That was the week that was

It’s been a series of late nights this week with events that range from the routine (board meeting) to the surreal (a speed awareness course after getting nicked on the A3) so there has been little free time to attend to the blog unfortunately.

Mrs B had an overnight stay with one of her aunties and spent last night keeping the security guard company while I waded through paper at the board. True to form, Mrs B flirted outrageously with the security man before curling up on his lap for the evening.

Because the week has been out of sync with her usual routine, I was expecting Mrs B to be a bit naughty by pushing the boundaries, especially when out and about. However, she has, so far, stuck to the rules of squirrel hunting and returning within a reasonable timeframe – 30 mins is her longest stint away since the Old Aristo silent regime began.

I decided upon a leap of faith and went to Wimbledon Common on the way to my meeting on Thursday night. Previous excursions there were hair raising affairs involving hours of running off (Mrs B) and shouting until hoarse (me). So it was with a certain amount of trepidation that I let the wee beastie loose. And would you believe it, she didn’t let me down and was back with her lead on half an hour later.

Probably the funniest moment of the week was last night when we went to Snobsville Common later in the evening than usual. Although it was still daylight, there were 4 cruisers already prowling the graveyard looking for a bit of outdoor action. Their disappointment was palpable when the heavy panting and rustling in the bushes turned out to be Mrs B in hot pursuit of a rat. The attempts of two of the cruisers to ‘act normal’ and pretend to be absorbed in the surrounding nature or try to kid me that they’d wandered into the graveyard just to light a fag had me in silent hysterics. One in particular who was intently staring at the bark of a tree had bad teeth, a not very realistic wig perched on his pate and clearly had a canoe in his pocket. Or something like that.

Thankfully Mrs B sussed that we were as welcome as a condom seller in the vatican and curtailed her hunting quite quickly so that we could get home and leave the chaps to it.

The forgotten?

Mrs Bitey and I walked Squirrelmetropolis, the local disused graveyard, again this morning. Well, I walked it. Mrs B was busy terrorising the local squirrel population and ferreting around in the bushes. The early morning walk is now, thanks to our posh aristo friend, a small window of peace and reflection before the chaos of the day takes over. It’s nice to be able to wander physically and within my mind without the distraction of Mrs B going MIA anxiety. Of course, the risk remains live, but it’s been two weeks now and quite a good routine seems to be bedding in. I of course type this with my fingers crossed in vain hope that I have not spoken too soon.

One thing that facinates me in a meloncholic manner are all the old grave stones, the marker points of the long gone. Many stones are cracked or broken, lettering worn smooth, one statue is decapitated, some graves retaken by nature to the point where little remains beyond random bits of stone encircled and entangled in brambles.

I often wonder who these people were. A handful of graves show some signs of care but largely they are long neglected and forgotten. One particularly poignant grave is one for a small boy, parents presumably long gone and all memories extinguished, leaving only a tiny tattered stone as memorial.

I acknowledge one deceased resident each day. I do not know his name as it is worn beyond recognition and only an esquire remains. However, I greet my unknown sleeper each day as his grave serves as my observation post while waiting for a panting, excited Mrs B to emerge.

Good advice

You’d think that after almost 20 years of working in psychiatry, I’d use the experience gained along the way to understand and get a grip of Mrs Bitey’s ways. I try to, and I know that logically that my reactions and responses willl shape hers, but when the powerful emotions of love and being protective come into play, all objectivity goes out of the window.

So sometimes the advice of a stranger pointing out the bloody obvious is embarassing, but it does stick.

Mid week I took Mrs B to Snobsville Common instead of the dogpark for a change. I prefer the common (although its not in the same league as Rodborough Common) as there’s more wild and open space and it’s a small haven of peace and green. However, as there is an overgrown graveyard sheltered in Squirrelmetropolis Wood bang in the middle of it, it is frequently a backdrop for a wild goose chase starring Mrs B as the Terminator and me as the exasperated owner. This is fine when we have time but not when we don’t and the unpredictability of Mrs B means that it is usually ruled out as a venue for pre work walks.

However, as I’d woken up early, we unexpectedly had a bit more time on our hands and so off we went.

Mrs B of course disappeared instantly in hot pursuit of a tree rat and was not seen again. As long as I can hear her, I can get a rough idea of where she is so don’t tend to worry too much these days, but that morning the silence was deafening. As time ticked on, I started to call her and found my voice getting louder, harsher and adopting that anxious ‘where the fuck are you?’ quaver.

