thunder and lightning is very frightening

As if the persistant rain was not enough to deal with, the past week or so has also dished up hail, thunder and lightning. Mrs B is not impressed- and I’m not that thrilled either.

Mrs Bitey likes to give the impression of being a real ruffy tuffy. However, like most loud and lairy tough types, she is more noise than substance and the posturing and growling is invariably a front to disguise being afraid.

Loud bangs such as fireworks tend to wind her up and provoke her into barking and growling. Her back bristles a bit but the tail wags furiously and she seems to take the noise as being an invitation to make her presence known to the world. Thunder on the other hand, is a totally different ball game. She does not even try to be lairy, but instead curls into a submissive half moon with her tail over her bum, ears back and a mournful expression on her face. She will cuddle up tightly to any human that happens to come near her and does not make a sound. Thankfully she is able to contain her fear and seek comfort from human company, unlike my poor previous dog who became semi hysterical and would dart in blind panic looking for somewhere safe to hide.

I’m not keen on thunder myself and was terrified of it as a kid. As I got older, it bothered me less but the very loud and heavy stuff does still make me duck and cover. A couple of years ago, I witnessed the most dramatic and scary storm whilst on holiday in Italy. The storm lasted hours as it endlessly rolled around the mountains. The thunder did not rumble- it crashed and boomed like bombs going off. There were endless explosions of noise and light which lit up my room despite two sets of shutters and thick curtains. I’m pretty sure that the villa got struck at one point although didn’t care to venture out of bed to investigate further. I think Mrs B would have required full scale sedation – I know I verged on the need for it myself.

The only good thing about thunder is that it works wonders with Mrs B’s recall. We were on the common last week and the Bitey one was completely fixated with bunny hunting to the point where I started to think that she’d forgotten that I was there. It started to rain but this had no apparent effect upon the transfixed terrier. The wind picked up noticably but again, this did not faze Mrs B in the slightest. However, a single and rather dramatic crack of thunder had the instant effect of propelling Mrs B back to me full throttle. She didn’t even look for her reward such was her haste to hurl herself into the car.

It’s not a sight I’d like to see often but I was quite glad of it that day. Mrs B may, with the benefit of hindsight, also now see that the storm clouds had a silver lining of sorts- in the drama of the moment I forgot to stash her treats back in the glovebox and so using the noisy thunder as cover, Mrs B very silently and slowly stuck her head into the bag and ate the bloody lot.

It’s raining dogs

I didn’t realise how dry the weather had been – until a hosepipe ban was instituted and the day after, it pissed down with rain and I couldn’t find a single towel in the car to dry Mrs Bitey with.

Since the ban began, it has been non stop rain of course and probably will continue in similar vein until October. It really has been tiresome although I suspect that the prospect of water rationing or having to use stand pipes in the street are far worse.

The thing that never fails to amaze me is how wet Mrs B gets. She is short of leg and body, has a thin smooth coat and runs like the wind, so how she can get soaked to the skin so quickly and thoroughly remains a mystery. Rivulets form in her fur where the water has channelled, her thin fur seems to absorb rain water like a sponge and her ears get water logged to the point of resembling seaweed.

A second canine wonder is how something so small can smell so badly when wet. There are few persistant stenches that are worse at penetrating fabric and remaining in the immediate airspace than Wet Dog. In fact the only ponk that comes close is the time when my old car had an accidental bath in the Thames and forever smelt of dank river water whenever I switched the fan on. Ugh.

A final aspect is that of cooperation with drying off post walk. Mrs B has not really mastered this particular attribute consistantly and will do one of two things. The most common behaviour when wet is to wriggle away from being dried with a towel to roll on something else more appealling to her such as clean bedsheets, the back seat of the car, on a white rug etc although there are rare, and usually very public, displays of extremely cute behaviour where she will will sit wrapped in a towel bearing a strong resemblance to Yoda from Star Wars, sans green ears of course.

