Charmers and Rogues

by Ann Cuthbertson

  Constable & Robinson Ltd.

  55–56 Russell Square

  London WC1B 4HP

  www.constablerobinson.com

  First published in the UK by Constable, an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd., 2013 Copyright © The Telegraph, 2013 The right of the The Telegraph to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in

  Publication Data is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-1-47210-967-5 (hardback)

  ISBN: 978-1-47211-004-6 (ebook)

  Printed and bound in the UK

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Jacket design and illustration: www.lianepayneillustration.co.uk

  CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  FOREWORD

  PART 1

  LOVABLE ROGUES

  PART 2

  TIMID SOULS

  PART 3

  ODD COUPLES AND DEVOTED PAIRINGS

  PART 4

  ESCAPE ARTISTS

  PART 5

  GREAT SURVIVORS

  PART 6

  JOY GIVERS

  PART 7

  PAMPERED CHARMERS

  PART 8

  PET THERAPISTS

  PART 9

  HUNTERS AND GATHERERS

  PART 10

  DEARLY DEPARTED

  INTRODUCTION

  ‘Real-life Lassie saves elderly woman from freezing ditch’.

  ‘Kitten eats TV aerial’.

  ‘Cat who travelled 1,700 miles trapped in the undercarriage of a train has lost a leg and at least one life – but will soon be home’ . . .

  THERE HAS NEVER been a shortage of pets making the headlines for acts of heroism or extreme misfortune. Yet stories of everyday domestic animals were never deemed important enough to be told in print. The only chance a lovable moggy, devoted dog or mildly eccentric chicken had of making it into the papers would be if their owner was a talk-show host or a hat designer to royalty.

  It was decided there was to be a ‘pets’ corner’ in the Life section of the Sunday Telegraph. We had toyed with a pet health column, but fleas, overeating and furballs were already covered by the excellent Pete Wedderburn in Weekend. We tried a pet behaviour Q&A for dogs who chewed up the house and cats who refused to eat unless they were hand-fed fresh prawns. But it lacked a certain something. We were looking for a light, endearing column which revealed the foibles, funny turns and, above all, unbridled joy pets gave their owners.

  Who better to write this column than the Telegraph readers themselves? We had to get the ball rolling, and so we tracked down staff members known to have pets. No one was safe. I accosted a page designer and owner of a cat, Lupin (‘Call me Lupin . . . Reader, I carried him’ remains one of my favourites). Our deputy editor volunteered his West Highland White terrier, Pixie, and in doing so revealed what an utter pushover he was. A reluctant dog owner, he was quickly floored by Pixie’s charms and his ‘downfall’ recorded with glee by his young daughters. There was even a snake who belonged to the young son of Telegraph cartoonist Matt Pritchett, kindly submitted by his wife Pascale. Charlie the corn snake would rear up like a ‘very angry pencil’, and appears in the ‘Escape Artists’ chapter with good reason. To this day Charlie may still reside under the floorboards of the family’s former house. Indeed, Matt contemplated whether to mention Charlie in the fixtures and fittings inventory.

  With a couple of tales in print and an invitation to readers to submit their own entries, the first few began to arrive in early 2010. A rescue greyhound was, appropriately, first out of the traps. A substantial number of tales come from owners who adopt a rescue animal. Some have experienced brutal homes: Benjy the Yorkie/Jack Russell cross was found cowering under a table; Poppy, Georgie and Tally the Patterdale terrier and her two puppies were discovered running along the dual carriageway, and were easily parted from their cruel owner for hard cash. Some came from abroad: Bonzo, the skeletal pointer puppy found in Northern Cyprus; Aslan, the deaf cat, in Greece; and Henri the duck in a French market, who was surely facing l’Orange.

  There are tales of dramatic survival against the odds. Jackson the dachshund was attacked in Richmond Park by a deer with no sense of fair play. Parsley the cat was caught in an illegal gin trap, had his right front leg amputated but lived to twenty-one years old. And Flint, the mighty Great Dane, had a heart condition which weakened his back legs, but he battled on with the aid of a chariot, running over the foot of anyone who got in the way.

