A post should appear every Sunday
Monday December 25th 2023
Isis: HUMAN’S A LAZY GIT Human: Human’s having today and next Sunday off.
THE SEASON’S GREETINGS TO YOU ALL, AND A HAPPY 2024 TO EVERYONE.
Isis came from Aeza cat and dog rescue in Aljezur, Portugal. For information about adopting an animal from the centre, contact kerry@azea.org or go to http://www.dogwatch.co.uk.
A post should appear every Sunday
Sunday December 17th 2023
It’s been a tough year for me. I’ve been in and out of the kennels like a hairy yo-yo. It all begins in January, when Human leaves me behind and goes away. Oh well, I’m only a dog. What can I do about it!
Here’s the bad news: soon after she comes back, I’m very ill. Yes, really. It must be Human’s fault. I have diarrhoea and keep being sick. I can’t eat anything and just want to sleep. One day I don’t even want to go for a walk. And then she doesn’t give me anything to eat – not for forty-eight hours.
The good news is that after being very ill, and then being starved, I get a tiny bit of scrambled egg. I could eat a very big pile of scrambled egg, so I keep licking the dish. She doesn’t get the message though. But every hour I get another helping. And Human is very nice to me. I keep getting pats and strokes and she doesn’t get cross about anything.
When I’m better it’s lovely outside, all icy and dead cold. And there’s snow. I have a wicked time, but – and you won’t believe this – Human is a miserable git. She doesn’t run into the garden joyfully in the mornings, just shivers and moans and shuts the door.
I’m better now, but if I’m not very interested in my boring food, Human gets all worried. Tee-hee! Then she gives me something different, like a bit of fish, or some freshly cooked mince. I love freshly cooked mince, but I even get fed up with that in the end. And anyway, she still gives me those boring kibbles with it.
I keep sniffing my food, then walking off and leaving it. She’s getting frantic. It’s a right laugh.
It’s well into February now, and she’s still worried about my eating. If I don’t eat what she gives me, she makes me something else. I like this.
Then, the bad luck happens. She takes me to Lee’s shop and tells tales on me. She says that I act like a strong, healthy dog but I keep leaving my food.
Lee weighs me. I’m nearly seventeen kilos.
How embarrassing.
Then he tells Human that I’m not eating my food because I’m not hungry. Huh! How does he know? Then he says some other things to her about diets, being firm and not giving in, and silly things like that.
We leave the shop with five little bags.
For my tea all I get is a little pile of kibbly bits. Stuff this for a game of soldiers. I leave it and go away. I know she’ll give me something nicer.
But she doesn’t. She leaves me without, and next morning she gives me the kibbly bits again. Well, I’m damned hungry, so I have to eat them, don’t I?
Actually, they taste quite nice, but I eat them very slowly, just to show her.
Then she leaves me at the kennels again. With lots of the little bags.
In March, when she comes back to fetch me, Tracey tells her I’ve eaten all my food without a murmur. Well, Of course I have, or the other dogs would have stolen it, wouldn’t they?
I’ve been had! Blasted sneaky humans.
It’s spring. I can smell it. I’m having lovely walks. New smells are popping up all over the place, so I sniff and sniff and sniff some more among the old fallen leaves.
There’s lots of mud everywhere now. I’m very happy and don’t mind it at all; human does though; she keeps sliding all over the place, and moans and mutteres all the time we’re out.
Worse still, when we get home, she washes my feet in a bowl. She’s just doing it to be mean because she’s fed up with everywhere being so muddy. Typical.
Between you and me, she sometimes forgets and leaves the mud on.
But I don’t say a word. If she notices, she’ll mess with my feet, and if there’s anything I really hate, it’s having my feet messed with. I give a little growl every now and again to reming her of this.
It’s April now, and I’m still the perfect dog: I sit dead still by my dish and only eat when Human touches my chin; I polish my dish every morning and evening; I am very nice to Human, and snuggle up beside her – I still have to growl now and then when she fidgets, but on the whole, we’re both very kind to each other.
I guess it’s still spring but it’s very cold. At night when I settle to sleep, she puts three fleeces on me before she goes to bed.
Silly person! She forgets I have a lovely, thick warm uncoat underneath all my long hair, but it makes her happy to cover me up, so I just let her get on with it, then toss the covers off when she’s gone.
