Tuesday, 18 May 2010
Then there are the down sides.
Three lessons learnt of late are:-
1 Do not wear lip gloss when dog walking as strolling through a cloud of midges leaves one looking like they have been at the 100 and 1,000's tin again, albeit all black eurgh....
2 Do NOT under any circumstances how your hand out to your dog whilst adopting the stern "leave it" command unless one is 100% sure that the illicit goods they are trying to quaff are not in the form of fossilised turds, origins of which are unknown!
3 Do not wear large hair butterfly clips whilst trying to dodge under the electric wire enclosing livestock fields. The result of this is much humour vocally from farm workers picking the spuds at the sight of one strange woman doing river dance whilst apparently being electrocuted by said wire. Just as well the aforementioned farm workers do not speak English (at least my very foul version at the time) as they might of taken a bit longer to come and untangle me.
It has been mentioned I must of looked like the Bride of Frankenstein being brought to life whilst on the receiving end of these shocks. In future only elastic bands will be used to tie back my hair whilst walking
May I point out that in no way was any animal hurt or mistreated whilst initiating or viewing the above......until I got home that is.........................
Thursday, 13 May 2010
Walking my dogs over the beautiful landscape of this Island is what makes my days. I find being with them eases the burdens of life, well sort of as sometimes they can be the cause of said burdens. When Hector starts doing the River dance on the kitchen lino at 8am, I know today is going to be a “burden”.
I’ve purchased a new secret weapon and have been dying to try it out on Hector. Before we can even think of our walk to come we have to run the gauntlet of Stuka dive bombing seagulls presently nesting on our roofs. No matter how nonchalantly we start off me and Hector end up running for our lives across the car park as visions of Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds” invade my mind. The fact that I head butt the van door whilst ducking to avoid a near miss does nothing to improve my temper. Not even a shrieked piss off improves my temper. Poor Hector jumps in the van, tail between his legs, thinking that the foul language is directed at him as per usual and I am starting early on him this morning.
Things go from bad to worse when I remember I fused the radio yesterday when my bottle of caffeine fuelled coke (gave up on the water as too healthy) fizzed and exploded over it. Echo’s of an “I told you that was going to happen at some stage” from the husband prompts me to reach for the fags. Then realise I haven’t got any as I am giving up. Not to worry as three bad starts mean I am going to have an incident free walk – in theory.
I decide to go to the woods to test my new secret weapon to the best of its ability. I have to park a the car park at the bottom of the hill and walk up it to get to the path that leads into the woods and this will be a perfect test for my new weapon (any ideas yet). I park up, open the van, grab an unsuspecting Hector with an evil smirk and produce my new piece of equipment.
Out comes my lovely new Tutti Fruttii coloured anti pulling lead. We are talking high tech here to the tune of £30. It is made from the same elasticised material as bungee jumping ropes and it has a special handle shaped like a water skiing grip to improve hold and comfort. It is real smart and is going to help me enforce the fact I am in control to Hector. Hector doesn’t even look at it and has me flat on my face up the bank within two seconds. Ok, that was an accident and now we are on the road surface, technology is going to prove its worth.
I spend the next five minutes being jerked and bounced around at the end of this bloody lead as it extends and snaps back into shape as Hector stops to sniff as he charges up the hill. Perhaps the lead needs a breaking in period as well as Hector as he obviously hasn’t got the idea he is NOT supposed to be able to pull on it. Half way up and I am thinking how to compose my demand a refund letter politely. Designers of said lead obviously did not use a Weimaraner to test the prototype. Was just thinking of money and drains when Hector spies the Chickens.
Just near the entrance of the woods is a lovely little chocolate box cottage. This is a typical Jersey affair. This cottage has loads of free running chickens and ducks in its drive and garden. Hector knows that they are there and just gives them the cursory “I could kill you in a split second if I chose to” look. Shame he didn’t give it to the Peacock that was stalking us from behind.
