Stormy stormy shire

Not normally a fan of getting cold or wet, Mrs Bitey nonetheless had a riotous time this weekend getting soaked to the skin in a very stormy shire.

The key ingredient was a gale force wind. As I have blogged before, blustery wind seems to hype up Mrs B and most of her canine compatriots.

Saturday was pretty wet and very windy but between showers, we managed a good romp around on Rodborough Common. We were in a minority. Only a few were out and about and it was blissful to be able to run around without the frosty stares of townie weekenders and their designer dogs- not a doodle or a poo in sight. A hardy few KIAs in study waterproof were rustling briskly, too cold to stop for the imparting of wisdom thankfully. One particularly amusing sight was a lovely black labrador who decided to leap into a cattle trough, ignoring the anguished cries of his owner, and sat defiantly in the water, only his head visible, enjoying the view and having a nice bath, despite the extremely cold blasts of wind. Rather him than me.

Sunday was another ballgame. The car rocked in the gale force wind and rain lashed against the car windows so hard that visibility was virtually impossible. Mrs B was undeterred and leapt out of the car, head first into a very deep puddle. However, after a cursory flap of her ears and shake down, she spotted her beloved ball on a rope and was jumping up and down making very insistent barks that I just throw the bloody thing.

The wind was savage. It battered against my hood rendering hearing anything else impossible. The rain was of the sideways, violent variety, stinging my skin and soaking my ‘waterproof’ jacket to a mere tissue of slack, soggy material stuck to my skin. I could feel my jumper soaking up the excess, my trousers were saturated and there was that cold drip of rainwater down the back of my neck. I abandoned the hood as it was not going to stay on my head and was in fact more hindrance than help. In fact, it’s fair to say that I bore more than a passing resemblance to the bathing labrador without going to the trouble of actually jumping into a trough.

Mrs B was keeping up a merry front, enthusiastically chasing after the ball and ducking and diving around the larger puddles. At one point the ball landed in an, until recently dry, dew pond, but she gamely waded in to fetch it without complaint. The wind blew her off of her paws several times but she was still able to show off her signature manoeuvre, the launch with all four feet off terra firma, a couple of times.

Apart from a couple of male KIAs and a daft townie bint in stiletto boots trying to stay upright and hold an umbrella, failing spectacularly on the latter, there was nobody about. Anyone with an ounce of common sense was tucked up in the warm at home.

We trudged and played ball for almost half an hour, me hunched against the blasting gusts, Mrs B slip sliding in mud, getting filthier by the second. The weather was unrelenting and it steadily got worse. The sting of the rain had blinded me with watery tears, I couldn’t hear a bloody thing and the common took on a whole new dimension when slick with mud and torrents of water rolling down the sides.

Amid all this extremis, there was only one thing left to do. I threw back my head and laughed hysterically. Once I started, I could not stop. Mrs B stopped to look at me with a quizzical look which melted into the dawning realisation of just how vile the conditions were, and turned on her heels, charging back to the car as fast as her little legs would carry her. She didn’t glance back once and neither did I as I half ran, half staggered behind her.

Once in the shelter of the car, wrapped in towels and stinking to high heaven of mud, rain and wet fur, both Mrs B and I had clouds of steam rising from our bodies. The whole car fogged up and so we sat in companionable silence with the heater on full blast, listening to the Archers omnibus and rocking gently in the wind, waiting for the steam to lift before heading home to dry out properly

The Know It All

One of the most formidable characters in the dog walking world is the Know It All. Every dog community has at least one. They are usually middle aged women who have devoted their lives to all things dog. My worst fear is that I will become one myself in time.

The KIA is invariably a stout, ruddy cheeked no-nonsense type. She (or the very occasional he) pays no concession to fashion and instead is bedecked in sensible, sturdy clothes designed to withstand extreme climates for decades. These are the kind of indestructible, heavyweight rambler wear that Army surplus shops sold in the 1970s (and are certainly in a different league to the micro fibre, high-tech apparel of modern times). Such dog walking wear, true to its 1970s origins, are always brown, mustard, urine yellow or slime green. Under layers are hand crocheted affairs and maroon cords. A padded body warmer and matching kagoul provide top layer coverage. All have a pervading smell of rubber and wet dog. A prominent dog whistle is usually slung around the neck. A windblown hair style with a home cut fringe and a pair of owl like glasses finish off the look.

The KIA is always prepared. A bulging bum bag stuffed with stinky tripe treats, poo bags, a spare dog whistle, tennis balls and other indeterminable dog accoutrements, is slung from the waist ready to be pressed into action when required.