  Lovable Rogues, of whom there are many, evoke the greatest loyalty and admiration in their owners. A Labrador called the Honourable Hannah gatecrashed a photo opportunity with the Queen Mother and broke royal protocol with an overt display of affection. Then there is the irrepressible Billy Bob the spaniel, who failed his obedience class in spectacular fashion. Pets can be abominably behaved and we will adore them all the more. Mussolini the duck returned from an emergency trip to the vet and was soon ‘back to his repulsive self’, explained his owner, adding: ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way.’

  The chapters are a mix of species and breeds because I don’t believe only a ‘cat person’ would enjoy a tale about cats. Admittedly, and unsurprisingly, there is a preponderance of cats in the ‘Pampered Charmers’ chapter – the owner of Tamby, former BBC newsreader Jan Leeming, explains it well when she says: ‘You own a dog, but a cat owns you.’ The ‘Joy Givers’, however, are mostly dogs, but every pet in this book arguably belongs in this category (with the exception, perhaps, of Charlie the corn snake).

  Do I have a favourite? For me it has to be Tina the bear, who belonged to Sir Peter Whiteley. Sir Peter served in the military and was based in Singapore in the sixties, where exotic pets seemed to be quite the thing. When he was eventually posted to another country, Tina had to go to a zoo. ‘I have had many wonderful dogs as pets,’ said Sir Peter, ‘but Tina the bear was quite exceptional.’

  It has been a pleasure to make this selection. The editing of Pet Tales has always been kept to a minimum because these are stories from the heart, and beautifully written. You would have to be made of stone not to be moved by the tale of Dexter the spaniel, Rosie the Labrador or Barclay the golden retriever. The ‘Dearly Departed’ chapter is one of poignant eulogies to fallen friends, some long gone but never to be forgotten.

  What is evident from this little book of stories is that pets give us back so much more than we ever hoped for. They are the face that is always pleased to see us, the individual who never judges, the reason to get out of the house and the reason to come home again. They are a soothing presence, a sympathetic companion, the best friend. They have helped owners cope with divorce, illness, grief, even death.

  The dictionary definition of a pet is ‘a tame animal kept for companionship and amusement’.

  I don’t think that quite covers it.

  Anne Cuthbertson

  FOREWORD

  by Ben Fogle

  Inca, black Labrador

  INCA WAS MY shadow: loyal, funny, naughty and loving. She brought light and laughter to my life. As every owner will say, she was so much more than just a dog; she was my best friend. She brought me more joy, happiness and laughter in her twelve years than anyone else I know. Stealing cakes, chewing the post and raiding the bin, I loved her for her foibles. Her absolute love of food, her uns
toppable dribbling and her snoring were all part of what made me love her. And she loved me. Despite my long absences over the years, she was always there. Tail wagging, happy to see me. Never upset, annoyed or angry with me. She was a constant in a chaotic and varied life.

  We spent the first year of her life together marooned on a deserted island in the Outer Hebrides. For the social experiment that was the BBC’s Castaway, each of us was allowed one luxury item and I chose a puppy. Ever since, she became a sort of guardian angel, unknowingly helping shift and shape my life. It was Inca who helped me get my first presenting job in wildlife, and she went on to be my silent co-host on dozens of shows from Crufts to Countryfile.

  Perhaps her biggest coup, though, was helping find me a wife. Marina and I met while we were walking our dogs in the park. Inca and Maggi, Marina’s Labrador/collie cross became best friends, and we became husband and wife. Iced marzipan figures of Inca and Maggi adorned the top of our wedding cake, and our honeymoon involved a pilgrimage with the new Mrs Fogle and dogs to the Outer Hebrides, where it all began.