The one bonus is that squirrel/ rabbit/ fox/ womble hunting is kept to a minimum with only an emergency response service in operation. I am eternally grateful for this as the prospect of sheltering under a tree for hours really isn’t the greatest.

And on that note, it’s time to dig out some clean towels for the car because the area forecast is not looking good.

Take a break

In the past 10 days, Mrs Bitey and I have covered a fair few miles- travelling from south to north and back and to the west. We’ve clocked up about 1300 miles and have spent many merry hours in the car. Mrs B (thankfully!) enjoys motoring as long as she’s had a run beforehand, and inevitably curls up on the seat next to me and goes to sleep once we hit the motorways. Stop start journeys or routes that involve favourite Bitey places (over the common, across the moors etc) are more restless affairs and she makes it very clear when she wants to get out.

She is a pleasant enough passenger (or should that be pawsenger?) especially on long trips as periodically, she will nose my hand when it rests on the gearstick, just to remind me that she’s there. In traffic, she likes to be standing up against the door, snout in the air, checking out what’s going on around her. She is more intolerant of traffic queues than I am (and that’s saying something) and will often emit a frustrated squeak in the hope that this will magically speed up the snake of traffic ahead – if only….

One annoying factor of long distance driving is the unpredictability of service areas and the paradox of being urged to take regular breaks when tired- only to be at the mercy of greedy, tyrannical parking ‘management’ companies who pounce with excessive fines for overstaying a barely full car park by a minute or so when you do decide to stop awhile. Facilities for dogs at such places vary from meagre to nonexistent.

Let’s be clear here. I am not asking for 5* facilities for Mrs Bitey. Read on and see what you think- it’s not a huge set of demands is it?

Even stations that boast their Kennel Club approved facilities are pretty dire as these usually consist of a token dog water bowl, which is either empty or full of leaves, grit or litter, and a poster warning motorists that dogs can die in hot cars. There’s no reliable or convenient place (let alone anywhere in the shade) to anchor a lead so that travelling humans can go inside to use the loo or splash out on an overpriced coffee or undercooked burger without fear of Houdini pooches like Mrs B finding a way of breaking free. Looking for a grassy ablutions spot is usually problematic as many places only have a tiny verge perilously close to a slip road, and if there is grass easier to access, it’s usually a play area or picnic site which is not exactly the best place to be scented with dog piss of a million varieties. The best service area that I have come across is the glamorous M18 Doncaster North Services which sports a small lake with a reasonable amount of open grassy space. It’s not brilliant but it is the best dog friendly motorway stop en route to and from my regular North Yorkshire Moors jaunts- although sadly they can’t seem to get to grips with providing a clean and filled water bowl and a shady dog park hook either.

The costs of ensuring that water bowls have fresh water, installing some dog park hooks into the existing myriad of bollards and pavement furniture and ensuring that a couple are sited out of direct sunlight are not massive. Roping off a bit of grass for a dog loo or laying a roll of turf is a drop in the ocean when compared the revenue that service stations rake in from franchises, parking fines and the like. It is not rocket science to reach the same conclusion that 99% of dog owners have about dogs preferring to relieve themselves on a bit of grass rather than tarmac or concrete. It is all too easy to stick up a poster proclaiming that heat kills but not actually do anything to make it easier and more accessible for owners so that they don’t have to leave their dogs in a hot car in the first place.

Service station operators of course have a captive market. Most of the time, stopping at one of them is the only option. Yes, there is always the choice to get off the motorway to seek somewhere better, but the majority of folk don’t do that, as decent rest areas on A and B roads are rarer than rocking horse shit and unless you know the area, the chances are that you are not going to risk a potentially lengthy detour to search so will instead reluctantly trundle into the service station knowing that you will get ripped off with nasty, overpriced food, divisive car parking rules and nowhere for your furry friend to get a drink, have a wee or sit in the cool while you run the gauntlet inside.

