Stephanie Wolfe, Faversham
Flossie, danger to postmen
FLOSSIE CAME to live with us when she was five years old. Her owners had sold her because she was too energetic, excitable and noisy, and they had a Weimaraner to look after as well; apparently, together they were causing havoc.
They warned us that Flossie was so anarchic that she needed to be an only dog. But we had kept pairs of Jack Russells before, and were confident that we could manage her, even though we also had another old fellow called Scrumpy. The vendors looked doubtful.
As soon as we got her home, she proceeded to demolish Scrumpy’s favourite toy, a string of squeaky sausages, and to bully him. She was extremely territorial, not letting people in the gate and barking furiously at anyone who dared walk past our house. We were forced to fit a new six-foot gate and an outside mailbox to satisfy the postman. We also put up a large ‘enter at own risk’ sign.
One day, her previous owners rang to ask how she was. We had to be honest: terrible! However, she had already wormed her evil way into our hearts.
Although she loathed everyone else, she adored us, and our two sons. When they came in, she would throw herself into paroxysms of hysterical affection, even if they had only been out for ten minutes!
Now that dear old Scrumpy is deceased, Flossie is finally an only dog, and is happily ruling the roost. Despite her shortcomings, we are devoted to her and she to us.
LIKES chocolate drops and tombstoning
DISLIKES postmen, passers-by, other dogs
FINEST HOUR finally ruling the roost
Alice Selley, Exeter
Pixi, feline terrorist
THE VET was surprised that Pixi willingly wolfed down the activated charcoal that she was about to be force-fed. We weren’t.
At five months old, it was already hard to imagine the tranquil life we had enjoyed PP (Pre-Pixi). A life where lie-ins at the weekend were uninterrupted, and things were generally where you left them and not inside her stomach.
Potential cat owners beware. The sleepy ball of black fluff at the shelter enchanted us: we had to have her. But cats are clever. Once home, she was transformed into a feline terrorist, destroying all around her.
The curtains were first to be targeted, and suffered irreparable damage. Newspapers, books and letters were shredded, chewed and digested, and television cables severed. The jar of cotton buds (used to a quiet life on the bathroom shelf) came under constant attack, and buds disappeared at an alarming rate.
Various techniques were employed to ensure we did not sleep too long. Most effective was the ‘water-flick’ – a paw dipped into a carelessly placed glass of water by the bed and flicked on to our weary faces.
The first bunch of flowers I received from my boyfriend in two years sparked the charcoal incident (a costly error, not since repeated). Terrorist feline bided her time. Once alone, she knocked over the vase and ate the flowers. Lilies, as it turns out, can be lethal if eaten by cats.
We rushed her to the vet’s, where she remained for three days as we worried whether she would live to wreak havoc again – £500 later we brought Pixi home.
The house had been horribly quiet and empty without her.
LIKES eating (anything), cotton buds, climbing and cables
DISLIKES the wind
FINEST HOUR surviving the dreaded lilies
Jenni Williams, St Albans
Samson, destroyer of expensive clothing
WE ALMOST came home with a different dog: my husband preferred the puppy that was nibbling his shoes to the one that crept on to my lap and promptly fell asleep. However, Samson, as we later named him because of his long hair and dissident ways, was determined we didn’t leave without him.
The first night he arrived, we put him to bed in the utility room and he whined. We tried to ignore it. The second night the whining got louder. The third, we tucked a hot-water bottle in beside him and the whining stopped. He had obviously been missing the comfort of his mother.
Samson is often asked to do party tricks when we have visitors. He will bark on command, find lost toys and offer his paw when you say, ‘Gimme five’. His latest skill is to play dead, but it doesn’t last for long when he spots a treat as a reward. Perhaps he’s not ready for Britain’s Got Talent quite yet.
We wondered how Samson would react when he was taken to the vet for the first time. We thought he might be timid, scared even. However, he must be the only dog who positively shakes with excitement upon reaching the vet’s door. He bounds over to the desk, puts his paws up on the counter and begs to be spoilt by the receptionist.
