Charmers and Rogues

by Ann Cuthbertson

  She was basically a disaster. One day she broke my nose when she came hurtling in from the garden at full speed and jumped up while I was hoovering the floor.

  And then we discovered agility classes. I always say that agility work was the only thing Daisy could really do right. She was so good at it, and clearly loved it. It channelled her energy, and she cottoned on to most obstacles straight away. Eventually she won events at the local club. I will never forget the day she came home with me with two rosettes and a cup. She sat on the patio and looked so proud.

  One evening when she was seven years old, Daisy came into my study shivering and in pain. The vet diagnosed a huge tumour on her liver and she was put to sleep the next day. I cried buckets. I miss the cuddles on the sofa, and the withering sideways looks when she was told off.

  We still find white hairs everywhere. She is still with us.

  LIKES food, agility classes

  DISLIKES being told off

  FINEST HOUR trying to seduce an elderly Labrador she met in the fields – the owner became one of my best friends

  Lynne Hedworth, Bradstock

  Madcap Martha

  MARTHA, A tortoiseshell-and-white kitten, arrived in our home with Rufus, a ginger tom, and Lucy, a tabby, at eight weeks old, from Cats Protection. Two days later, she went missing. After a frantic search she was found in the back of the tumble dryer, having crawled up the exit hot-air tube and got stuck. It was impossible to get the back off, so we wrenched off the tube and with a ‘breech delivery’, I managed to pull her out.

  Then, just before last Christmas, we were having some work done in a bathroom, which involved removing the side of the bath. We had the foresight to stuff the hole where the pipes went under the floor.

  But one evening Martha failed to appear for supper and, putting my ear to the floor, I could hear a faint mewing. Every two hours I called, in the hope she would come out. In the morning, we rang the fire brigade. Six strong firemen appeared, to the surprise of the neighbours, with saws and crowbars.

  Their heat-seeking camera found Martha between the bathroom and a bedroom. Out came the furniture, up came the carpet and a hole was cut in the floorboards, but there was a joist between her and the hole. Then a shout: ‘She’s gone!’ No image on the camera. There is a void behind the lavatory, which goes through to the room below. We rushed downstairs, and there was an image on the camera again. Minutes later, with careful use of a small saw, there she was, curled around the soil pipe.

  Later, after a meal and a good sleep, she was none the worse for her adventure. It is hoped that these things don’t happen in threes. Fortunately, her brother and sister do not have mad ideas!

  LIKES small spaces, hunting, fuss, lying in front of the fire

  DISLIKES laps, strangers

  FINEST HOUR being released from under the floor

  Sheila Bradbury

  Patty, roamer

  A DEAR friend rescues dogs, but she could not deal with a Parson Jack Russell terrier that she had homed. Patty, a pet-shop dog, was found stray on the streets of Salford and is a roamer. She runs off and has, in the past, attacked cats, dogs, horses and anyone in a high-visibility jacket. She was going to be put down.

  I offered to help. This meant bringing her into our home, with a major stumbling block being that my wife, while a hardened forensic scientist, has been dog-phobic since she was bitten as a child. We talked, and I finally persuaded her that Patty was just like some dysfunctional teenager in need of an animal Asbo and strict boot camp. If she came to us, she would not be allowed in the house. Max, our son, and I would do all the walks and any dog-poo bagging and, if these conditions were met, maybe we could try for at least three months to change her madness.

  So Patty came to live with me and my family. The first few weeks with her were a real learning curve for us all. However, almost all the village neighbours and friends cheered us on from Sue, the postmistress, to Terry, the pet-friendly postman.

  After three months Patty was brought inside our home. She even sat on my knee and, after initial dog-phobic frowns, my wife wanted Patty on her knee too. Max enjoyed knee sessions, but we were afraid of making her form an attachment that would then see her stressed during separation periods. She was made to lie down and relax in her dog tent. Only the occasional surprise noise or knock on the door made her jump into action.