So April’s nice, but soon it’s May and she leaves me at the kennels again for a very, very long time, and when she comes back it’s June. I’m so pleased to see her that I even make a big fuss of her when she comes to fetch me.
Now you’d think she’d be especially nice to me after all that time, wouldn’t you? But no, now she’s attacking me with the buzzy thing and with the scissors as well, and cutting off my beautiful coat.
Wicked, I call it. I feel undressed, and not myself at all.
Stupid Human ……………………….
to be continued
Isis came from Aeza cat and dog rescue in Aljezur, Portugal. For information about adopting an animal from the centre, contact kerry@azea.org or go to http://www.dogwatch.co.uk.
A post should appear every Sunday – sorry it’s a day late this week. We’ll put this down to unforeseen circumstances!
Monday December 11th 2023
I am immeresed in a strange dream. After a successful interview, I have a promotion. A few weeks before I take up my post, I am shown round my new workplace. I wish to give a good impression, of course, but despite a continuous struggle to remain upright, dignified and in control of myself, my left leg – the one which was operated on in August – keeps giving way, and I slide to the left. My colleagues to be are doing their best to assist me, but each time I struggle to stand, the leg first becomes numb, and then gives way again.
Each time I fall, I am helped back up. My kind assistants even redeploy desks which then transmogrify into zimmer frames, but still my errant left leg brings me down.
I think it must be the discomfort which makes me regain consciousness: my hip feels sore, and the rest of my leg quite cold. I realise that I have fallen asleep on the daybed. I must have been warm and comfortable when I dropped off.
I sure ain’t now.
Isis, her spine aligned firmly against the back of the bed, is sleeping blissfully. She has all four legs stretched out in front of her, her paws firmly pressed against my right thigh. She has pushed so hard that she has moved me to the very edge of the bed, and my left leg is hanging over into thin air, only a couple of toes touching the floor.
No wonder my hip’s sore.
Podengoes are strong, they say. But this strong?
Evidently.
She weighs around 15 kilos while I weigh around 50, yet when she plants her rear on the pavement, it might as well be stuck to the flags with superglue. No amount of tugging on her lead will induce her to walk; instead, if I persist, all that happens is that her harness comes off over her head and I have to undo it and put it back. Then, I have only two options: one is to tickle her bottom. Perhaps she mistakes this rude gesture for the intrusive male collie we sometimes meet. Whatever her thoughts, she certainly moves on.
The other option, always my last resort, and seldom used except when she insists on standing statue-still in the middle of a busy road, is to grab her harness and give it a shake while at the same time bellowing “Enough!” into her right ear. I know she can’t hear, but she somehow registers this unkind assault enough for her to allow Human to hustle her to safety. Maybe it’s the combination of the harness tugging, and the close, hot breath of irate Human.
Another test of strength is attempting to lift a paw which Isis is determined will not be lifted. When she plays her crazy, rough, resisting game as I try to get her into her feet-first harness, lifting a front paw is like attempting to lift concrete. I don’t know how she achieves the ‘concrete paw’ – it seems as though she has magically poured all of her body weight into one small foot.
Yet once we’re in the park, or when we are in the porch after her walk and she is keen to get into the house, her paws are as putty in my hands, soft, limp and flexible, ready to be removed from her harness.
She almost floats into the car of her own volition, and lies down fluffily next to the safety clip which she knows I will fix. But should I try to move her to retrieve the car keys which are now underneath her, it’s quite a different story. Now there is no fluffy floating, only an irritable growl as I drill under her heavy, resisting body with cold, stiff fingers.
It’s my own fault of course, for dropping the keys, yet again, on the back seat in order to secure Hairy One’s safety anchor.
Needless to say, when she’s pavement walking, or on her lead in the park I have a struggle to hold her back if she suddenly catches the scent of a homing cat or a long gone small mammal.
A day or two ago, in Kings Heath Park, as I am guiding her around the temporary fences, she comes across something very enticing, and gives a joyful little jump-pounce, running off to circle, then uproot, whatever it is – naturally I, being merely an uninitiated human, can see nothing but closely mown grass.