At first we thought the sudden outbreak of panicked squawks of the chickens were due to our push me pull you presence. It is strange though as the chickens mostly just eyeball us insolently when we walk this way. I don’t know what made me turn around; call it a sixth sense, but I wish I hadn’t. Behind us was a Peacock doing a Road Runner impression up the hill. If there is one thing I dislike it is Peacocks. This stems from being chased by one as a kid on the farms. The shear fear at this exotic coloured animal running towards me whilst emitting this unearthly screaming wail (think screaming sea sirens luring sailors to the depths of the ocean) brought back all these childhood memories of being victimised by one. When it suddenly paused to shudder and display its wondrous tail, Hector freaked. At this point I will mention that the “fearless” part of his CV is being scraped. Hector did a Scooby Doo in the same direction as the retreating chickens up the driveway of the little cottage. I think at this point Peacock upped a gear in glee at getting such a dramatic response from us. He could of being defending the poor chickens, under the impression Hector and I were a threat. Whatever Peacocks reasons, I decided to go along with Hector’s choice of actions anyway.
Actually, I didn’t really have a choice as the high tech anti pull lead sort of bungeed me behind him.
The sight of the steep banked topped with a lovely little privet hedge in our path made me miss a stride. Not so Hector who has the advantage of four legs. He is up it like Colin Jackson. I, being less than agile on a good day, am slammed face first into the bank. As the extending capabilities of my arm start to get tested along with the new lead, I desperately try to gain purchase of the bank surface and follow my Grey Ghost. It is really hard when you are trying to crawl up a wet, muddy bank with one hand extended above your head whilst attached to a 33kg panicked dog who give not a toss about your welfare or safety. My hand was also jammed through the water ski grip by now. Hector had nearly reached the top when my hand came free of the grip. For a split second we were both stopped in our desperate escape. Then the bungee lead twanged back into shape and the hard water ski handle thwacked Hector right in the back of the head. He managed to give me that hooded Hooker on a street corner look before he overbalanced in shock and slithered back down the bank right on my head.
I landed first with Hector landing on me askew across my shoulders like the sort of old Fox pelt shawl my Gran used to wear. He had the same stuffed open mouth expression as well, but that could have been because he had the wind knocked out of him. This did have one welcome effect though. This Peacock may have been brave, but it wasn’t suicidal. The fear of being squashed by a less than selevette human and dog clearly did not appeal. It retreated at least twenty yards back.
I was just about to overcome my fear of this bloody bird and wring its neck when the cottage door opened. Out comes this old bird (two legged in this case) waving a huge bloody broom in our general direction. Her warblings were more unearthly than the Peacocks. I have a serious respect for the generation of Jersey people that were here during the War and German Occupation. This old Jersey maid had to date before then easily; her appearance was a frightening as her speed of approach impressive. She obviously thought she was being invaded again and was making a stand this time. I just closed my eyes, held my Hector close to my chest (might soften the blows!) and waited to be brained senseless by a pile of dangerous bristles.
I can’t do a Jersey accent as most of it is French based anyway, but instead of being “broomed” I was helped to my feet with the words “it the second time this week that bugger has done this”. It turns out that the Peacock is hers and he has developed a warped sense of humour and hides in the bushes, using the chickens for bait, and chases anything that wonders close to them. Today was our turn to “come on down” – literally as it turns out.
My nerves are truly shot to pieces after this. I manage to collect what piece of pride I have left, get to my feet and wiped the imbedded mud and grass from my attempts at climbing the bank slowly and coming down quickly and decide that I want to go home whilst I am still physically able. Hector will have to be walked later. Like two fags and a tumbler of brandy later. I pay my respects to my saviour and with as much grace as I can, allow Hector to bungee pull me back out of the cottage driveway.
High tech bungee jumping lead did win the battle of “no we are going bloody home now and not the woods”. Unfortunately it did not survive the severe chewing it got in temper from one cheesed off, walk deprived Hector. I stupidly left it on him in the back of the van on the way home. Hector may not have any respect for high technology and my money, but he is certainly going to respect Peacocks from now isn’t he.
Monday, 10 May 2010
Sunday, 9 May 2010
FOR THE LOVE OF TILLY.....Cont'd
According to expert advice – nothing in life is simply black or white, there are areas of grey. Said areas of grey can come in the form of a huge crevasse in which one can throw themselves physically and mentally into when everything they believe in comes into doubt and turmoil by hitting an area of fabled grey.
Isn’t it appropriate then that Weimaraners only come in, supposedly, one colour – Grey!
Its coming up to a year since we re-homed Tilly and I think you will remember my excited description of her arrival as well as describing her appearance as a delicate “Twiggy” like dog. If only I knew that “Twiggy” bore more than a passing resemblemance to Beelzebub with the tendencies of Hannibal Lector I would of tempered my enthusiasm a bit more.
