Pets

Listening to: The Spaniels – Everyone is laughing and Stormy weather

Have you ever wondered why it is that we all so desperately want to have a pet? I get it, I really do, animals are nice, but really…actually having a pet?

As a child, I clearly remember heading down to Davy the Plank’s workshop with my grandfather. My grandfather was pretty good at woodwork and building things, so could often be found doing bits and pieces there. One particular day, he was using the circular saw, when distracted by his dog, he ran his finger through it. In a big splash of red, his finger was ripped, removed and fired into the air by the spinning blade. As it arced across the piles of sawdust, the dog jumped up and caught it. My grandfather, cursing like fury and dripping blood, chased after the dog to get his finger back, but did not catch it in time to stop the dog eating his finger. With his hand wrapped in a hanky, he and Davy debated waiting for the dog to poop it out so they could take it to the hospital and see if it could be re-attached. This plan was eventually abandoned and he headed off for repairs. How good was it to have a pet then, eh?

Family of Willox Dixon thought it would be a great idea to get tropical fish, but anyone who has had fish will know what daft idea that was. Cost me a fortune. The fish kept dying, every day was spent trying to get the water clear, checking the PH, checking the ammonia levels and the temperature, and the room looking like a pharmacy with so many potions and fluids for the tank. Lets be honest, the tank was more relaxing to look at before the fish went in, but you can’t sit staring at an empty fish tank seemingly.

Now, cats. As I have already mentioned my own experiences with the cat were not all entirely successful, but to avoid bias, let me recount the tale of a pal of mines, who wanted to help out the poor mangy stray in his garden. He had a particularly spoiled cat himself, and on seeing a poor, unhealthy looking stray living under his shed, he called the Cat Protection League or some other secret paramilitary organisation – Mossad or the Masons or something. Anyway, they gave him a trap and said all you need is a bowl of sardines in tomato sauce (cats are mad for that seemingly) and stick it in the cage trap. When the cat goes for the sardines, crash of door and Bob’s your uncle. The trap was cunningly set up, and a crash followed by terrible yowling was heard. Rushing out to the cage, it was his own cat going nuts in the cage. The CPL assured him, that “cats are really smart. Your cat will know better now”. The trap accordingly re-set, the crash of the door and no yowling. Rushing out, he found his own cat sitting happily in the cage, tomato sauce all over its face waiting to be let out. Clearly it had learned a lesson.

Now I appreciate that not animals are like this. In Shetland, the doctor can now give you a prescription to talk to a Shetland Pony for mental health issues. Great, but let’s face it, horses either bite you or fart in your face. Ok, a pony, it might struggle to get your face, but you get my point. Worse still, what if the pony replies? Did you see the article about Flirty the care horse that got an aisle seat on an internal flight in America, as it was a care horse? How does that work, did they give it an in-flight snack? Could it fit in the toilet?

The reason for my diatribe on pets is really because of that bloody dog, Dog of Willox Dixon. Initially wife of Willox Dixon didn’t want a dog, then it became, only if it is medium sized…short hair… doesn’t jump about and not too energetic…well trained… So what did she insist we got, a Springer Spaniel. I suppose it is a medium size but that is pretty much the only box it ticks. In fact, one of the game keepers here told me that Labradors arrive half trained, but Springers leave half trained.

Wife of WD announced we would have to take it to puppy training and we obviously meant me. We arrived and lined up hopefully with the other puppies and owners. Very quickly it became clear that our dog had difficulty with English, so we shifted to Gaelic and then just bad language. Nothing helped much, not even the threat of feeding it to the Newfoundland ‘pup’ that bore a very close resemblance to a grizzly. At the end of the training course, we all lined up and certificates were distributed- Best Trained Dog, Most improved Dog, Smartest Dog. Our certificate said Most Effort! That is not even a real certificate, it was written in crayon as well. Dog didn’t care too much as she just ate it.

I could tell you of the ill-advised orienteering event and the accompanying unfortunate incident with the dog and a poo bag, but I still can’t entirely halt the gag reflex. However, yesterday was sufficiently bad to make my point very clearly.

The poor dog had an infection of some sort and was put on antibiotics. Giving her the pills was no problem, she just thought they were snacks. Unfortunately though, the vet insisted on a urine sample. “How in hell do I get that?” asked I. “With great difficulty” replied the vet helpfully, and handed me a test tube. So , come morning, I am having to follow the dog round and when she looked like she was going to perform, I had to stick a cup under her. Now apart from obviously being shy about going in front of an audience, her face was quite the picture of indignation as she wondered what I was doing. Having said that, she looked more indignant when the vet took her temperature. I will confess that I was tempted to fill the test tube myself.

That night I couldn’t sleep, probably worrying about the results of my, sorry, the dog’s urine test. About 3.30 am, I decided to give up and take the dog a walk. After checking there was no cup, she seemed happy to go. We set off for the field and the steep, muddy, bank that leads up to the field and woods near by. The dog is not so great on the lead so I let her off before approaching the bank. As I very gingerly walked up the banking, the dog came hurtling past and knocked me over, flat on my face in the mud, and I slid back down to the bottom. Standing up, I was coated in mud, although very relieved to learn I wasn’t blind, just having lost my glasses in the mud. I gingerly walked up the bank again. I put my foot down, and unfortunately found my glasses. As I tried to push the legs back into a position where they would still actually hang on my ears, I lost my balance, falling backwards, flat out on the bank and sliding through the mud to the bottom. Wife of Willox Dixon showed little sympathy when I arrived home totally coated in mud, and no, taking a torch or a phone would have made no difference at all.

I am happy to inform you that the mangy stray cat is now happy and healthy living in a cat retirement home in the far east, somewhere near Buckie, and dog has recovered from her infection.