Thread: A Matter of Routine

My little Heinzie 57 (925 words)

Jenna is a Heinzie 57, one of those terriers which can not be anything else but a mongrel. In appearance she is nothing special; a sort of black fox terrier look alike but somehow different. When she was a youngster, she could run like the wind and to her a flat sandy beach was paradise. As she has aged, so she has slowed down which is a bit sad. When she does come out for a walk these days, she keeps up, but she never goes out of my sight for her sake and mine. She is a faithful little soul with her own idea of what is right and what is wrong.


She came into my life several years ago. In a way she found me, as the local boarding kennels had recommended me as being a dog lover to her first owner. I never paid a cent for this little madam, She came along with all the paperwork and a dowry of a few toys as a gift from her mom who was planning to move to Florida. I promised to take care of her. I made a bargain.


Jenna is not the sort of dog to be locked away. She yaps like most terriers and that noise is one of those which reaches right down into one’s soul. She knows that, which is exactly why she does it. For Jenna to bark, there is something she is not happy about and usually that can be that as simple as her not being involved in what is going on. Whilst the noise can be an annoyance, it is a little hard for me to get angry about this little trait of hers because all she wants out of life is to be with her master all day, every day. She makes a good companion and if she is not at my feet, then I must look for her. She will not be far away.


There are a few little routines which come and go on a daily basis. For example whenever I have something to eat, she will be there sitting at my feet. She knows that I will not quite finish the plate and that there will always be a smidgen left. Immediately she has eaten it, then OK she will run off but one thing is for sure: I must never clear the plate because that last bite is hers. It is a long standing deal between her and me.

Then there is the matter of the horse. Jenna knows that each morning at around 8.00am the horse is on the agenda. Each day the horse has to be fed, watered and put out to graze. As I move towards the door, Jenna is there just behind me. When I open the car door, I hesitate and she jumps in. Not a word is spoken, We drive up to the yard, I open the door and Jenna jumps out to do the sniffing. Sniffing means going around the stable barn, checking to see if a rodent has been roaming around over night. In fact, there are eight yard cats making sure that nothing with a pointed snout and a long tail ever gets to mooch around but to Jenna one terrier is worth eighteen cats. Of one thing I am sure, if she does catch anything vaguely rodent like, it is dead meat. The mare need not worry about her feed being gobbled up by some low life.


At the stable yard I keep an eye on Jenna for she is not as nimble as once she was. There are a few lumps and bumps here and there on her chest but we don’t ask what they are. I am fairly certain she has lost most of her hearing and I don’t believe she sees too well either. More important is the need to watch out carefully so that she doesn’t get too close to the horse’s hooves; there are 350lbs of weight in each steel shod foot. Not to take Jenna up to the yard would upset her terribly so she always comes with me.

At night as I go up to bed, she will make her own way out into the garden. I hear the dog flap go once on the way out and once again on the way in. Then there is a pad-pad on the stairs and she will slip quietly into the bedroom. She’ll look around for anything I have worn which will have been left conveniently on the floor by the bed. Of course, something floppy and woolly is ideal. She snuffle with her paws and snout to make it comfy. Then she’ll lay down and close her eyes.

She’ll stay still until about seven forty five each morning. Seemingly there is an alarm clock in her head. Then she will get up and go and look for Rocky the Rottie. He will be asleep downstairs, although he knows that the biscuit hunt will soon be on and he’ll wake up pretty quickly. “Biscuit hunt?” well that’s another story. Another day is just beginning as far as Jenna is concerned. Yet another day to be spent in exactly the same routine, is what she is looking forward to and pretty much every day, so am I. It is yet again time to do the mare of the household. Jenna will be there by the car waiting for me to open the door.

Don’t we all look for a familiar routine in our lives?

　
　
One Man and His Dogs (629 words)


I am an Old Man and the grey hairs, the specs and the pot belly confirm the undeniable fact that I am well past my sell by date. However I have been very lucky during my life for I have known the love of some fabulous dogs. The difficulty when writing stories about dogs is that rarely are there any major incidents that are worthy of recording. Thankfully a life shared with a dog does not have to be a series of major events. All the memories are of simple things mostly incidents that would mean little to an outsider.


“What’s the fuss all about?” might be a comment. - particularly from someone who doesn’t have much time for a four legged hairy creature which for much of the time exudes a musty smell. I can’t say much to such folks, after all, from time to time one gets the idea that it would be nice to live in a polished house with white carpets.