On one occasion, we took him to stay at a relative’s house. Thinking that he would be fine in the kitchen with the other two dogs, a few minutes later we heard a crash and rushed through to find one of the kitchen chairs on the floor. Lying next to it was a very expensive goose-down jacket with the pockets ripped out. All three dogs were innocently sitting on their rugs. We looked over at Samson, who, despite seeming as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, had a feather sticking out of the side of his muzzle.
We often say that Samson came to us at exactly the right time. He has been a comforting companion in the midst of loss and grief. We were a bit hesitant about getting a dog at first, but now we wouldn’t have it any other way. Samson is one of a kind.
LIKES going to the vet, staying at the boarding kennels, hugs
DISLIKES the garden hose, the hoover
FINEST HOUR lying very still while our two-year-old niece pulled his ears, tickled his nose and snuggled in beside him
Valerie MacInnes, Ross-shire, Scotland
PART TWO
TIMID SOULS
Digger, nervous Airedale
‘WELL, YOU did name him Digger,’ said the breeder, when we mentioned the holes in the lawn. We were totally unprepared for how our new Airedale puppy would turn our lives upside down. Every waking moment was a frenzy of activity and play, such that we took it in turns to retreat for half an hour’s peace. To stay and read would mean Airedale-shaped holes in the newspaper.
Things soon settled down, and we all found a way of living together. Digger goes everywhere with us – on days out, weekends away and holidays in the motorhome – and loves all the admirers. We are very disappointed if we don’t hear at least once a day, ‘Oh look, an Airedale – you don’t see many of them nowadays’, and then listen to tales of childhoods spent with one, or with grandparents who owned one. All agree that Airedales are great characters and have a mind of their own.
Digger’s encounter with the fire-breathing dragon in the sky has been his biggest adventure so far. So terrified was he of the sudden appearance of the low-flying hot-air balloon that in his blind panic to run home he created a new record, and in the process wore away the pads on both back feet. The poor fellow was hobbling around for days afterwards, and since then everything scary comes from the sky.
LIKES sausages and snoozing
DISLIKES water
FINEST HOUR that ‘just groomed’ handsome Airedale look
Elaine and Gavin Walkingshaw, Wiltshire
Rio, Spanish pure-bred, fearer of noises
RIO IS no Trigger. He is never going to race across inhospitable terrain to pull me from the jaws of death, after which we ride into the sunset with Prefab Sprout’s ‘Cowboy Dreams’ playing in the background.
Rio, or to give him his posh name, Corsario XIII, isn’t the world’s bravest horse. Then again, he doesn’t have the world’s bravest rider – ‘what’s in the brain, goes down the rein’ – and he takes his confidence from me. But into the second year of our partnership, we are learning to trust each other.
Since they were domesticated about 5,000 years ago, the power and intuition of horses have given them a singular place in the lives of men and women. Our earliest encounters may have been with the relatively tiny animals of the Eurasian Steppes, but thousands of years of evolution have given me Rio – and the thought makes me an incredibly happy horse ow
ner.
He is sixteen hands high, seven years old (although his birthday isn’t until September, all horses are aged by their birth year, and so on January the first he became seven), and is purebred Spanish (also known as PRE or Pura Raza Española).
Crucially, he doesn’t have a nasty bone in his body. He is, as they say in horsey circles, ‘genuine’. He has a kind eye and willing nature, and always inspires admiring comment. He is quick to learn and will, in time, be as brave as I need him to be. The PRE, after all, was bred for courage – they have been fighting wars, and bulls, for hundreds of years. I think I’ll wait a while, though, before I take him into the local field of Friesians.
LIKES he’s highly unoriginal: he will do almost anything for apples
DISLIKES anything producing a sudden noise – makes hacks interesting
FINEST HOUR watch this space. He’s going to go far, but he’ll need a tad more training to get there
Fiona Matthias, Warlingham, Surrey
Henry, big softie
OUR GREAT Dane, Henry, was just eight weeks old when I first saw him, and it was instant love. He has the most wonderful temperament: gentle, laid-back and loving.