Beneath its thin turf topping, the field is one huge squelch of mud, so as soon as the hunter has wind of the scent, I drop her lead as though it is red hot, so that she can scamper as fast as she wants. I’ve no wish for another sprawl in the mud.
Once she homes in on her ‘prey’, she digs with sturdy, stiffened little paws until she’s convinced that whoever it is has not gone to ground, but dodged her and departed.
If she were sighted, I don’t think the squirrels would stand a chance. And I’d not be able to take prey from her as she has jaws like steel traps. She isn’t a destructive dog, so she doesn’t chew up her toys; instead, she tosses them around or lies in her bed, sometimes for an hour or more, with one of her favourites clamped between her teeth.
Even when she looks as though she’s about to fall asleep, if I creep up on her, however stealthily, I can never steal the toy.
Yes, she’s a tough little dog.
That’s great.
Just wish she wouldn’t shove me off the daybed.
Isis came from Aeza cat and dog rescue in Aljezur, Portugal. For information about adopting an animal from the centre, contact kerry@azea.org or go to http://www.dogwatch.co.uk.
A post should appear every Sunday
Sunday December 2023
Isis has cultivated an extraordinarily magnificent coat for the winter. I know I have mentioned it throughout the year, but observing her stretched out and sleeping peacefully on J’s carpet this afternoon, even I was impressed – and I see her all the time!
Several people who have known her for years comment that ‘she’s got much bigger’, others whom we haven’t met for a while ask tentatively whether she is the same dog, or even state with confidence, ‘That’s not the same dog, is it? No, this one’s much bigger.’
I know that fully adult dogs do not become larger and larger as they get older: they don’t grow taller and taller, and their bodies don’t double in length. Now I begin to fantasise about miniature dachshounds morphing into dobermans, bichon frises into standard poodles, and hairy podengoes, of course, into old English sheepdogs.
Enough of that, human. Focus.
But I find I can’t. My mind is wandering and I’m thinking about Portuguese podengoes as a breed and wondering about her origins. I pick out a number of websites, read them and gaze, fascinated, at the hundreds of depicted podengoes.
I had looked at some podengo information online before, quite a long time ago, had remembered some facts; for example, that there are three distinctive breeding classes, which reference size – small, medium and large – but had forgotten others – for instance their Portuguese names, which I find much more elegant than the English equivalents:
pequino – small
médio – medium and
grande – large
O.K. Isis fits into the médio classification. No question there.
They have wedge shaped heads, pricked ears and a sickle shaped tail. Yes, her iron hard head is definitely wedge shaped. Although that’s difficult to judge when one gazes at her hairy face, when her head is wet, the word ‘wedge ‘ leaps out at you.
Her beautiful ears are indeed pricked, although they are hairier, I think, than those of any of the dogs portrayed.
And her tail is a classic scythe shape, except, of course, when she’s very frightened.
So far, so good.
The pequino, I read, was used to flush out rabbits from their cover, and to exterminate vermin.
Hmm. Yes, I’m certain that Isis, had she normal sight, would have no difficulty with these tasks.
The médio hunts, flushes out, chases and retrieves prey – commonly rabbits, and will even dig to flush them out if necessary.
Yes, I watch Isis behaving just like this while out and about. On finding a particularly interesting scent, she’ll dig deep grooves or a shallow hole around it; I observe how she plays alone by the hour with her toys, often flinging them out of her dog bed, then leaping out to grab them back again and pin them to the base of the bed. I can’t pull a toy away from her, or dislodge one from her mouth however hard I try.
The grande is capable of exhausting large prey such as wild boar and deer and holding them down until the guns arrive.
I know, from daily play with Isis, that she is perfectly able to hold down prey – even if it is only Human’s arm! It really is very difficult to extricate a limb which she is determined to hold down, and it’s actually impossible for me to lift the arm.
Yes, she definitely has the breed traits.
One article sums up the characteristics of the Portuguese podengo particularly well:
‘All Podengo types are hardy, intelligent and lively dogs, excelling at agility and making fine companions. Loyal and fearless, (Portuguese) podengos are also good house guards and are amenable to training by dog-experienced people and those that enjoy primitive (i.e. strong willed) dog behaviour.’
Portuguese Podengo Club of Great Britain
All of the information about the breed’s personality and behaviour describes Isis to a T.
Er …. There’s just one glaring exception, one aspect of her appearance which you cannot ignore …….