At this point, I stumbled across a sturdy, ruddy cheeked no nonsense elderly aristocrat. She had the dress sense, accent and manner of the Two Fat Ladies whose TV cooking programme used to consist of a lot of roaring around on a motorbike and quaffing gin before tottering into the kitchen to rattle up a slap up dinner which always seemed to have a whole venison, a bucket of full fat cream and 3 slabs of butter as staple ingredients.

Old Aristo regarded me keenly for a second before barking “What critter have you lost then?”

I gave a brief description of Mrs B, i.e. Jack Russell, all white body, brown ears, naughty, running free range etc.

After pausing to haul her lovely pointer into the boot of a huge mud splattered estate car, she squared up “Oh yes, we crossed paths with that one a few times ! Not surprised you can’t get her back- Can’t do a damn thing with Jack Russells ! Adorable of course but exceedingly bally naughty. And infernally noisy. We normally collect one on our travels but not seen him this morning. Not that I’m sorry. I can’t bear all that bally barking. Noisy little beasts. How you put up with it I don’t know !”

I asked her where she’d last seen Mrs B and she vaguely waved her hand in the direction of Squirrelmetropolis “All over the bally place my dear ! She kept popping up then racing off again”. Seeing my face fall, she adopted a kinder tone, “Don’t worry. She’ll pitch up soon enough. He [gesturing at her pointer] was an absolute BEAST when I first had him! Couldn’t do a bally thing with him ! But then someone told me a trick that works and I’ve never looked back.”

She leaned forwards confidentially to explain that “The beasts get all bally excited with it all. When they hear you calling them, it just makes them even worse. They pick up on the stress in your voice and are even more beastly! You just need to sit down somewhere quietly where she can easily find you and wait. Don’t make a peep of sound! Bring a book. Just wait and they come looking for you eventually. While they can hear you, they know you’re still around. Go quiet and they’ll get rattled and come looking for you!”

I explained that although I tried to do this, it was hard as I worried Mrs B would get lost, get into a fight or run into the road after a squirrel. Old Aristo paused to chew on this then advised sagely “You can’t stop a beast from a fight or a hunt and the road will always be a problem but a squirrel won’t run that far, it’ll just go up a tree. Damn sight quicker and safer. Just sit tight on that wall there just off the path there and wait. She’ll come”

Bang on cue Mrs B appeared panting and grinning madly. I called her and proffered a treat while I hooked her onto the lead. Old Aristo beamed at me, winked broadly at Mrs B and walloped me on the back, “All ends well! Try the silent approach next time my dear” , before waving off my thanks and getting into her car with a loud tally ho to the pointer.

Today we went back there and I put this advice into practice. It worked.

Funnily enough I also saw Old Aristo as well. She greeted me jovially as I was loading Mrs B back into the car and I told her that I’d followed her advice successfully.

“Always does!” she replied with a wink and a twinkle of her eye, “Always bally does !”

Houdini and the Halti pt II

Today was one of those fabulous winter days when the sun is shining and everything is bright and clear. There was no sub arctic temperatures to contend with, no pale, watery sun, no rain… in short, perfect walking weather.

Being in the Shire gives a lot more scope for walks and today was most definitely a Big Park day.

The Big Park is one of my favourite spots in the world which is why I’m not going to name it- some of you will know it anyway- as there are quite enough people trampling through it already.

Big Park is, as the name suggests, huge and runs down through a steep sided wooded valley. There’s a half built Victorian Gothic Mansion slap bang in the middle of it, an ice house, a boat house, 5 lakes and the remains of a quarry and some 18th and 19th century cottages. It also is home to some rare horseshoe bats. (Thank you Wikipedia).

On a more personal note, my mum played in the park and mansion when she was a kid as she lived near to one of the entrances. The mansion was abandoned for many years but because it was so isolated and remote in location, it thankfully did not get demolished, trashed or developed into luxury flats.

Mrs Bitey has been there before and loves it. A group of us walked the length of the valley and had a picnic mid point. As there was plenty of food about and Mrs B likes to be the centre of attention, she was free range off the lead but didn’t stray too far running and probably did double the distance at high speed. However, given recent Bad Behaviour, especially running off hunting, warning signs about sheep and also for my own sanity, I decided to keep her on the lead.

Big mistake no 1 was to use the short everyday lead. Granted it is more comfortable and lighter to use as I can hook it on my arm, but it did mean that Mrs B pulled like hell. She pulls on the extendable box lead too but not quite so much.