No, living with a dog is an every day affair. A man opens his eyes, gets up, puts his clothes on and maybe then the dog will get off the end of the bed. The dog does a little stretching and walks to the back door. The man looks for his keys and opens the door. The pair move towards the car parked on the driveway. Invariably the dog gets to the car first. The man lets the dog into the car and then gets in himself. Another day has started. The first job is to give the horse its breakfast, then is to allow the dog a walk in the woods to do its business and to have a sniff. As part of this routine, the dog completes his own routine chores for the day: he has got the Old Man up, he has got the horse fed and he has watered the grass. Not a word is said in the process. It is all teamwork by man and dog.


Every one of my dogs has been an individual. Not one of them was mean and all of them seemed to put me on a pedestal. But that is what some dogs do, isn‘t it? Each one I remember for a different reason: Over a lifetime I have owned what would make a pack of: two bull-breeds, three Rottweilers, a Labrador, four terriers and a spaniel. Only one of them passed away of her own accord. The others all called for my having to make that final decision which I would rather not have had to make. Sadly making decisions on the quality of a dog’s life is too often the hidden long term cost of being responsible for the health and well being of that animal. Invariably it is left for the owner to decide when to end the life of his best friend.


There are photos of all my dogs which are kept either up on the walls, in the computer or in photo albums. Most of them still look at me each morning. One face, used as a screen saver looks at me every time I flip the switch of this laptop. Not one of them has passed on from me and they each live on in my head. Perhaps that is exactly why, over the millennia, two species namely humans and canines have come to share their lives so closely together. A good man and his faithful dog will form a bond, and they will spend much of their lives together.


The insoluble problem is that the two species cannot share the same time frame in life. Inevitably, along comes the day of reckoning and that separation hurts - a lot. Believe me.

I like your piece very much! But...a dog? What does the dog mean to you? Whatever that means, is it important to you? How is it important you? You're looking for some sort of connection between your dog and you. Do you see a connection? Is this connection important? If so, how?

Why did you decide to write this piece?

I decided to write this piece as an attempt to test the market for articles written around the subject of dogs.

I have not yet discovered the genre of writing through which I can appeal to members. For me there is no point in writing anything other than a diary, if noone wants to read what I have written. So far few subscribers bother to even read what I write let alone comment on it. Even after several attempts I still have absolutely no idea of the taste of the members of this Forum. So I decided to experiment.

Dogs provoke in some people intense emotion. A lot of us own dogs and keep them not just as a pet but as a companion in life. I would not have posted this piece on a dog forum - it is far too cruel for many a dog lover to read. A high proportion of the readers of a dog forum would have cried and it is not very often my intention to give readers of my work cause to cry but on this occasion I did want to shock.

Anyway the subject was on my mind. The dog sitting at my feet as I write this letter is 15 and frail. It brought a tear or two to my eyes as I wrote the piece.

PS Why are you suddenly "banned". I am only just getting to know you.

I doubt very much if there is a genre which appeals to this forum, it is a pretty diverse group, on the other hand so are dog owners. There are at least two reasons to post here, to be read is one, to get feedback is another.

I think the main failing here is lack of specificity, by staying general you are repeating things your readers are already likely to know. Do you know James Thurber? There is a lovely piece he wrote about a strong and tenacious bull terrier they had as kids who used to bring things home, once an entire wardrobe. In all those years of ownership there must be anecdotes which reveal the characters of individual dogs rather than the general routine, though that might make a good starting place.

Originally Posted by Olly Buckle

There are at least two reasons to post here, to be read is one

Try telling Baron that.

Besides with 72 views quite some of them must have read it.

Olly
Oh there are lots of tales I can tell about a Staffordshire bull terrier. If you look then you will see my avatar is a photo of one, turning white snow to yellow snow.

But the emotive topic of eventually having to put a dog down when it comes to the end of its dignified life span is I think enough in one article.

Divus, I went back up the page to look and realised there were two articles, I had only caught the second one, perhaps that makes the comment a little more relevant.
This caught my eye,

but she never goes out of my sight for her sake and mine.

I think you mean "But for her sake and mine she never goes out of my sight" The difference is subtle, but for me one implies a reason to go out of sight and the other a reason not to.

Olly, indeed very subtle but that is what meaning is all about. Which is exactly why I like someone sensitive to read what I have written.

I'll do another doggie story - this time about the Staff - a very special type of dog.

Barry

Duke and the Tyres

Duke came into my life because a good friend told me that a TV soap opera star had a daughter, who had a boyfriend, who had a Bull Terrier, which was proving to be a problem dog. A week later the young owner of turned up at the local railway station with the dog in tow. Actually the dog had got off the train first and dragged the owner with him. My friend Dinnie and I laughed as we went over to introduce ourselves The dog, an absolutely magnificent specimen, nearly knocked us over as we got near. It jumped up, licked us and ran about like a thing possessed. The dog was so pleased to be off that noisy train and out in the countryside.