……… all of the articles which I have read so far emphasise that there are only two permissible coat types, and those are smooth or wiry. In fact one writer describing the acceptable breed characteristics of the pequino, states very bluntly that their coats must be wiry or smoothe – never silky !
And heaven forfend that the Portuguese podengo should have an undercoat.
My beautiful Isis, as we know, has a very soft, luxuriously silky coat, and an exotic thermal undercoat.
I wonder whom her mother met while out on an evening stroll!
Isis came from Aeza cat and dog rescue in Aljezur, Portugal. For information about adopting an animal from the centre, contact kerry@azea.org or go to http://www.dogwatch.co.uk.
Sunday December 3rd 2023
I am sorry that today’s post will be late, hopefully not later than tomorrow!
P
A post should appear every Sunday
Sunday November 26th 2023
Even the bright white Isis sometimes has feet too muddy to ignore. Washing them at home is an unwelcome chore, which Human endeavours to avoid if she possibly can. Usually there are easy remedies, such as getting her to walk through a large puddle before she gets into the car; by the time we reach home, her paws have dried off on her car blanket, and are pink and mudless.
Another approach is encouraging her to trot through long, clean, wet grass before we make our way to the car via an asphalt path.
And the third option is to take the bottles of tap water we always have in the boot, and swill her feet down before allowing her in the car.
Isis doesn’t really mind any of these solutions, and we usually avoid having to wash her feet at home.
It occurs to me that if her little feet were neatly trimmed, and the clumps of hair removed from between her pads, much less mud would accumulate in the first place. Yes, as the old adage goes, prevention is better than cure.
So, one day last week – Thursday, I think – I decide that today is the day.
I spread out an old sheet to cover the rug, collect the grooming kit and some small pieces of mature cheddar, and lever Isis into a standing position. I stroke a paw while feeding her some of the cheese. So far, so good.
Scissors in one hand, I pick up a front paw with the other.
“GRARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR! WERRARARRRRRRRRRRR!” snarls the little ***, diving at my paw-holding hand.
She is no longer even faintly interested in the cheese.
I shout at her – I know she can’t hear me, but think that my displeasure is adequately communicated by my menacing face-to-face hisses and tense body language. I know, I know … I should have stopped there and then, given us both the space to calm down, and tried to work out another strategy.
But I don’t. I tell her, in no uncertain terms, that I am going to trim the hair from her pads whether she likes it or not.
Now she has stiffened her front paw into a ramrod so that it almost requires a freezer scraper to prise it from the floor.
But, unwisely, I try.
“GRARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR- AFFA -RAFFA GRAAA!”, she screeches, attempting to bite my hand.
That’s it, Isis.
I fetch her muzzle. It’s the last resort.
Incredibly, muzzle not withstanding, she continues to attack my hands, and even manages to sink her teeth into the base of my left thumb. She is furious and the air is very blue, but I continue.
I do my best to tackle all four feet, but amidst the mayhem, I miss one front paw. The other front paw is not perfect, but it’s acceptable, and her back feet are very neat (being, of course, further from her teeth!)
I know why she has developed foot trim phobia: two weeks ago she had her nails cut at the vet’s. The veterinary nurse did a good job, but unfortunately, she caught the quick of one of the nails. Although it bled profusely for a while, and must have been very painful, Isis didn’t make a sound. She rarely squeaks, even if I accidentally step on a paw; unfortunately though, the incident must be deeply embedded in her psyche.
She’ll not forget it, and I’ve no idea how we’re going to manage the hairy pads syndrome. I’d leave her feet alone except that I’m sure it’s very uncomfortable walking on matted hair.
By now she is trembling, whether with rage or fear, or both, it is impossible to tell. Oh dear, oh dear, this is horrible.
As soon as I remove the muzzle, she is calm again, but her tail is low, and she can’t wait to retreat to her back room.
Later, while I am sitting at the table at the other end of the room from Isis, she lies on the daybed, barking intermittently. This is very unusual: in fact, she only does it when she is in acute pain. I recall only two occasions, both when, unknown to me, she had fractured the root of a nail.
I am worried that she has been injured while throwing herself around during the foot trimming. I get up, go over to her, and sit down beside her, intending to examine her to find out what’s wrong. But as soon as I sit down, she stops barking, stretches herself out and goes to sleep.