  A year on, and we have decided that Patty is definitely one of the best rewards to come out of a challenging year. My wife, once dedicatedly dog-phobic, is now completely cured and adores Patty, her first family companion dog. Max got his wish for a living dog instead of relying on Spot, a soft toy he cuddled from his earliest infant months.

  LIKES tripe sticks being hidden in the garden for her to find

  DISLIKES rats

  FINEST HOUR catching one of twenty rats in one year, and beating Max and his friend at football (she can dribble a ball for England)

  Dr David Sands, Heapey Chorley, Lancashire

  Clarissa the tortoise, a Houdini

  IN 1976, I went to a local pet shop and bought a tortoise. I remember that they charged me the princely sum of £2.50. I called her Clarissa, and soon she became a valued member of the family.

  Originally I did not bother with a cage, which caused a lot of tortoise-hunts in our large garden bushes. One evening she could not be found, and had to spend the night outdoors. Luckily, she was back the next day.

  However, in July 1989 she went missing completely. During this period I was very worried, and couldn’t eat or sleep properly. It seemed to go on for ever.

  Finally, eight weeks later, a local man was blackberry-picking and came across ‘a stone that moved’. It was Clarissa, and he managed to return her completely unharmed.

  Clarissa hibernates each year in a big box of straw. One year, the box was on a high shelf in the garage. When I went in the spring to see if she was awake, I found her at the door of the garage! I have no idea how she escaped from the box, let alone how she got down to the ground. I was just thankful she was OK, and hadn’t been run over by the car.

  It is twenty-three years now since her escape, so every day is precious. Every year, when she comes out of hibernation alive, it’s a relief. She’s also a living calendar for winter and spring. All in all, Clarissa is the best £2.50 I ever spent.

  LIKES bread and jam

  DISLIKES loud noises

  FINEST HOUR surviving her various adventures in the wild

  Karen Broadhead, Bedfordshire

  Charlie, corn snake

  FOR MY son Henry’s last birthday, after much nagging, we bought him a corn snake. It was not an unparalleled success. Corn snakes (our one, anyway) are a unique combination of boring and scary. Boring because it just slept all day, and scary because whenever you did try to handle it (as per instructions), it would rear up and strike. Tiny as it was, it was most unpleasant and unendearing, like trying to bond with a very angry pencil.

  We had a lot of eleven-year-old boys come to see the snake, only nobody ever could because it was always hiding. Henry was too terrified and repulsed to get it out; instead it always had to be my poor husband – equally repulsed but better at hiding it. Henry’s three sisters all thought it was disgusting – not helped by the fact that I now kept a tub of dead baby mice in the freezer.

  About four months ago, Henry had a big sleepover in his room and everyone wanted to see the snake. We got it out, we put it back, and everyone went to bed.

  It was the following morning that we realized the tank hadn’t been quite closed and Charlie had, of course, escaped. An entirely fruitless search followed, made harder by the fact that it had to be conducted in the utmost secrecy. If his sisters knew the snake had escaped, complete hysteria would ensue. We have not yet found Charlie, Henry is sworn to secrecy and I have averted suspicion by continuing to feed an empty tank. I expect he’s living happily somewhere under our floorboards, growing to some fantastic size eating spiders and drinking from our leaky shower, and one da
y when he’s big enough he will come out and eat his replacement, a much-loved Russian hamster called Isobel.

  LIKES being left alone

  DISLIKES our family

  FINEST HOUR escaping from his tank

  Pascale Smets, Blackheath

  Callum, bolter

  AS A CHILD, I wanted to marry Roy Rogers – because I wanted his horse, Trigger. Sadly, I never managed it. Instead, I bought Callum as my early-retirement present. When I asked the seller if he would suit a novice rider, I should have noticed the slight pause before she said, ‘I’m sure he would.’ I didn’t, and so began fifteen years of being owned by a shifty, selfish, stunning horse.