  When Inca’s tired body finally failed, I lay on the floor and wept uncontrollably into her thick fur. My father, a vet, injected her and as I felt her heart stop beating, I let out a guttural sob.

  Inca, Inca Pinka, the Stink, Stinky . . . we had so many names for her. When I think of her I smile. It’s been quite a trip, me and Inca, the best friend I ever had.

  I am thrilled that Inca’s story joins the many enchanting, moving and funny tales in this book.

  Ben Fogle, London 2013

  PART ONE

  LOVABLE ROGUES

  Billy Bob, puppy-preschool failure

  HAVING BEEN a stoutly cats-only household for some time, the hurricane-like arrival of Billy Bob, the golden cocker spaniel, came as a collective shock.

  As the biggest puppy of his litter, with an aptitude for sitting on his brethren like an irate sumo wrestler, the writing was on the wall. As were two of our three cats, within seconds of his arrival. The third fled up the chimney, and was coaxed down only through a mix of tense negotiations, darkness and copious amounts of salmon.

  A measure of calm was achieved, but only after Billy Bob was allowed to colonize and terrorize the back of the house, hijacking the washing from the line and chomping his way through it like a demented moth.

  Our cats repaired indignantly to the front, and plotted the downfall of the big-eared monster. It had all the territorial hallmarks of Woody Allen and Mia Farrow’s living ‘apart together’ arrangement.

  Evidence of Billy Bob’s capacity to deploy ‘shock and awe’ tactics without warning came on his first day at ‘puppy preschool’. A dozen pups of varying shapes and sizes fidgeted as owners sat in a semicircle trying in vain to exert a modicum of control.

  Billy Bob appeared to be above it all and adopted a strangely passive, seated Buddha pose. He then ruined it by rugbytackling the paddling pool in the centre, noisily depositing the contents of his bladder into it. He failed preschool but did receive a certificate, albeit without a schedule of training events.

  He is now nearly ten, but while his power naps are longer, his energy and capacity to create mayhem are largely undiminished. Our remaining cat, Ben, is nineteen; he has tamed the beast by becoming just as mad. They are the classic odd couple.

  LIKES squirrels, baguettes, not owning a built-in satnav

  DISLIKES commands, his bed, the elevated location of cat food

  FINEST HOUR dressing up as a soft ice cream by eating the duvet

  Gordon McDowall, London

  Chubbs, magnificently malevolent tabby

  CHUBBS IS a tabby with attitude. His real name is Admiral Lord Seymour of the Bridge, and we often wonder if our alternative title for him has contributed to the roll call of bleeding limbs, torn slippers and empty wallets that have haunted us for the past seven and a half years, or if he was just born a wicked, furry bag of razors.

  He is about nine years old and has mellowed. We can roll over in bed without being mauled, and you can walk past him without risk of a lightning paw strike.

  Of course, you say, they’ve spoilt him! And you would be right. You see, he is disabled – with only three legs. How this happened neither we, nor the cat home where we got him, will ever know.

  Not a weekend goes by without a tasty treat or a new collar or a fluffy companion making an appearance – all to no avail. Chubbs is determined to hate the world. He refuses to be groomed and can’t be bothered to do it himself, so he is sedated by the vet every May and combed out.

  Our food budget is skewed – a fortune on prime cuts for him and scrag-end for us. Christmas is a nightmare: he refuses to be enticed with Father Christmas suits or rhinestone collars. He will partake of some turkey, but only skinless breast.

  Cats congregate in neighbouring gardens to yowl and gossip about him. He is so furious that we have squatted in his home that the only way to stop his anger is to force upon himself a sleep pattern that would put a corpse to shame – all night on the bed and all day on a (red velvet) cushion.

  In our dreams he is loving and dependent; we spend a lot of time dreaming. Chubbs is invincible. He is magnificent. He is our lad.