Oh Isis. What a forgiving dog.
And what a rat Human’s been today.
Isis came from Aeza cat and dog rescue in Aljezur, Portugal. For information about adopting an animal from the centre, contact kerry@azea.org or go to http://www.dogwatch.co.uk.
A post should appear every Sunday.
Sunday November 19th 2023
Dog, aren’t we all sick and tired of this rain, day after day after day after day.
Sigh. Mutter. Moan. What fun walks await us this week!
By the time we reach Highbury on Monday, the wind is whistling through the trees like nobody’s business. A few metres past the gate, Isis stands on the asphalt path, looking doubtful.
Fortunately, she is soon distracted by an irresistable scent and begins sniffing intently among the amazing variety of fallen autumn leaves: the maple leaves alone range from pale yellow to bright yellow, from yellow ochre to pale pink, from deep pink to red to maroon and to a maroon so dense that it’s virtually black.
stock internet image
It seems as though she’ll be content to snuffle among the leaves for ever, but eventually she wanders off the path towards one of several little tracks which lead down the steep slope, past the beehives and towards the big pond. She is bent on following a particular track, and is very resistant when I attempt to divert her. She refuses to listen to my advice when I tell her that I think it is possibly very muddy.
I’m right.
The track rapidly suages from damp to squishy grass, then it’s downhill – both literally and metaphorically – all the way, as we trudge through the rather muddy, then even more muddy, terrain.
By now, like lady MacBeth, I decide ‘Returning were as tedious as go o’er’, so on we wade.
It’s when we reach the quagmire squelchiness that the inevitable happens.
As we’ve wound our way along the track, I’ve tried to guide Isis onto the very narrow grass verge at one side. She does her best to comply, but it’s not easy for her, and I need to make sure she doesn’t slip off the verge and fall into the mud.
Hollow laugh.
While my eye is on Isis, it happens. Of course it does. I catch my foot in a loop of bramble, and with a skiddy squelch, fall full length into the deep mud.
It’s not a warm day, and saturated, muddy, woollen gloves, mud soaked trouser leg, and spattered jacket make the day feel even colder.
I stagger along like an inebriated toddler whose nappy needs changing. Passers-by give what I hope are sympathetic titters as they take in the spectacle.
Other dog walkers often comment on how startlingly white Isis is, but today her poor little feet are as filthy as mine. She, naturally, is not in the least perturbed and quite fancies wandering on the grass following the scents of inquisitive crows, while I stand shivering on the path and wait for her.
On we trudge. Oh, the many joys of dog walking!
When we reach the car, I shake off my soggy gloves before steering Isis onto the old towels spread out on the back seat.
As we drive home, I devise an action plan for the clean-up: although I am much dirtier than she is, Isis must be attended to first as I am the less likely to jump up and down on the day bed.
Right, I decide, when we reach home, this will be my strategy:
1. kick off shoes
2. leave Isis in porch with harness and lead still attached so it’s easier to move her to the kitchen
3. shut the inner door so that she can’t leave the porch
4. close doors leading from hall, thus eliminating escape routes
5. half fill washing-up bowl (hers, not mine, I hasten to add) with warm water
6. place towels at strategic points on kitchen floor, and get shampoo from her cupboard
7. conduct Isis from porch to kitchen.
Isis, by now, is highly suspicious about the fate awaiting her. She knows that if she is left in her harness, something unpleasant is about to happen. She attempts to glue herself to the mat.
Inch by inch, I usher her towards the kitchen. Her passive resistance is impressive, and I soon lose count of the sit-downs.
As soon as I get out my large bin bag with its cut out slots for head and arms, Isis smells the plastic and begins to back out of the kitchen.
I restrain her, then place the bowl of warm water in front of her forelegs, and a towel in front of the bowl. When I pop in her little front paws, the water instantly changes to a dense, dark brown.
I empty the bowl, refill it and rinse the paws again. And again. After the third rinse and bowl emptying, it’s time for shampooing.
I tip a pool of shampoo into my right hand, and cautiously lift her right forepaw, ready to withdraw and resort to the muzzle if she tries to bite me. Very carefully, I massage shampoo into her pads and into the hair on her lower leg. I move to her left foreleg and repeat the process.