It is unusual to hear him bark. This only happens on occasion, such as when we leave him outside for longer than five minutes. His bark is deep and rich, but after a minute or so it breaks, and he sounds all wimpy and pathetic.
As with lots of big dogs, Henry doesn’t realize that he weighs almost seventy kilograms. He thinks he is a little thing, and sits himself firmly on my lap at every opportunity. He loves to have the inside of his leg rubbed, and when he is on my lap and I am giving him a gentle scratch, he starts to fall asleep. His breathing changes and his cheeks puff out and in again, his body starts to rock as he falls deeper into sleep, and then we have to be ready to catch him as he falls off.
He rolls on his back to have a tickle, which looks very odd as his huge chest dominates his frame and his long legs stick up in the air. His mouth falls back, all gummy, and if he could speak he would say, ‘Come on, Mummy, get down here and give me kisses.’ He loves to have his armpits rubbed, which are always warm and sweaty.
He has a huge amount of toys. Some are so small they used to be on a key ring – soft padded teddies. Others, like his ball and his hippo, he has had for years. I have never had to stitch anything as he is so gentle.
He doesn’t like being told off, and will chatter his teeth just to get some sympathy or attention.
Our walls have stains on them from where he has shaken his head and let loose big blobs of glue-like spit. Even our lovely pictures have spit marks. But this is a small price to pay for the abundance of love and kisses we get every day.
LIKES lots of love
DISLIKES loud noises
FINEST HOUR asleep on his new bed
Berni Albrighton, Warwickshire
Ted, the lion from Oz
TED HAD been living rough before he came to us, and needed his tangled fur clipped off. We decided that he was like the lion in The Wizard of Oz, so gentle, timid and nervous. Our fifteen-year-old cat would box his ears if Ted got too close.
In July, we returned from a holiday to find my neighbour, with whom we have a reciprocal cat-feeding arrangement, very upset. Ted had been missing for five days. She had searched, but to no avail. Distraught, I put up notices. Twenty-four hours later, we got a phone call.
Ted was stuck at the top of a tall, straight tree. When I called him, he miaowed pitifully, but would not move. The owner fetched his extendable ladder and climbed up, but Ted was frightened and moved to a thin branch where he could not be reached.
And so I, a seventy-two-year-old grandma with a knee replacement, who hates heights, climbed the ladder. I kept saying to myself, ‘Don’t look down!’ On reaching the top, I talked to Ted, who was miaowing in terror, and he wobbled along the bending branch towards me. He was still on the other side of the trunk. I could reach over and stroke his head, but he was too heavy for me to lift with one hand. I was desperate, and suddenly Ted appeared to be trying to reach me, but slipped. As I put out my hand, he fell towards me and hung on with his paws around my body like a child. I held him and the ladder rungs and very slowly descended. My legs were like jelly, but I managed to put terrified Ted into a basket.
It took Ted about a week to recover, and we think he must have been stuck up the tree almost a week. Hopefully he has eight lives left, but I’m not so sure about myself after that episode. But the love I get from Ted makes it all worthwhile.
LIKES being stroked, treats
DISLIKES visitors, sudden noises
FINEST HOUR hanging on to me, without scratching, on the ladder
Elizabeth Theo, Surrey
Molly, lurcher/greyhound/Labrador cross
MOLLY WAS unwanted, and had been taken to the Warrington Dogs’ Home, Cheshire, in 2008, where we were introduced to her. She was three years old, and we were most impressed with her elegance and quiet demeanour. She was sleek, black, long-legged and beautiful. We found ourselves signing all the documents there and then. We didn’t even have a collar and lead for her.
Owning Molly has been an adventure. She is terrified of other dogs, feathers, snowflakes and shadows. The early days saw us frantically searching for her when she slipped her collar after being scared by a sudden noise. We were so worried about losing her, we kept her on a lead on all walks.