Big mistake no 2 was not starting with the Halti and fitting it on her at home. I am soft hearted so thought we’d start with the just about tolerated harness and keep the Halti in my pocket in case of heavy duty pulling.

Big mistake no 3 was walking past a field of Belted Galloway cows, a lovely breed I’ll freely admit, but ones that Mrs Bitey likes to chase and round up as they run quite fast.

As the pulling situation got worse, I decided to stick the Halti on. Mrs B was not happy at all and showed it. Thankfully the one thing that I did do right today was to clip the additional Halti safety link onto her collar.

Good job I did too as with a squirmy, wormy manoeuvre, two backward steps and a charge forward, Mrs Bitey has wriggled her way out of the Halti.

My first thought, after a lunging grab to prevent Mrs B from reenacting an episode of Rawhide, was that I’d put the Halti on wrong. Pilot error so to speak. So I refastened it, checked it, pulled the straps tighter still, checked it again and off we went.

30 seconds later after a second squirmy, wormy manoeuvre, the same thing happened. Further attempts yielded a similar outcome. In short Mrs B was in the Halti for about 30 seconds each time.

After 5 escape routines, I gave up. The harness was pressed back into service and it was time to be dragged. The first half a mile was the worst, requiring frequent changes of direction trying to correct her. Negotiating two sightings and a walk past of sheep was hard work. Thankfully there were no squirrel observations on the slippery steep bit or I’d have ended up in one of the lakes.

Just to add to the fun, there has been recent rumours of a ‘big cat’ roaming wild in the park after a semi eaten deer was found. Early on, there was a brief moment of defeated temptation to jettison the lead and let Mrs B risk being eaten by a tiger, panther or whatever but I did not give in and gradually, over time, Mrs Bitey settled down into a tolerable pace of mild pulling.

It seems that Mrs B is a terrier version of Houdini. She can get out of her harness and collar when stuck and makes easy work of the Halti- which was hurled into the back of the glove box and probably won’t see light of day until the garage next service my car and get the logbook out to stamp. It’s time to think of a new strategy. Ideas greatly welcomed…

Who ya gonna call? Ratbusters

My favourite tv series is the Wire. Don’t worry, I’m not going to go all Guardian reader media wanker about its merits and yes, there is a reason why it is being mentioned on a blog about a dog.

Butchie the blind bartender in the Wire has a little Jack Russell called Junk. We first meet both man and dog in a scene where Butchie and friends are in a dark alley betting whether Junk can catch a rat or not. Junk does so much to the chagrin of those who bet against him. Butchie, flush with his winnings exclaims “Junk sure does know his varmints!”

Mrs Bitey sure does knows her varmints too as demonstrated in a feat of sniffing skill this week.

An old friend of mine noticed a very nasty smell in the cellar of his house. He checked all of the assorted boxes and bags looking for the source of the smell and drew a blank. Despite more and more thorough searches, the smell remained and got stronger. I nipped in to see him yesterday and had Mrs Bitey with me. The upshot was that Mrs B was dispatched down to the cellar to hunt down the source of the smell.

Mrs B was in her element. She has a very strong hunting instinct and being able to follow this without sanction was very exciting for her. She went straight to a panel in the wall and sniffed like mad. She then did several circuits of the cellar, carefully checking out every corner, nook and cranny. However, the wall panel was like a magnet and she kept returning to it and indeed started pawing and scratching at it.

After gobbling down the reward of a biscuit, we left my friend wielding a screwdriver and a black plastic bag, psyching himself up to remove the panel. Strict instructions were left to update me of any finds.

An hour later and I got a call. Upon removal of the panel, my friend was greeted with the sight of a large, decomposing rodent corpse. It was the exact spot that Bitey had identified and I thanked my lucky stars that Mrs B had been unable to remove the panel herself as no doubt deader than Elvis rancid rotten rodent is a gourmet dish in dog world.

Mrs B was rightly very pleased with herself. As was I.

It got me thinking about why Jack Russells are not used as sniffer dogs at airports more often. They are small and agile, well able to squirm between bags and cases and a ride on a luggage carousel would be a great treat. They have very powerful noses and can sniff out things very accurately as Mrs B demonstrated.

Then I thought about it a bit more. Jack Russells are notoriously difficult to train and they are likely to be much happier searching for things that they actually want rather than what they’ve been trained to look for. I can imagine Mrs B bypassing a huge stash of smuggled coke because the suitcase next to it has sausages in it…

However, should roast chicken, sausages or dead rodents become illegal substances, then Mrs B is the one that the law should call upon.