Then there’s another rinse, and another after that before I remove excess water by gently squeezing each little foot, and lifting it out of the bowl and onto the towel.
Finally, the whole process is repeated, this time with her back feet.
She is incredibly good, standing patiently through all the rinses, the shampooing, the drying. There’s no fighting, no struggling to withdraw her legs from the water; she doesn’t protest, doesn’t utter even the suggestion of a growl.
She definitely deserves, and receives much patting, head stroking and a substantial treat.
This is the dog who became hysterical the first time I ever put a towel on her back, all those years ago.
What a star you are, my Isis, what a star.
Isis came from Aeza cat and dog rescue in Aljezur, Portugal. For information about adopting an animal from the centre, contact kerry@azea.org or go to http://www.dogwatch.co.uk.
A post should appear every Sunday
Sunday November 12th 2023
No sooner does Isis (nearly always) forget to skiddadle over the kitchen floor where, weeks ago, a splosh of water had made a small slippery patch, than she decides to elaborate on her riotous pre-walk ritual. As I’m sure we all remember, this comprises leaping back and forth, and up and down while uttering shrill barks and threatening growls as I attempt to unite her with her harness. It’s all good fun, if a little frustrating sometimes, especially in the morning when Human is feeling fragile.
Until, that is, Isis decides to up the anti.
She has always had harnesses which go on over her head. These harnesses give her the perfect excuse to toss her head around and twirl, then to suage into a merry jig as soon as she feels Human’s fingers fiddling with the under paw-pits straps.
Now her very fetching new red harness is different. It has two cut-outs into which two front feet have to be inserted. This is a very easy procedure and can be accomplished in seconds. But Hairy One prefers to draw the process out a little. Day by day, she embellishes her performance until it reminds me of the well-known Oaky-Cokey song and dance:
As I struggle to reinsert the dear little creature’s paws, she dives at my hands, pretending to nip them. Despite the ferocious growls and yaps, her tail wags like a speeded up metronome.
Unfortunately, after a week or so, it dawns on me that the pseudo nips are becoming less and less playful and decidedly more grabby. When her teeth graze my fingers, I decide that enough is enough. I remove her from the porch, pick up a front paw, and as soon as she begins a growl, I drop the harness and stand up. After about seven tries, she gets the message, and off we go.
“Oh dear,” I say to myself, “buying this kind of harness was a stupid mistake. You know that she doesn’t like her paws being handled. We’ll replace it tomorrow.”
After a few minutes though, it dawns on me: I always take her harness off in the park, so that she can feel unencumbered, and when it’s time to put it back on, she wags her tail and stands angelically, without so much as a step forward, while her hairy little feet are popped back into the cut-outs.
It’s nothing to do with her feet being touched, and everything to do with her well established porch routine. It will be better to harness her in another area, then, once on her lead, she can jump up and down in the porch to her heart’s content.
I’ve never had a dog with a personality like Hairy One’s before. She really is the prototype of the old proverb ‘give her an inch and she’ll take an ell’. Over the years, experience has taught me that any deviant behaviour must be corrected very quickly, otherwise it will not only persist, but gain momentum until retraining becomes a Herculean task.
I look back on the pandemonium that used to be mealtimes, and how it was essential never to drop one’s guard, never to let the first screech go uncorrected.
We have become so used to each other, and so attached that it’s easy to overlook her beginnings and the misery and frustration she must have suffered.
This weekend, my niece Laura, an animal lover more used to cats than dogs, visited. She was looking at Cães e Gatos da AEZA, and was amused to see that Isis was described as ‘Blind, deaf and with behavioural disorders’.
Behavioural disorders? Isis?
I told her about the dreadful nightmares that Isis used to have, and how sometimes she had to be woken up several times a night to be calmed down and reassured.
Laura fell in love with Isis, adored her spotty black and pink nose, and was delighted when on the second day of her visit, said Hairy allowed her head to be stroked.
“She’s so sweet,” Laura declared throughout the weekend, gazing at the fluffy white creature relaxing innocently on the rug.
She couldn’t believe my descriptions of the porch madness – until Isis obliged with a demonstration this morning.
Ah well. I’ve always been fascinated by delinquency.