She has taken Hector, Colin, my mum, my friends my vets and various “experts” to the limits. The worst resulting in both Colin and I (and nearly my vet) being in tears as both her and Hector were admitted for repairs after Hector dropped from his first epileptic fit and Tilly tried to take him out. I don’t mean have a dig at him, I mean a full detach the jugular from the body for main course and lets see if I can get the eyeballs at the same time type of decapitation job whilst he was out of it. The best being her no longer viewing the back of my van as an enclosed area of threat and jumping into it happily in anticipation of her exercise. Both reactions opposite ends of extreme, but the word extreme was made with dogs like Tilly in mind.
She has made me question my beliefs, capability and above all, my commitment. At times this little girl has put me to shame with her trust that, together, we could bring her out of whatever dark place she was in and can still slip into occasionally. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy as she is not my first Weimaraner and not even my first rescue and I always said that however long they were in unsuitable circumstances you can at least double that before you even start to put right the wrong caused to them. Even then I was being optimistic as I know realize there is no specific time to apply the salve of healing
Please, don’t get me wrong, even though a steep learning curve, Tilly has been one of the best things I have ever done. The other three have been having Jazz, Beau and Hector - Oh and after a thump from the husband reading this over my shoulder – marrying him! Of course Hector deserves what ever he desires in his doggy dreams as through out all this he has had to overcome with his own problems, he is still there like a shot if he ever so much as thinks his Tilly is under threat and Tilly relies on his support when in doubt.
To show you to what extent Hector takes his duties seriously when it comes to rehabilitating Tilly he killed a “Henry” Hoover! I was walking with my two nephews and four Weims (summer holidays and recent terrorist threats – long story) over the headlands. Hector was doing protector and leader very seriously and was slightly ahead of me, but not out of our safety zone. Come our approach to the model airplane runway Tilly took fright at the open back of a white van. Hector immediately reacted and went to her aid. This resulted in loads of growls and one poor man headbutting the ceiling of his van. Hector had looked in the back of the van as to what was threatening Tiilly and seen a Henry Hoover. Ever seen one of those Henry Hoovers?
They are small and round and brightly coloured with a bowler type hat painted on top of a smiling face. Hector through it was real and killed it much to the fright of the poor bloke sitting in the front trying to eat his sandwiches in peace. Either the bloke had a great sense of humor or was too frightened to say anything as Hector pissed up his hoover as a parting shot. Mind you, his van was now surrounded by all of us two and four footed and we might have just resembled something out of Deliverance!
Hector does this after Tilly has put him in the vets twice for serious injuries and still continues to temper his responses to her with patience and understanding. Now what does that say for this wonderful dog and the lesson he can give to us humans?
She, in herself, has rewarded us with laughter in two different ways. The first way by reducing us to hysterical laughter. She is outside in the sun when all of a sudden she comes flying into the sitting room as if the Devil himself is after her. Colin, Hector and I are trying to not only catch her, but the furniture she is knocking about in the process. It takes a rugby tackle to bring her down and still we cannot see what the cause of this performance is, is until a strange smell makes us turn our heads to the relevant end. Grassy poos – need I say more?! A grassy poo has frightened out “Dills” and needs removing…eurgh…but worth the laughter it brought into our home. The second way was the laughter of happiness when she tried to tell “Daddy” that she had a thorn in her paw and knew he would make it better. That type of laughter you cannot buy, the laughter born of trust.
She adores Hector, “Daddy” and my mum but can find me threatening. She has no reason for this and I found it hard to accept at first, but had to realize all this was not about me, but about Tilly. I simply have had to take a back seat in her affections until she realises I give love as well as confidence born of being safe under my “command”. She now thinks before she reacts. Colin likes to say that she is more like me than I realize as I use the powers of my mouth before my brain at times! She was not born aggressive but used aggression as a tool as taught. She just has to learn and has done, that there are different and better options.
For me personally the worst time was being in hospital being stitched. The best was her achieving KC Bronze obedience standard something I have never done with the three before her. Like the credit card advert says – priceless and it was until she broke that in vet’s fees as well….
As you will be well aware by now I am given to waffle and could keep you up all night till dawn about this remarkable little dog. Could we not all do the same about all our treasured and unique grey ones?
What I want to say is the next time someone quotes the areas of grey to you, do not be down hearted as the one thing Tilly has taught me is that sometimes you can start at the area of white and hit the depths of the black before you discover the grey. It’s neither a bad colour nor a bad place to be, especially if you are doing it for love and I am still...
