I was out for a walk recently across the famous moor close to where I live, I realise that me walking, will come as a surprise to most people who know me, but according to my heart surgeon I am supposed to do it to aid some vascular do dah or something. So during the three quarters of an hour a month that the rain stops, I usually venture out. On this particular day I was sat on the first available bench, which was pretty much in the middle of nowhere, contemplating the runners and riders in that afternoons hunter chase at Wetherby when Offenbach loomed into view.
He had with him two dogs. I was quite shocked, they were obviously new acquisitions. Now Offenbach is a wealthy eye specialist and a pretty pedantry being, so I never actually saw him as a doggy person, with all that walking in bad weather, muddy paws on the furnishings and especially the pooper scooping. However I suppose a black Labrador and a West Highland terrier do enhance his country gent image. We chatted for some time whilst the dogs slavered all over my trousers, covered my raincoat with mud and left a nice urine smell on the legs of the bench. I thanked him for their attention and he then moved on.
Now you may have spotted that I am not a dog lover. My wife and I have had three cats, at separate times, throughout the duration of our marriage. These three creatures have kindly allowed us to wait on their every need over that period and in the case of the first two even gave me the added bonus of paying out huge vet bills but at least they have never required me to yomp miles over a frozen moor in sideways sleet, at ungodly times of day and night whilst requiring me to scoop their poop.
In the past I always felt that you were either a dog person or not a dog person and I would definitely have placed Offenbach in the latter. However he is the third of my friends of late to make me review my past convictions on this matter. The other two also have far greater reasons to not be in the dog loving camp.
Barry is a native of the town where I have lived for almost twenty years, he is my age and an ex rugby playing backpacker who twice circumnavigated the world before returning home to marry and raise a family. In his youth he courted a very straight laced daughter of one of the towns many respected upper middle class families. One day he called to see her at the elegant Victorian Villa where she lived with her parents. He rang the doorbell and her mother answered it resplendent in twin set and pearls. She left him standing in the doorway whilst she went along the hall to collect her daughter. At this precise moment the family's pet Jack Russell terrier torpedoed toward the open door leapt into the air and wrapped its jaws around Barry's testicles and there it hung. My friend folded into a silent scream like the Munch painting whereupon the dog dropped off and calmly trotted out of sight. The mother and daughter then reappeared to see their visitor standing there clutching a damp crotch, mouth open and eyes streaming. The look on their faces implied that explanations were a waste of time so he limped out of the girl's life forever. She apparently went on to marry a merchant banker and the mother, thereafter, forever crossed the road if she ever saw Barry in town. Sometimes she had the Jack Russell with her and Barry swears that it always grinned smugly at him. Now if that is not reason enough to shun anything canine for the rest of your days I know not what is, but recently Barry went out and purchased a Scottish terrier, go and figure.
The other friend confounding my theory is a magazine managing director and publisher who works in London, lives in his native Cambridgeshire, boats around the North Norfolk coast and regularly visits my part of Yorkshire where he worked, resided and unfortunately for him and his family became friends with me and mine some years ago. Whilst visiting us a couple of years ago he was subject to a very unfortunate incident at our most prestigious local hotel. Guy had, by default, recently inherited a dachshund named Molly from his parents and this new addition had accompanied them on the trip. The dog was taken for a walk on the moor by her new owner and upon returning to the hotel the two of them were unexpectedly confronted in a corridor by the hotel managers Great Dane. Now, as unlikely as this seems, the Great Dane took an amorous interest in Molly. Guy swept the little dog up and made a bolt for his room with the randy brute in pursuit. He thumped desperately on the room door and Sally, his wife, answered, assessed the situation, snatched the dachshund from him and slammed the door closed. A sexually frustrated Great Dane in a confined space is not what a five foot eight English graduate needs. Luckily however the hotel Manager arrived just in the nick of time, the wedding plans arranged but the nuptials not quite concluded. I think that Guy and the Dane have stayed close and still exchange cards on Valentines Day. Again my thoughts would have been to get that dachshund adopted as fast as possible but not only did Guy keep it but when it sadly passed away he replaced it with two Yorkshire Terriers. This being the only saving grace in my eyes the fact that he goes for such manly breeds.
So it would seem that a none dog person can in fact become a dog person at some stage of their lives, but until mans best friends can learn how to scoop for themselves, then I am afraid that I for one am not for converting.
No comments:
Post a Comment