Din had a neutral training arena which he used for the horses but which we could use to introduce this yobbo to my two other dogs. We drove over to the house, parked up and got out to make things ready for the big introduction. Duke was left alone in Din’s car whilst we went indoors. That was a big mistake to have made. Just five minutes or so later we came out to collect Duke and show him about. In the intervening five minutes he had destroyed the inside of my friend’s car. No, it was not just a scratch here or there. The dog had completely and utterly ripped apart the seats, the backs of the seats, the head lining, the carpets. You name it, the upholstery was in shreds. A few weeks later, it cost almost a thousand pounds to repair that car. Duke had indeed made a grand entrance.


After some discussion I made a deal with the young man who was a bricklayer. I would pay the bill for repairing the car if he would build a brick wall for me in my garden. In addition I would take the dog on over the short term and try to find him a good home locally. I was well aware that the young man had already threatened to take Duke to the vet for euthanasia. Earlier on I had been shown a photograph of the animal and I had said previously on the phone: “no way - that dog is the most incredible specimen of a dog I have yet seen“. Indeed he was. Over a month or so the deal worked out and I obtained a brick wall for my troubles. In the meantime, I found that Duke could live happily in my house alongside our dogs. Toos, my little Border terrier left Duke alone and Duke left Toos alone. Perko, my Rottweiler bitch, came to be Duke‘s mom. She bossed him about from the beginning.


Now an English Staffordshire Bull Terrier is a recognised breed in the UK. There are paintings showing them back in the old days keeping the bull in check at country fairs. They were bred to be the game keeper’s guard dog and the herder of the bull. As such the breed is fearless of animals but obedient to man. The breed is a relative of the English Bulldog but a lot lighter in stature and is also more agile and more energetic. It is also uncontrollably boisterous. I forgot to mention that this breed of dog has: ’ a very muscular body supporting a massive head, a large tooth filled mouth and the neck of a mature python‘. In fact the old fashioned Staffie is probably the foundation stock of the American Pit Bull Terrier but I did not know that at the time. I had been told he was a Staffie and it suited my purpose to carry on believing that description. A couple of years later, HM Government brought in the Dangerous Dogs Act (DDA) and Duke and his breed suddenly became infamous. He was indeed ‘one of them‘ as the front page of the gutter press was often keen to show. After acquiring him I had placed a few adverts and had made a few home visits. Over a couple of months, I did not find a suitable home for him and the trouble was that I was getting fond of him. Then came the incident which led me to make a fateful decision.


Our house which offered magnificent views over 40 miles of countryside was located on a steep hillside. At the top end there was a patio but several levels down, some 50 feet below was the fence which closed off the woodland area of the garden. Up in the garage Duke had found a used tyre. Duke had dragged one out of the garage and had brought it round to the back garden. It was his best toy and he would run around carrying it in his mouth. One day when I was trying to get it off him, it came free and rolled down the slope into the stinging nettles at the bottom of the formal garden. Duke immediately charged off down after the tyre by jumping from level down to level in an amazingly exhibition of agility. The tyre only just beat him to the boundary fence. Duke sniffed around, found the tyre in the stinging nettles, picked it up in his mouth, held it out horizontally and climbed back up the hill. Most dogs can’t lift a tyre let alone hold it horizontally. Once back at the top of the slope, Duke banged my leg with his toy. With difficulty I took it off him and then I deliberately rolled it down the hill again. Off flew Duke and back up came the tyre. He puffed a bit but the time taken was little more than for the first retrieval. To him this was a good game. So I did it again and off he went and back up came the tyre. The Boy was beginning to puff. So I did it again and guess what; back came the tyre and yet again my leg was bashed with the tyre which was still being clamped between his jaws. Few grown fit men, even by carrying the tyre with two hands, could have matched this feat of strength and stamina. The steep slope alone would have beaten them. It would have been cruel of me to send this game dog down the hill yet again. So this time, I tied the tyre up to a tree and it became, from then onwards, Duke’s worry bead. Some folks need stress relievers and Duke needed a rubber tyre on which to tug, to chew and to tug on. Mother Nature had given him too much energy for any one dog to use up.


Suddenly I saw this creature in a new light. Game active dogs like him aren‘t found under gooseberry bushes and I should keep him. So I did look after him for many years. He got me into scrapes; he did some terrible things but he became the apple of my eye. I truly believe that if he had not found me, then he would not have made it into old age. In this modern world gamekeepers don’t need canine guardians and cows are serviced by needles rather than bulls. It is the human that has changed the rules of society, not the canine. For over half of Duke's life after the DDA came in it was safest to hide him away from humans. Long before the end of my relationship with this lovable but adrenaline filled dog, I came to realize that I was not protecting innocent bystanders from Duke rather I was sheilding Duke from humans.