Saturday, 8 May 2010
If photographed by Wegman, with those massive doe eyes in a face framed by huge ears as symmetrical as a Sassoon bob and legs as thin and long as a thoroughbred, she would be dressed as Twiggy in a Flapper dress and ostrich feathers. I took one look at the little bag of nerves and bones standing in front of me and Hector’s status as “our last Weimaraner” slowly slipped without further thought into the sunset.
When the call came that there was a little female in the Animals Shelter that needed help, I was only going to go down to offer any words of advice that were practical. I was informed by Colin that draft divorce papers could, no doubt, be obtained on eBay these days and not to even THINK about bringing her home. With this in mind I stood there and thought about it ….. for all of two seconds. They phoned on the Tuesday, I saw her on the Thursday and by Friday she was in my van and I was on the phone saying I wasn’t bringing her back from her trial walk with Hector. She was 17 months old, had been on her own for 10 months and was as skinny as a whippet and wasn’t eating in the kennels and had lost her voice through stress, so of course divorce was the lesser of two evils and besides that, Colin has been divorcing me since I first brought Jazz home fifteen years ago.
Do we regret it? Well, when she first started screaming in the van and wet the entire vet bedding in it, no. When Colin started having to wear aircraft noise ear defenders to drive – sort of! When we watched her eat without coming up for air and collapsing into the deep sleep of the secure on our sofa, no. When she woke me up at 2am in the morning and presented me with three piles of puke and one wet carpet – sort of!
Within the first two weeks of having her, Hector has given me that “ok, I’ve done my bit you can take her back now” look. When that failed he tried to drown her. She loves to run, more to the point she loves to run Hector down. With this in mind Hector ran into the rough sea and promptly timed his dropped ball with the onset of the next wave. As she lowered her head to pick up the bobbing ball, she disappeared under the froth. Hector was out of the water and up the beach doing a victory roll with a vertical tail. Mummy was doing a Pamela Anderson (in her dreams) and diving, ok, clumsily wading, into the water to drag one winded and half drowned dog out of the incoming tide. I am not sure whether I consider her fearless in following Hector into the sea like that or just plain stupid. In which ever case the word stupid was pretty germane as I squelched back to the van.
Twice she fell for Hector’s tactics these first few weeks, until she turned tables and tried to suffocate him. She has no body awareness. Now before I hear your cries of “silly girl, dogs don’t do body awareness”, please let me re-word that. She has no awareness of other person’s bodies – two or four legged. I have had to scrap Colin off of the bedroom ceiling a couple of times and been in receipt of a high pitched “that does it” – well I think that is what he said but he was kind of red faced with pain at the time. I’ve also woken up to being stood all over and with a bum parked on my nose. But with Hector it was pay back time. Hector loves getting under the bed covers, yes, yes, awful habit I know and one not MANY Weimaraner owners indulge in (you are all liars). She, so far, has treated this conspicuous lump with respect borne of a couple of fang marks from said “lump”. Not so this night. She looked at me, then looked at the lump, then looked at me again, her little neck straining and her ears framed forward like a hooded Cobra ready to strike. Hector’s fate was sealed. Up she came and sat on his head, pining him face first into the mattress. She further confirmed her intent by placing her two front legs on his shoulders preventing him from twisting up and out from underneath her. Hell hath no fury…..as Hector learned.
She has been introduced to our family and friends and all their “you are doing the wrong thing” comments have been forgotten upon sight of this little Bambi like dog. Even the postman adores her. Just one look from her beautiful amber eyes under those long eyelashes make me forget that two seconds before, whilst being dragged by a dog that thinks the only way to walk on a lead is on her stomach in top gear, I really WAS going to drive her straight back to those kennels.
I am forever grateful that I have a superb dog in Hector. He has been holed and howled at, prodded in every crevice of his body by her demanding paws and now never gets the opportunity to be first at anything without being pushed out of the way by her. He accepts this all as he knows he is loved and we will still be there for him tomorrow to get cuddles off of. He knows she needs to understand that she too will have us here for all her tomorrows.
We have a long way to go with her, but we are committed to getting there.
Our Tilly is certainly no clean slate, but she is a totally open book and we are all waiting to fill the her next chapter with our love for her
Friday, 7 May 2010
There are some occasions when you could quite happily murder your Weim and just know that if you came up before a jury of other Weimaraner owners they would class your desperate act as justifiable homicide. They seem to have this uncanny knack of knowing when you are not up to your usual authoritable self and take delight in squeezing every last drop of sanity and dignity out of you. This day was one of those days. I suppose it was my fault really as I had a hangover of Mount Etna proportions, except it wasn't lava I was spewing.