Isis came from Aeza cat and dog rescue in Aljezur, Portugal. For information about adopting an animal from the centre, contact kerry@azea.org or go to http://www.dogwatch.co.uk.
A post should appear every Sunday
Sunday November 5th 2023
All kinds of horrible things have been done to me this week. You won’t believe the cruelty I’ve been subjected to, or how cynically I’ve been exploited.
It all begins on Monday when Human’s friend Rashmeeta – she used to be my friend as well, but not any more – leaves a present for me while I am out on my walk.
Human is pleased: she pats me and puts the present by my nose. It doesn’t smell dangerous, so I think nothing of it.
Little do I guess that it’s a Pet Teezer, a de-tangling brush especially designed to ‘remove loose hairs and de-shed even thick, thermal undercoats.’
And a few days later, while I’m resting innocently on the day bed, I feel something tugging at my beautiful, warm undercoat. I squirm and make my coat ripple. You’d think that would be enough of a hint, wouldn’t you? But no, the tugging continues.
I’m forced to bare my teeth and utter one or two subdued growls, but she ignores me. Then I recognise the smell. It’s that damn so called present.
Before I can escape to my dog bed, I can smell a huge heap of my beautiful undercoat resting on the coffee table.
You can see how huge the pile is if you look at that AA battery next to it.
I’m very upset. And because I growled, I don’t even get a treat.
She holds my thermals in her hands. The cheek. She puts them in the kitchen. Over the next few days she keeps lifting them and cooing about how amazingly warm they are. And you’ll never guess what she does next – she brings down a pair of trainer socks, and stuffs my lovely fluff into them. Then she puts another pair of socks over the top and swans off to bed!
Theft, there’s no other word for it. So she’ll be warm in bed. Great. But what about me?
I can hardly contain my indignation.
She’s so busy looking after herself that she doesn’t notice my suffering. It takes me days of grunting, attacking my bottom and nipping out chunks of my coat before it finally dawns on the silly fool that my anal glands are troubling me.
I was only hoping for sympathy, but no, she’s always one for extremes, so she books us in at the vet’s. Shudder.
On Thursday, Human goes out and leaves me at home all morning. She’s in a foul mood when she gets back. Apparently she fell into a huge puddle in the Dental Hospital car park before she saw the dentist! Snigger.
So she takes it out on me. She runs the clippers all around my bottom and thighs. She says I’m so hairy that the veterinary nurse won’t be able to locate my bottom, let alone my anal glands. Humans can be so rude. I don’t like the clippers, so I tremble until she stops – that always makes her feel guilty, so I get a treat when she’s finished.
Anyway, after we’ve had a walk, off we go to the vet’s. We see that nice nurse, the one I’ve known for a long time.
But even she has it in for me, because as soon as my glands are done, she begins clipping my nails. I hate my nails being touched.
I’m completely defenceless. I try to bite the veterinary nurse, but I can’t manage to jerk my head out of Human’s grip. Then she nicks the quick of one of my nails. I don’t make a sound. I never squeak when I’m hurt. But I damn well turn up the growling to ferocity level.
My blood drips onto the floor and makes little pools by my feet. How could your human, who is supposed to look after you, allow this to happen?
Oh Dog, what can I do to protect myself?
After another miserable day – well, I’m sure it must have been a miserable day – I get my answer.
On Saturday something wonderful happens. My prayers are answered.It’s nearly the end of our walk when we meet Jane and Martha. You may know Martha as she’s featured on my blog before. She’s only small and she’s older than me, so when she’s tired she hops onto her human’s disability scooter.
Recently she was attacked by a nasty dog. It’s happened to her before.
But I don’t think it’ll happen again, because she’s got protection …………..
No dog is going to mess with her now, nor is any human.
Brilliant!
I’m definitely getting a coat like that.
Isis came from Aeza cat and dog rescue in Aljezur, Portugal. For information about adopting an animal from the centre, contact kerry@azea.org or go to http://www.dogwatch.co.uk.
A post should appear every Sunday
Sunday October 29th 2023
Why is it, I ponder, that we animal people become so much more worried about our pets’ ailments than our own?
I’ve been very lucky with Isis so far. Apart from her anal glands requiring attention every seven or eight weeks, one fractured nail bed, and two outbreaks of dermatitis caused by contact with some unknown plant in Highbury Park, she’s been a very healthy dog.