We are supposed to be a nation of animal lovers. Actions speak louder than words so why don’t our service stations lead the way in showing the love???

human or dog?

Apologies for the unexpected absence last week or so has been that classic combination of having too much to do and just not enough time or energy to do it in. Thankfully we also had a wonderful break in North Yorkshire for Easter for well needed tlc.

Mrs B disgraced herself in multiple episodes whilst t’up north including bolting from the lead to chase sheep and a fight with the host dog. Thankfully we have been forgiven and no major damage was done.

However, it does make me think more seriously that Mrs B has an identity crisis. I really am starting to think that she thinks that she is human, albeit a small 4 legged furry human.

Her love of humans is undeniable. She adores human company and actively seeks it. She also knows exactly how to behave to maximise human attention and devotion. She can flirt effortlessly and charm even the hardest of hearts. All of this is great- unless you are a dog.

Other dogs are treated with utter contempt and disdain. Sometimes Bitey doesn’t even bother with the social niceties of sniffing and instead cuts to the chase with a warning ‘fuck off’ growl which, unless checked, quickly accelerates to full scale scrapping within minutes. Owners that laugh off my warnings or insist on letting their dog ‘make friends’ really do piss me off as my stress levels shoot up, which in turn gives Mrs B the emotional equivalent of attack warning red. Trying to stay cool and nonchalant in the face of a potential fight is extremely difficult to do.

So a vicious circle of anxiety and increased arousal has formed and it’s bloody hard to break. I think that a doggy shrink consultation is required as this is a no win situation that just gets owner and dog into a flap. I’ve resisted thus far on the basis that time is a good leveller – but in this case I think that enough is enough. Watch this space…

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.

Carry on camping

Snobsville Common is a well known cruising spot for gay men and evidence of this is usually pretty obvious early in the morning. I don’t have a problem with men, women or beasts having a shag al fresco but I do wish they’d put their used condoms and wrappers in the bin on their way home. Summer is coming and I want to be able to wear my flipflops without fear of treading in something sticky and rubbery.

I met a very jolly chap the other morning who’d taken the evening cruise to a whole new level- he’d parked up his campervan overnight for various nocturnal adventures in the car park – with the doors literally opening out into the graveyard, the preferred area for full on fun so I’m told as it offers quite a bit of privacy among the gravestones and bushes.

This chap, who was, it must be said, not in the first flush of youth was certainly flushed with something and had that exhausted but triumphant look on his face as he walked his lovely little dog, a Beagle/Jack Russell cross. The dog seemed nonchalant about it all and apparently spent the night fast asleep on the front seat of the van blissfully unaware or frankly indifferent of proceedings going on next door.

I was asked for rather a lot of detailed directions to a certain part of a heath near to Dulwich which apparently offers similar activities. Alas, my A-Z knowledge does not extend to that particular part of London but I was able to give directions to the South Circular and suggested following the signs East from there.

The happy camper had recently retired from a carer job, bought the van and was planning a grand trip of the UK to see the sights- although I’m not sure that the sights he was seeing would necessarily be listed in Lonely Planet. But who am I to judge and it was nice to see a cheery face at that time of the morning. He’d clearly had a night to remember and who or what floats folks’ boats is none of my business and not a problem for me – as long as it’s legal and consensual I really don’t care.

And tidying up used johnnies afterwards is always a plus.

I’ve always wanted a VW campervan and Mrs B would love it. However, I don’t think she nor I would be up for a UK wide shag tour- not unless the lovely Dominic West from the Wire is free for a couple of weeks…

Walkies

Change is afoot at Snobsville Common. I spotted a large, official looking laminated sign prominently displayed in the car park this morning. As it looked important, I took a quick look see to find out what it was all about.

It seems that the council have decided to institute a by law prohibiting one person from walking more than four dogs at one time. This clearly is a measure to prohibit the vast numbers of dog walking companies who use the common – and as my previous entries have mentioned, are often a real nuisance.