I don't drink really (one Hail Mary). Well I don't drink that often (two Hail Fathers). Ok, will give up whilst the going is good and begin this Tail.
New Years Eve just past and I quickly go to my friend Joanne for a cup of tea (was driving) with Beau to wish them a premature Happy New Year, prior to their party celebrations. They are amongst my closest of friends and I want to see them, but I assure Colin and Hector I will not be long. Four O'clock New Years Day morning I have vague recollections of being put behind the dog guard of my friend Sioban's four wheel drive. Beau and an equally drunken Sioban are in the back seat and her poor husband, who was the only one who did stick to tea that night, drove me home. I really can't tell you anymore than that as I honestly do not remember going to bed, let alone whose bed I was in. What I mean is, it could of been one of the dog's beds instead of my own.
Next morning I open one eye and wonder what happened to my other eye. I then realise that I could of opened both eyes at once if I would of been in any fit state to take my mascara off last night/morning. The next bit I am dreading. I, gently as possible, try and raise my head. Ten Concordes instantly tune up for take off in my brain simultaneously. I take one look at a positively gloating Hector and try to wake Colin up by stabbing him with my toenails in hope that he will feed the dogs. One look from Colin gets me instantly out of bed, hangover or not. Even my big Chopsy boy Beau's usual adoring look has been replaced with that big black eyed "how could you" stare . I just about avoid falling into the dog feed bins and have to slide down the wall vertically to place their bowls on the floor as my brain would of definitely collapsed if I had of tried to bend over to do it
Three hours later and I still feel like a relic that should of been discovered in the Valley of the Kings instead of existing in the twentieth centaury.. It then occurs to me that I will have to walk to get my van, which has been left at Joanne's due to my drunken state last night. Not even the bribe of Naomi Campbell for his birthday is getting Colin to move on this one and he IS NOT getting it (the van) for me. What is worse, I have to take Hector instead of Beau as the walk is rather a long one and Hector needs the only exercise he is likely to get today due to my current physical condition. The sight of Hector waiting at the door like a thoroughbred straining in the starting stalls fills me with absolute despair. I don't want to even admit that today exists let alone walk my bloody dog. In fact, I would not object to walking A dog, I just don't want to walk my dog as I just know, due to that look in his eye, that he is fully aware that today liberties can be taken with Mummy.
I kit myself up with an extra bottle of water for dehydration, headache tablets which are self explanatory, mobile phone in case I can't remember my way/who I am etc and sunglasses as I feel like Dracula. With the seriousness of the task ahead I feel like Captain Scot and utter "I might be gone for some time" to a husband and elder dog that are both pulling a who cares type of face. I only reach the top of our estate before I realise that there is a very real possibility that Hector won't be the only one needing the poo bags on this walk. The only reason I don't turn back for those extra strong supermarket plastic bags I paid ten pence each for is that Hector is in fourth gear and isn't about to even consider an about turn.
I try to take heart that the roads, though long, are pretty straight to Joannes. I also try to look like I always walk like a lobotomised version of Boris Karloffs Frankenstein. Just as I wonder why Hector is pulling so hard he stops dead to raise a leg and I fall over him into the swinging sign offering God knows what (and who cares) outside of the garage. Hector turns his head just a fraction in my direction and gives me that Game On look. It is then I also realise that I have him just on his collar and not his head halter, hence I am at his mercy for the whole of this ride. I try "heel", "slowly", "please don't pull Hector", "bloody STOP it" (last one to the detriment of my head) with absolutely no effect. Guess the training classes were a waste of money then.