  Callum has, in general, a very benign temperament. People say you should never give a horse titbits because it makes them nip. Callum has had plenty of titbits since day one, and has never nipped. He is completely trustworthy with dogs and children. I have taught him to give me a kiss for a carrot and to say ‘please’ by lifting a front leg. He tolerates affection, but finds it unnecessary. Point a camera at him, however, and he’ll pose all day.

  I don’t ride him as much as sit on him and pray. Callum is exceptionally intelligent. Like all horses, he can have shifty days when he pretends to be frightened of something quite ordinary, just to see if he can worry me. Mostly he succeeds. To celebrate his twenty-first birthday, he bucked me off and put me on crutches for two weeks.

  Bath day is a battle of wills. He pretends to be frightened of the hose. He ends up looking clean and beautiful; I look like I’ve fallen in a pool.

  One day he saw that the main yard gate was open. He broke loose and started towards it. As he passed me, in a futile attempt to halt him I grabbed his tail. Luckily, only cows were around to see me towed up the lane at a trot.

  LIKES Clarnico peppermint creams and carrots

  DISLIKES going in a horsebox

  FINEST HOUR standing still and waiting for me to mount bareback from a chair. After several attempts, I went straight over his back and landed on the other side

  Sue Ajax-Lewis, West Sussex

  Buster, the missing cat

  ONE DAY, Buster went missing. As the days turned into weeks and months, I began to wonder if we would ever see him again. I put posters up around our area, went from door to door asking if anyone had seen him and placed adverts in the local papers. The result of this was that I went on many a wild-goose chase to look at cats that supposedly fitted his description, only to be disappointed when I got there.

  A year passed, and we decided to move house. By that time I had accepted that I would probably never see Buster again. Even so, I left a picture of him with the new owner of our flat, urging her to get in contact with us if he ever managed to make his way back.

  Later on, I decided to give a home to two rescue cats. Buster was not forgotten, but he certainly went to the back of my mind.

  Then the strangest thing happened. I received a phone call from a vet fifteen miles away, telling me they had my cat. I was sure there had been a mistake, as both of them were snoozing on the sofa. But it was Buster. I nearly fell over. It was such a total shock, as I truly thought I’d never see him again. But when I heard his distinctive Siamese voice over the telephone, I knew in my bones that it was him.

  It’s still very strange to see him lolling on our bed after disappearing for so long, but it is fabulous to have him home with us.

  In a final twist, the local paper got hold of Buster’s story and we were contacted by the family he had been living with for five years. He had obviously been much loved, as he came back rather chubby.

  The family called him ‘Big Cat’, and they have asked if they could look after him for us if we ever go on holiday. So all’s well that ends well.

  LIKES playing pinball, hogging armchairs, travelling

  DISLIKES his newly acquired siblings

  FINEST HOUR catching a snail for the first time, aged four months

  Emma Spink, Pembury, Kent

  Scratchy, ferret

  TOMORROW I am taking our ferret to the vet to discuss his ‘quality of life’. I fear an unhappy outcome, as Scratchy was diagnosed with arthritis some weeks ago, and he has little use of his back legs.

  Scratchy belonged to my son, who was unable to keep him, so I offered him a home three years ago, thinking that ferrets were vicious, smelly creatures. Smelly, yes – he is an ‘entire’ male, and I suppose the lady ferrets find it appealing – but vicious, no. He is amusing, inquisitive, acrobatic and affectionate.

  He is also a master of escape.

  One Easter, he went down the road, over the river and into a primary school’s playground. The kindly caretaker recognized that he was a runaway and put him overnight in a vacant guinea-pig cage. He appeared on the town website and word got around, so I was able to retrieve him.

  But his latest adventure was his best by far. He went into our neighbour’s garden down the road and disappeared. The ‘Lost Ferret’ posters went up. Two days later I took a picture to the vet and met a man carrying a ‘Found Ferret’ poster. Scratchy had spent two blissful nights with a pair of very pretty little-girl ferrets in their super-deluxe accommodation, and was reluctant to come home.

  Now, sadly, he stays mostly at home reflecting on his glory days.