I have mixed views about the whole professional dog walking business. On one hand, my own experience of using the lovely Laura in the shire was really good. Mrs Bitey loved her and they had great times together. However, I think the reason why Laura is so brilliant is because she clearly adores dogs and has very clear boundaries of taking small numbers of our canine friends and making sure that they have a wonderful time. She runs her own business and has a very clear aim to focus on a personal service which has quality at its heart- as she does not compromise on this ideal, she sometimes turns away work as a result. That is something that I really respect.

On the other hand, especially up here in Snobsville, we have the larger companies who have identified dog walking as being a particularly rich cash cow to milk. These companies seem to provide a dull, soulless experience with no real personal care or interest. They take too many dogs and are unable to maintain control. They have no sense of community duty or spirit other than to pick up the odd bit of dog poo. The dogs are herded in a pack and there is little energy or affection. Most of the time the dogs are left to their own devices while the walkers sit around with takeaway coffees having a fag.

Only this week I watched a dog walker with too many charges and not enough time park up to offload some of them for a run. The result was 6 small and boisterous dogs running around her and another 3 panting and whining with anticipation sat in the van. She darted from dog to dog bagging up poo and did not get beyond the car park.

I think she was planning to load them all back into the van and let the other 3 out (it was early in the day and nobody bar me and Mrs B were about). I was sitting on a gravestone waiting patiently for my intrepid squirrel hunter to return silently watching and thinking that owners were paying at least £20 per dog for this ‘service’. Just as she started to lift the first dog back into the van, Mrs B appeared wagging and flushed with the joys of hunting and the startled walker heard my voice and spotted me getting up from my perch with Mrs B in tow. The dog who was in the process of being loaded into the van was hastily deposited back onto the floor and the walker rounded up the pack and scuttled off looking sheepish. The 3 other dogs remained in the van, and were by now barking furiously with frustration.

So any measures that curb this kind of exploitation of animals and the faith of their owners can only be a good thing. However, there are some owners who come to the common who actually own more than 4 dogs- so what happens to them?

Julie and Ron live near to me and have a rag, tag and bobtail collection of little dogs of all ages. They foster rescue dogs as well as having their own pets and in all there are usually about 6 of them. Both Julie and Ron have a ‘past’ and a reputation locally for various dodgy pursuits but since I’ve had Mrs B I’ve got to know them and they are very friendly and caring, particularly in relation to all things of a doggy nature. They visit the common about 4 times a day taking it in turns and are held in very high regard by all of the locals who use the common. Old Aristo can often be seen in animated chatter with them, striding along bellowing about beasts and cadging a sneaky fag from Julie. Their dogs are lovely, far better behaved than Mrs B and whether its Julie or Ron in charge, they keep a watchful eye on their pack.

Another couple who have less of a past and more of a heritage like Old Aristo also foster dogs and have a large gaggle bouncing around them. Old Aristo, who is very scornful of dog walking companies, was at great pains to tell me that the barbour toting rust coloured corduroy trousered couple were *not* to be mistaken for ‘these dreadful company people’. The Cords are the polar class opposite of Ron and Julie and yet all are united by the love of their animals and can often all be seen trotting along together. Given the strict divisions in the dog park, it is really rather heartwarming to see this.

Worryingly this may all come to an end though as the by law does not specify dog walking companies or individuals being paid to walk dogs. It simply says no more than 4 dogs at one time. Excluding and prosecuting the likes of Ron, Julie and the Cords will serve no purpose and the walking companies will simply go elsewhere. Dogs of course have no way of telling us what is going on and so some of these companies have a perfect opportunity to mistreat and shortchange both dogs and owners.

So what is the solution? To me, proper licensing and registration is the way forward. We would not leave our children with an unregulated and unknown person so why is it ok to do this with our dogs?