A third of a way there and I take refuge in the bus shelter for a sit down, drink, headache tablet and fag. I have to move on as Hector makes a kid scream on her new Christmas bike when he takes delight in nearly making her fall off with a bark through the Perspex covering. I am definitely not in the mood for rampaging parents today. My head is just settling down to a bongo drum beat of pain instead of Concorde when I am launched into orbit by some stupid prat who decides to beep their car horn right behind me. This totally destroys my already fragile deportment and I trip over my feet and fall spread eagle on the pavement. I scare Hector by doing this and he drags me face first down in the grit a few paces further before my weight brings him to a halt. I just manage to get to my knees before Hector launches himself towards the car that has hooted and has now stopped. Again I am depostied prone and eating dirt. I make no attempt at retaining any dignity and leave the imbedded tarmac bits up my nose and in my mouth. It is only one of my dog walking friends who has spied me and Hector and is wondering what I am doing walking so far from home. He has stopped to offer me a lift. I think he has second ideas when his hoot produces mine and Hector's reaction. My reaction is to go arse up but Hectors is to try and get into his car via the open window as he has been dying to get into close contact with Sally for ages and I am not sure his intentions are entirely honourable. To save the poor bloke from doing a Starskey and Hutch slide over his bonnet to burn rubber and make good his escape, I kindly decline as I am "enjoying my walk". Guess that is one New Years Resolution broken already then.
I sit down on the wall and wish I would of included plasters amongst the water and other stuff I have brought along as my knee is bleeding. Hector is standing front paws first on the little wall besides me. Hector then jumps over the wall and sends Mummy head first, but backwards, to follow him as he reaches the end of his lead. Bastard, I AM going to kill him this time. I start to cry as that really hurt and my arm is hurting so much along with my head and whole body that I really don't think I can do this. I then realise I have an audience. I have four huge brown eyes and two slimy noses about a foot from my face. A beautiful head is lowered towards me and this big pink rasp of a tongue is extended my way. At least someone loves me enough to try and kiss it better today as my dogs and husband clearly don't care. In an instance this one action by a beautiful Jersey Cow brings a smile to my face and an evil glint to my eye as Hector is trying to hide behind the hedge as the only time he see cows is when they are trying to squash him. At least I am not the only one with the shakes now.
This small but touching display by said cow gets me to my feet. I haven't got that far to go really and even Hector must be getting tired by now, hence the pulling and peeing must both start to decline in intensity I am right as he stops pulling me up the hill. Am a bit disappointed that he has chosen this moment to stop pulling as my thigh muscles remind me that alcohol isn't the best form of fuel for the body. Decide that my dog was just being a sod and had taken into account the slight hill as he was just preserving his energy by not pulling my weight up it. Reaches the top and goes into fourth gear again. Am just deciding whether to stop and give Hector a drink of water - like over the head and still in the bottle - when he stops and deposits what he considers saving the best till last, right in front of me. I view this with all the horror of watching a live human birth on TV. My God, a two handed carrier size dump is just what I needed him to do now. Immediately my already spatially challenged stomach rebels and the knees take another bashing whilst I sink to them and deposit last nights "nibbles" into a rather disgusted looking horses field.
It took me over two hours to walk approximately two miles that day. Hector enjoyed every second and yard of torture he inflicted on me. It ended with me falling through Joannes conservatory door whilst Hector did a lap of "It nearly killed her getting me here" victory. Little did he know just how close he came to me murdering him when he deposited his "opinion" of the day and made me sick.
Since then, I have solemnly sworn never ever to go dog walking with a hangover again.
Thursday, 6 May 2010
THE WRONG BALLS
My dog is incorrigible. My family, my friends, my vet and my trainers have already expressed this opinion and I think it is about time I accepted it. Lets face it, at the age of four, what you see is what you get with Hector (hopefully). Perhaps I should do something about him though as this week one poor man was grabbing for Hector’s balls whilst trying to protect his balls in case Hector got the wrong balls. Let me explain ..........
We have a nudist on our favourite beach and no it is not my favourite beach due to that fact. He has been popping up intermittently on Portelet beach for a couple of months now. All I can say is that he must have a very strong constitution, because if the less than summer like weather won’t kill him then the fathers on the beach with their families will! I’m no prude, but there again, Mr Nudist is no Adonis and it IS as described, a family beach. Even my normally very open minded husband emitted a Victor Meldrew type utterance upon view of him last week. Somehow, after Hector’s performance today, I don’t think he will be back in a hurry though.
Hector loves the beach. Swimming, digging, rock pool scrumaging and playing ball with any takers is what life should be all about according to my young Weimaraner. The only problem I have with him is actually getting him off of the beach and back home. Spectators are normally treated to the sight of my dog throwing himself down on the sand, screaming like he is being killed and doing a pretty good impression of a crocodile when rolling to kill something. Think of a two year old child having a tantrum and you get a pretty good impression of what it is like trying to get Hector up the stairs and to the van. One of these days I am going to get clobbered by someone who thinks I am mistreating him (am usually tempted by this stage). I’ve even had to resort to buying him an ice-cream to get him up off the ground and home.