  LIKES kipping

  DISLIKES everything else

  FINEST HOUR executing a martial-arts manoeuvre on our neighbours’ Siamese cat, which threw her into the garden pond

  Karen Morgan, Surrey

  The Honourable Hannah

  WE CALLED her The Honourable in the hope that it might make her better behaved than her fellow Labradors, Jemima and Rebecca. All in vain, as it proved.

  As a puppy she was seen chasing a large rabbit around the rose bed. But as Hannah got farther and farther away from the rabbit, and the rabbit closer and closer to Hannah’s tail, we realized that the roles were reversed: Hannah fled in through the French windows and, trembling, sought refuge in her bed.

  On another occasion, a friend, a distinguished French scholar, lent me a series of books on the history of France in beautifully leather-bound and gilded covers. Hannah had evidently become bored with mere chair and table legs to chew, and decided that one of these volumes had possibilities.

  Fortunately I arrived before there was too much damage, but we had to find a good bookbinder, who took his time over a long and expensive repair. Sadly, during this time, my friend died. I approached his widow with profuse apologies. ‘It can’t be helped,’ she replied, ‘and what excellent taste in literature your puppy has.’

  For six months we had been used to Hannah’s arrival home covered in mud. We assumed she had been taking revenge on the rabbits by digging up their warren. How wrong we were.

  I walked up to the church one morning, where the rector was gossiping with the sexton by the lychgate. As I reached them, out from the churchyard ran a very muddy Hannah bearing what was unmistakably a human thigh bone in her mouth. ‘My goodness,’ exclaimed the rector, ‘not another Resurrection.’

  We searched and searched, but never found where the reinterment had taken place.

  Many years ago on the occasion of her visit to Jersey, the late Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother had lunch with us and afterwards consented to a photograph in the garden. Jemima, now mature, was allowed in the photo, while the two young ones were shut in the house. Or so we thought.

  As we stood ready in front of the camera, out from the house rushed Hannah, who seated herself adoringly at the Queen Mother’s feet. Then, at the very moment the shutter clicked, Hannah landed a very wet and loving kiss on the Queen Mother’s right hand.

  Before I could do anything to repair the damage, the Queen Mother bent over and wiped her hand on Hannah’s head. ‘Thank you, dear,’ she said, ‘but do you mind having it back?’

  Sir Peter Whiteley, Devon

  Mussolini, conniving duck

  IAGREED to Mussolini and his two sisters coming to us in a moment of weakness. I felt sorry for him, and although we had chickens, we did have room. We bought him a plastic sandpit
for a mini-pond, and some additional companions (he is pictured here with Daffy, his main consort).

  But his unpleasant nature manifested itself swiftly. He positively enjoyed mistreating the additions to his harem. Captain Mainwaring, our other Muscovy pure-bred male, is pompous but charming. Mussolini is sly.

  A short time ago, I returned from work at lunchtime to find Mussolini badly entangled in the netting around my one remaining respectable flower bed. His efforts to free himself had made matters worse and he was thrashing around. I immediately cut him free, but his chest was badly lacerated so I stuck him into the cat carrier while he tried to peck my fingers, and rushed him to the vet. The wonderful Grant from Lady Dane Vetinary Centre sucked in his breath as Mussolini looked balefully at us both, all the time dripping blood, and said he needed stitches and antibiotics as well as Metacam. I opened my mouth to say ‘duck à l’orange, then’, and caught Mussolini’s eye. Reader, I could not do it to him.

  Several days of nursing in a rabbit cage followed, with my lugubrious husband squirting antibiotic while I tilted the duck’s head to get the medicine down. We took down the netting and replaced it with a duck-proof fence. For a while I thought he might not make it, as he refused all efforts to get him to eat – even the worms I dug were spurned.

  The course of antibiotics finished and he limped out to sun himself. I hovered in case the rest of the birds attacked him, but they did not dare. We had turned the corner. He is back to his repulsive self. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  LIKES duckweed and dominating females

  DISLIKES being handled and shows of affection

  FINEST HOUR seeing off Schnapps the cat