  LIKES adventures, escaping, hiding

  DISLIKES being stuck at home, exercising on a harness

  FINEST HOUR a rendezvous with two female ferrets

  Elizabeth Lyne, Hampshire

  Sam, spaniel

  IT BEGAN as just another Monday morning, back in November 2007. I was feeding the animals on our farm, the dogs at my side. At a quarter to eight I knew Sam was still with me. Ten minutes later, he was missing. I always carry a dog whistle, but this time Sam didn’t return. I wasn’t too concerned at first because the farthest he would ever go was up to the country lane. But half an hour had passed, and my husband and I were getting very concerned.

  The day came to an end and we were devastated. I had phoned the police, dog warden, Petlog (Sam was microchipped) and numerous vets. It was a wild and rainy night: we knew Sam hated bad weather and would have come home if he could.

  Over the next few days the whole community searched. Posters went up; we put an ad in the local paper with a reward for Sam’s return. We even contacted an ‘animal communicator’ who ‘located’ Sam in a nearby wood – but we found nothing.

  After three months, the animal communicator said that Sam had been shot by a farmer for chasing chickens. My husband never believed the story, but for me this meant that any hope had come to an end. We knew we would never see that lovely, friendly ginger dog, with not a bad bone in his body, ever again.

  On 14 April 2010 we had a message on our answerphone – a man from a council saying he had Sam. The hour-and-a-half drive seemed like an eternity. We were excited and nervous – what if it wasn’t Sam? I walked to the car park, shaking with nerves. And Sam came bounding towards us. We were in tears. He was fat: he’d clearly been looked after. When we got him home he went crazy, wagging his tail. Later that afternoon he brought me a hen’s egg gently in his mouth as he always had before, and that night he slept in his old place in the coat cupboard. Sam was reunited with us after his microchip had been scanned – I would urge other pet owners to do the same (go to www.petlog.org.uk).

  LIKES carrying hens’ eggs

  DISLIKES storms

  FINEST HOUR being reunited with us

  Christine Robinson, Devon

  PART FIVE

  GREAT SURVIVORS

  Poppy, Georgie and Tally

  TWO AND a half years ago, our neighbours brought home a black Patterdale terrier and her two puppies. They had found them running along a path by a dual carriageway, and contacted the police.

  My partner Paul and I had always dreamed that a rescue dog would find its way to us – and here were three! But it was not to be. As soon as the owner arrived, the mother dog recoiled. He grabbed her and put a lead on. We all felt sick. She was petrified
of him. He roughly scooped up the puppies and proceeded out of the house, dragging the mother along.

  Halfway through the side gate, my neighbour snapped: ‘You’re not taking them.’ She trapped the owner mid-exit, and tried to wrestle the mother from him. It was getting nasty. I followed him to his car. ‘Please stop,’ I said. ‘We love the dogs. Please, I’ll give you money.’ He drove off.

  Next day, the man phoned and said he’d sell them. The transaction took place in a car park, very High Noon. I gave him the £435 he’d demanded (a small price for three precious lives). The deal was done. I asked: ‘When were the puppies born?’ The man said: ‘September the fourteenth.’ That made them even more special. It was my dear sister’s birthday. She died of cancer some years ago. She adored dogs. I wondered if she’d had some celestial hand in all this.

  LIKES chasing rabbits, toy tugs-of-war, eating chicken

  DISLIKES the postman and window cleaners

  FINEST HOUR their escape

  Megan Aspel, Surrey

  Murphy, miracle cat

  AT THIRTEEN years old, Murphy – also known as ‘The Bear’ – is a miracle cat, according to our vet. Born in a rough part of town, he was rescued at eighteen months with nothing to his name but a hernia. And, it transpired, FIV, the feline version of HIV.

  Eleven years on, and typically for this particular individual, Murphy has flown in the face of the statistics by living three times longer than the average FIV cat. He is still bouncing around like a two-year-old when he should have been shuffling off the old mortal coil years ago. It’s just that nobody told him.