Hence, I knew today’s routine of trying to get Hector off the beach was going to be no different. If anything it was going to be made even harder by the fact I was going to have to do my best to circle round Mr Nudist without diverting my eyes and keeping Hector away from him. I succeeded on the former and failed miserably on the latter. Some days I’d rather face the threat of nuclear holocaust then what Hector throws at me. Hector’s ball was duly gathered up by me and put in my pocket out of his reach. This way I had a slightly better chance of keeping him to heel in his mistaken hope that mummy was only joking and was going to give him his ball back.
I wasn’t the only one taking evasive action as I greeted a couple that had previously been obliging Hector with his ball playing. The three of us stopped to air our views about the inappropriate behaviour of Mr Nudist, when I decided to adjust my footing slightly. When discussing matters as strait faced as bare flesh, one has to have a certain air of authority about them and the correct posture is conductive to this. Split second later I am on my face. Might as well had one of those big Lottery fingers pointing over my head saying watch this as the seaweed on the stones was as slippery as hell. A further split second later Hector is thwarting my attempts at getting up by jumping on my back thinking this game is better than ball throwing anyway. At least I like to think that is what was going through his mind and not that it was spiteful retaliation for me with holding his ball. Never can be sure with a Weim. The couple were just giving looks that intimated that a woman being suffocated by her mad dog, would be a better dinner story then that of a nudist on the beach, when his confiscated ball plops out of my pocket. Beelzebub takes one look, counts his chickens and is off. He sure is hell not hanging round the very person that took it away from him in the first place.
As is a normal occurrence when out with my dog, I am helped to my feet by strangers. I am just wondering if sand really does make a good facial scrub when the woman firmly takes hold of my arm and says “look where he is going”. Oh crap, would rather Hector was trekking up the mist laden hills of Rwanda in search of Lowland Gorillas then where he is heading. Imagination v’s reality aside, he is still going to come face to face with something hairy and naked. Hector stops dead in front of Mr Nudist and drops his ball. He is ignored. He then does that “play with me NOW” double front paw stamp, with ears flapping. Mr Nudist then decides to play ball. Never thought there was anybody thicker than me alive. Can die happy knowing that there is now. Within minutes everyone present on the beach is looking at Nr Nudist doing the Floral Dance with a grey dog. Hector is over the moon. This man wants to play, doesn’t matter to him he has got no clothes on. Hector is chucking his ball up and catching it in mid air with snapping jaws all whilst trying to jump all over Mr Nudist in agreement of what a brilliant game this beach lark is. Mr Nudist, however, is just trying to preserve his manhood (think even he realised preserving any dignity was no longer an option) as first described at the beginning of this Tail.
I will admit there was a certain element of you deserved that in my delay in trying to recall Hector. Wasn’t all that keen anyway as even I have limits and one of them is trying to grab evasive objects (Hector and his ball) around naked men. The lady did kindly tell her husband to go and get Hector to spare me my blushes. He obviously had limits to. Taking care to moderate my language, I recalled Hector in my own unique way. Took a while though. I had the uncomfortable feeling that Hector only came back because Mr Nudist wasn’t that much fun hiding behind a rock now.
This time, instead of being stared at in my efforts of getting an objecting Hector off the beach, I thought I was going to be applauded. It was not the first time Mr Nudist has seen me and Hector on this beach, but I think it will definitely be the last. It will not be us that won’t be coming back either.
As a note to this Tail. It is not illegal for one to sunbathe nude on Jersey beaches, so long as you are causing no offence to the rest of the general public. It has to be asked why this man chose such a popular beach to indulge in his past time. The police have already been down to this beach about this man. Not that I could help them in describing his face! I know everyone has the right to walk/sunbathe/tango unmolested by people and their uncontrollable dogs. One of those occasions Hector went where Angels dare to tread. I think the general public were grateful to Hector on this occasion.
Sunday, 2 May 2010
Ok, here we go........after much prompting and encouragement I have actually started up a blog about my pride and passion. Weimaraners that have graced my life, past, present and hopefully future
That's Hector above
This is Tilly (below)
Oh, I almost forgot to introduce you to "daddy" as well....
See now why I am so proud and lucky !
I think that is more than enough for this technophobe on one day and I will start editing and posting my stories, views and daily torments tomorrow.
Hope you will be joining me and welcome....