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 !”

AWOL (again)

Today’s events neatly sum up Mrs Bitey.

We walked the common land early, the sun was up and there were very few souls around. It was so still and peaceful that I found myself slipping into a lull listening to my boots squelching along in the muddy grass- it was really quite hypnotic and I felt at one with the world.

Mrs B was hopping about, sniffing, pausing to look around, having a run… in short just being herself.

Then looming on the horizon we spotted her Nemesis – another terrier she had a nasty scrap with back last summer. The owner was even worse and had sent me a very poisonous threatening letter – I’d apologised profusely and paid the vet fees for her dog to be checked over but clearly that wasn’t enough.

A rematch was the last thing that I wanted so we detoured to the very edge of the common- BIG mistake. There is a small copse of trees clinging perilously to the side of the steepest part of the hill. In places it is practically a sheer drop. Wooded areas are not good news for me as they offer endless scope for hunting and adventure for Mrs B.

I reached out to grab her but was too late- she’d spotted a squirrel or bird or possibly just a stray leaf and took to her heels. Her ears shut down in that infuriating terrier selective hearing way and that was it for 20 minutes.

The 20 minutes I could live with, the climbing down to find her and the state of her when she emerged grinning from under a bush I could not.

She was triumphant and sans collar, harness and half of one of her back claws. The claw had needed a trim I guess. The nearly new harness, posh collar and matching tag remain at large and I can only imagine that somewhere a squirrel has donned the collar, is using the harness as a hammock and wearing the claw hung from a string round its neck as a necklace (thanks Neil for that last unforgettable image!).

The silver lining is that it means that the new Halti will be pressed into service tomorrow.

Can’t wait.

Nan

The old saying about not judging a book by its cover has some wisdom behind it and although I like to think that I don’t judge, I do so frequently-  as does the rest of the world. I’m just honest enough to admit it.

So on first glance, Nan looked like a archetypal little sweet old lady. A tinge of blue rinse, sensible winterwear and two long haired tiny terriers, each sporting a matching snug coat. One was yapping non stop and was able to sniff, wee and jog about while in mid yap. Mrs Bitey had a vague sniff but didn’t pay a lot of attention to them as she was busy with vital squirrel observation duties.

Nan said hello and paused to chat about the usual elderly chat top topics: weather, time of year etc.

Another Dog Park regular, Fang, a scary looking but very soppy Alsatian was in the distance with his owner Sandie. Mrs B likes Fang as much as she likes any dog, i.e. not a lot but tolerates his presence, and Sandie is lovely and knows Mrs B well so there were no worries of a Tricky nature.

Nan gestured her head at Mrs B and asked “Is ‘e friendly?” She then peered at Fang in the distance, “what abat ‘im?” before appearing to anxiously glance down at her 2 terriers. I found myself burbling on in a gushing reassuring manner about how lovely Fang is and how well behaved he is etc.

Nan looked unconvinced and then piped up “Pity. I was ‘oping ‘e’d ‘ave that noisy one and teach ‘er a lesson! I ‘ate ‘er, she’s a facking COW!”

It’s hard to explain the tone of voice in which the word COW was spat out. It was more like a drawn out CAAHH really and was spiked with OAP venom.

Stunned is not the word. With my chin(s) resting somewhere near to my toes, I nodded mutely as Nan told me about how she had lost her beloved Rottweiler and was now walking the terrier pair regularly for a friend. “It’s not the same” she sniffed, “Especially wiv that noisy facking COW. I ‘ate her”.

It was like meeting Nan from the Catherine Tate show and I found myself casually glancing around for a camera crew.

I bade Nan a hasty farewell as Mrs Bitey was starting to size up the Yappy COW in a vaguely menacing way and I didn’t share the prospect of a dismembered Yappy COW in the same vein as Nan did.

As a parting shot, Nan told me…

“My friend’s got two of them little ‘uns an’ all, them chawawa fings. Don’t even get me started on them little fackers…”

I didn’t