The KIA can also be spotted by their car. The car of choice is practical, sensible and purchased only on the merits of its suitability and accessibility for the dog. No concessions are made for style, speed, performance, efficiency or reliability. The rear window is plastered with dog stickers usually advertising membership of an extreme dog training and discipline club, along with the more routine ‘dog on board’ and ‘a dog is for life not just for Christmas’ affairs. The interior of the car is usually made up of easy wipe plastic surfaces, a dog crate or guard made of industrial strength steel and some ancient mustard coloured velour and vinyl seat covers that can be easily hosed down or withstand frequent boil washes. The glovebox is likely to contain an AA handbook from 1987, a bag of humbugs, extra poo bags and a cling filmed wrap of dog biscuits. On the road, the car will be parked at a jaunty angle to the curb, off-road the car will be parked bang in the middle of a space that could easily accommodate 3 cars if parked properly.

The KIA is an ever-present figure who is all-seeing and knowing. Little slips under the radar and any sniff of bad behaviour from human or dog is always rooted out within minutes. The KIA is the one that always spots Mrs B having an unscheduled poo on the one occasion that I am the far side of the park and have forgotten to put a bag in my pocket. This has, thankfully, only happened about twice and before I had a chance to dutifully troop back to the car to get a bag, I found myself being scrutinised aggressively by a disgruntled KIA, hands on hips, rustling in a slime green padded body warmer. Nothing was said but the body language spoke volumes about my piss poor pre walk preparation and badly trained terrier.

The KIA can always be relied upon to give unsolicited advice and information at length. It is one way traffic conversation whereby you are expected to listen intently without interrupting or offering up an opinion or challenge. Quite a bit of KIA’s advice is incorrect or out of date. It often has the merits of feeding your pet raw offal as a theme or the other hardy favourite topic of dog training. The KIA is still very much rooted in the Barbara Woodhouse school of dog training i.e. you WILL sit and I WILL half strangle you with your choke chain until you do!- Understandably, KIA’s dog(s) are ultra well-behaved, presumably because they have been choke chained to within a whisker of death if they dare not sit when told. The KIA has a loud, booming voice akin to a Regimental Sergent Major on the parade ground. This is quite handy in the fog as it acts as a marker point but does have the draw back of being audible within a 3 mile radius.

The dog is usually a hardy no-nonsense breed to match its owner. The odd retired greyhound may have joined the flock but the usual gang of KIA dogs include collies, pointers and the like. KIA will of course have encyclopaedic knowledge of the breed characteristics, ailments, breeding history, and merits of flea and worming treatments as well as be on first name terms with all of the local vets and dog trainers.

Mrs Bitey does not like KIA types. They are usually dismissive of small terriers and immune to cute but manipulative charm. Mrs B does not the loud, brisk and curt manner of the KIA and certainly does not take kindly to being forced to sit, lie down or behave on command. Instead, Mrs B usually decides to reinforce the KIA’s preconceived prejudices of Jack Russells by being as loud and lairy as possible whilst cocking a very deaf ear to any commands.

We were confronted by a KIA on the common this morning. She stood, legs astride, hands on hips in the middle of the last remaining parking space and resentfully moved about an inch when I made it clear that I was intending to park up. She was anxiously awaiting my decamp from the car as she clearly had some news or wisdom to impart. She’d underestimated how quick we can hop out of the car, (especially since my op as the threat of an ill placed paw bang in the middle of my wound is an incentive to move bloody fast), and was momentarily distracted.

Mrs Bitey legged it as fast as her paws would carry her.

I tried to scuttle away too but just as I rounded a bush and thought I’d cleared the car park unscathed, a voice boomed:

“YOU THERE. YES YOU! YOUR VALUABLES! DO NOT LEAVE THEM ON SHOW! THERE’S A THIEF ABOUT!”

I nodded an acknowledgement, made a not very witty comment about there being nothing worth nicking in my car and kept walking.

“BY THE WAY, IT WAS A HANDBAG THIEF, IT HAPPENED HERE ONLY AN HOUR AGO TO A FRIEND OF MINE. I WAS THE FIRST ON SCENE”

And itching to have a captive audience to report back to in detail no doubt.

Well it wasn’t going to be me. Thankfully a Skoda estate full of barking boxers and a fellow KIA at the wheel shuddered into the car park so I cheerily said “What fucking thieving bastards there are about today!” As the shock at my profanities began to subside, the newly arrived KIA pitched up eager for the latest news in dogland and so the original KIA gave up on me for a more grateful audience. I waved a thanks and beat a hasty retreat.

Without getting any unwanted advice I hasten to add