of onions, tidied the kitchen, and did the dishes, I headed out to hang the tea towels on the clothesline. Tigger came racing over. I had clean clothes on, and desiring them to last all day I admonished him for jumping up. I picked up pegs and began hanging up the tea towels that would dry quickly in the warming sun. Reaching for towel number three I noticed Tigger … too late!! There he was, legged cocked over the clothes-basket and with perfect aim, sent a steady straw coloured stream onto the just-laundered tea towels. I never swore, nor did I yell or stamp my feet. In fact I behaved like a perfect angel! Shock tends to stem all rational thought. I simply growled, picked up the washing and threw it back into the machine.
Later, when I pegged the tea towels out to dry, Tigger looked at me woefully from a safe distance. He never greeted me enthusiastically, he did not jump up nor lick my face, and for the rest of the day he continued to act like a perfect gentleman.
I was brought up on a farmlet and we had one dog that I can recall with clarity, Darkie. Darkie did not have a charming temperament, Darkie was prone to nipping anyone who unsuspectingly walked by, Darkie seldom obeyed his master’s commands, Darkie was not a household pet, but a working dog … when so inclined.
Vaguely I remember another older dog whose name escapes me. Either I was too young or this dog gave me no particular cause to keep him in my memory.
For a year or two we minded a friend’s bulldog-cross dog. These animal lovers had encountered problems with their neighbours as regards their pet. He had a profound liking of cats and other dogs and to show his feelings he chased them over his domain, around their domain, down the street and across the footpaths. Often he gripped them in a loving embrace, squeezing their throats until they ceased to breathe. This was not acceptable behaviour and complaints were made. To save the life of their pet he was transported to our place. Bags of dog nuts arrived weekly to ensure this animal did not starve. It was our considered opinion he would have done much better on a diet of bones and water.
Many years later one of my sons bought a Rottweiler pup that was endowed with the distinguished name of Clive. Clive was lovable, Clive chewed up several mats, shoes, items of clothing, and towels before reaching maturity, Clive had a wrinkly forehead that gave him the appearance of an old man worrying where his next plug of tobacco for his pipe was coming from, and Clive had his favourite people. I was high on that list.
For a few years my son, and Clive, lived down the street. Clive, bored with being home alone would wander along to me. Clive had been shut inside in the morning, but Clive quickly learned there were several exits that needed little persuading to open, especially if they had not been locked. I kept a piece of binder twine [the green twine the holds hay bales together] at the back door and whenever Clive visited I promptly tied it to his collar and marched him back home. I found the toilet a good place to leave him … lock in place! He was not without water in the toilet! One day Clive visited crawling on all fours along the footpath. I was horrified.
“ Poor Clive,” I crooned. “ Have you been hit by a car?” [We did live on a busy street with trucks, cars and buses frequently plying to and fro.]
Clive jumped up a look of relief on his face [oh yes, dogs have expressions], and raced towards me for a pat. Clive got a shock! I instantly grabbed the twine and returned him home.
The old saying that life goes in circles is true and once again dogs have entered my life. Here at the hotel there are dogs. Two dogs are in permanent residence and another visits during the day. I met these dogs on my first night. In the half-light of the late evening they welcomed me with barks, licks and jumping up. I did not look for them the next day! Don’t get me wrong, I like dogs, but I don’t like such an enthusiastic welcome.
Gradually I got to know the dogs. The senior citizen is called Wombat. I suspect Wombat receives more than his fair share of the kitchen scraps ... if he were human it would not be incorrect to call him obese, a candidate for a heart attack or a prospective diabetic. I have, carelessly called Wombat the 'fat one', and encountered raised eyebrows at that!
Then there is Bear, who is younger than Wombat. They are both lovely dogs, now that I have got to know their idiosyncrasies. There is a sign … "Beware of the Watchdogs". OK, they do watch, they even bark, but should anyone reach out to pat them I am positive they would lap that up.
And there is Tigger! Tigger is a ‘roo dog, which means he has been bred to chase kangaroos, not that I have seen evidence of him actually chasing anything. Tigger is a teenager! Tigger is a pest. He is part greyhound, tall, lanky, looks like a giraffe, though whoever named him thought otherwise … unless he looked like Tigger when he was a pup. Yesterday Tigger was in my bad books! Washing the tea towels is a task that falls to me. During a quiet spell cooking breakfasts, I hurried out to the washing machines loaded the tea towels in congratulating myself on multi-tasking.
Several breakfasts later, and after I cut up what seemed buckets of tears of onions, tidied the kitchen, and did the dishes, I headed out to hang the tea towels on the clothesline. Tigger came racing over. I had clean clothes on, and desiring them to last all day I admonished him for jumping up. I picked up pegs and began hanging up the tea towels that would dry quickly in the warming sun. Reaching for towel number three I noticed Tigger … too late!! There he was, legged cocked over the clothes-basket and with perfect aim, sent a steady straw coloured stream onto the just-laundered tea towels. I never swore, nor did I yell or stamp my feet. In fact I behaved like a perfect angel! Shock tends to stem all rational thought. I simply growled, picked up the washing and threw it back into the machine.
Later, when I pegged the tea towels out to dry, Tigger looked at me woefully from a safe distance. He never greeted me enthusiastically, he did not jump up nor lick my face, and for the rest of the day he continued to act like a perfect gentleman.
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