One day we took her to a small park. It was fenced and gated and we decided to let her off the lead. Then we took a tennis racket and lobbed a ball across the grass for her. As soon as she saw it, the greyhound in her emerged and she chased after it like there was no tomorrow. It was a sight to behold. It was fantastic to see how those strong back legs could propel her through the air in magnificent leaps to catch the ball in mid-flight. Since then, we have let her off the lead in safe places. When running, she becomes full of confidence. I think this was a turning point, and she is now much happier.
Molly, now seven, is gentle, loving, loyal, intelligent, polite and patient. Her nervousness remains but does not dominate, as in the past. We love her to bits – the best impulse-buy in the world.
LIKES running, sleeping
DISLIKES the dreaded vacuum cleaner
FINEST HOUR Molly didn’t bark for the first three months, and when she finally managed it, it was a pathetic, strangled croak. Eventually she got the hang of it, and now her bark is healthy and strong – she saves it for special occasions, like when the delivery man knocks
The Honeyford family, Glossop
Mr Darcy, shy ladies’ man
HE ARRIVED with aplomb. Young, beautiful and magnificent, he strutted around our garden with suspicion, wondering if it would compare favourably with his previous home, as his black, brown and white feathers glistened in the sunshine.
Dorothy, Doris, Dusty and Daphne watched from under the rosemary bush as he pecked and scratched as real men do.
At last, he spied the ladies. He seemed to quiver and shake, as if suddenly unsure that he could deal with the advancing army of liberated, self-sufficient females approaching purposefully.
Dorothy, the head in the pecking order, made the first move by flying towards him in what appeared to be an attack. The others followed, but Mr Darcy nimbly sidestepped them and resumed his inspection.
As it grew dark, we watched nervously. The ladies retired first, and Mr Darcy followed. We passed a restless night.
Morning dawned, and we were relieved to see that he was still in one piece – as were his companions. Having heard how demanding a cockerel could be, we feared feathers would be flying. However, Mr Darcy allowed a respectable week or two before expressing his manhood, which from that moment on he did non-stop – and with gusto.
In the end, he couldn’t stay. He crowed night and day until our poor neighbours were exhausted. Off he went to a farm, where he lives to this day in the company of other fowl, goats and pigs.
Our ladies are also happy with the new arrangement, as the
y now have no demands on their time other than laying. We still visit Mr Darcy. When we call him, he turns swiftly, giving us a wink and a loud cock-a-doodle-doo of recognition.
LIKES ladies
DISLIKES being chased
FINEST HOUR becoming a full-blooded male
Liz Lee, Wiltshire
Smudge
OUR FIRST encounter with Smudge wasn’t reassuring. She lapped the room of her top-floor tower-block home so fast that her owners had to give us a photograph so we could see what she looked like.
The idea was that Smudge would ease our grief for Galore, our recently deceased and much-loved ginger veteran, whose purring, posing and crowd-pleasing had made her a legend in the area.
But over the next two weeks at home with us, the only proof we had that we owned a cat was the vanishing of food from her bowl and the sounds of top-shelf china crashing to the floor.
Then, one evening, a triangular face peered out at me. She advanced, allowed herself to be stroked and then, out of the blue, fell on her side like a toppled tree. I thought she had expired. Then I felt, rather than heard, the sound of a low purr, like a car engine rusty through disuse. I stroked her stomach, and she stuck four limbs in the air and closed her eyes in ecstasy.
Six months on, and Smudge has taken on much of the mantle of her predecessor. She spends a lot of her time outside, sleeping in the compost heap. She eats the dog’s food and climbs on worktops to birdwatch. She will always be somewhat special. Her miaow took weeks to emerge. Toy mice remain a source of terror. And faced with the unknown, she runs first, asks questions later.
But as she lies by the fire and continues to express her pleasure by falling over, unexpectedly, and with an audible thud, she’s now a visible presence, not replacing our old pet but carving her own space in our home and hearts.
Charmers and Rogues Page 2