I remember her being sick only twice in nine years, and both up-chucks are the result of her gobbling her food too quickly. I can recall just one occasion on which she had diarrhoea, and that is the first time I take her to visit my friend in Wales: the hairy miscreant finds and devours two large sweet potatoes, despite their both being encased in dried mud.
The large slice of fruit packed Christmas cake, which she snatches from the table and consumes during the same visit, appears to have no effect on her digestive system at all, nor does the condom she comes across in a car park and swallows, a few weeks after she arrives in Birmingham!
For days Human, of course, fantasises about the dire consequences of each unauthorised snack.
Although before Isis arrives, I clear the garden of everything potentially dangerous to a young deaf and blind dog, and the garden is as passed as safe by a Dog Watch U.K. volunteer, the fluffy menace manages to sniff out danger. She dismantles a carefully stacked pile of three by six feet corrugated aluminium panels, and charges round the garden with them in her mouth; additionally, every time she is taken to the park, she plays tug-of-war with ten foot long brambles.
Despite her recklessness, she rarely ends up with even a scratch.
When she runs off the end of a wall and falls six or seven feet to the ground, she merely picks herself up, shakes herself, and carries on exploring.
Nevertheless, if Isis has so much as a brief riffle through her fur, I pounce on her and search through her coat, in case she is suffering from a flea invasion – even though she is treated regularly with anti-parasitics, and, to date, has never hosted a single flea.
Earlier this year, I find a discarded nail sheath on the kitchen floor. Oh dear! Is this supposed to happen? I examine it carefully for any sign of blood or torn tissue, but find nothing untoward, then I check her nails to make sure they are all intact.
They are.
Eventually, it occurs to me that since she doesn’t have weekly nail bar sessions, it’s probably quite normal for her to shed a nail sheath now and again.
Over the last few months though, the shedding becomes more frequent. Soon there’s a small pyramid of cast-offs decorating the windowsill.
Oh my Dog, what horrible disease has she contracted?
On Friday Isis and I call into Dogma for her dry food. I mention the nail ‘problem’ to Lee, the knowledgeable proprietor, who tells me that his twelve year old dog sheds nail sheaths quite frequently. Some dogs do as they grow older, apparently.
Phew!
Then there’s the grass eating. Previously, every so often, she might nibble a selected blade or two, but now she’s grazing like a ravenous ruminant. Lee reminds me that this is only self medication. She probably feels her gut isn’t quite right.
Hmmmm. That’s reassuring.
Not for long though.
On Friday we walk with Bev and Nancy in Highbury. Isis takes up the usual preparatory position, and I approach discretely with a dog bag.
Oh. There’s nothing to pick up.
That’s odd.
Several times more she takes up the poop stance. Bev observes that poor Isis is straining, but with no result.
Oh dear, what can be the matter with her?
Late that night I follow Hairy One into the garden – I always do as she doesn’t like going out unaccompanied in the dark – but still there are none of the hoped for outcomes.
By now I am convinced that there is definitely something wrong with her. It’s Saturday, and her vet has a morning surgery.
I’d rather stay in bed.
But what if she’s seriously ill?
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I tell myself.
“Ah, but the vet’s not open until Monday.”
By the time we get to Holders Lane, I’ve convinced myself that Isis has an obstruction. Intestinal obstructions can be lethal. By the end of today, during the night, or at the latest tomorrow, she’ll be vomiting. She’ll be dangerously ill. I should have taken her to the vet this morning.
Isis seems quite pleased to be in Holders Woods again. We’ve only walked a short way from the car when she calmly arranges her limbs into poop readiness, and everything proceeds as normal. During the walk, the requisite number of canine duties are done.
I heave a sigh of relief, and the background cloud of anxiety floats away.
We haven’t been here since July, and there are numerous interesting scents to occupy her nose.
All is well.
What a relief.
On the way home, it occurs to me that Isis was constipated for ONE day, not three weeks.
For goodness sake Human, get a grip.
Isis came from Aeza cat and dog rescue in Aljezur, Portugal. For information about adopting an animal from the centre, contact kerry@azea.org or go to http://www.dogwatch.co.uk.
Isis, my blind/deaf dog 