A Day of Dogs

Woke up hot and grumpy this morning after a horrible nightmare. Took the dogs off for a leafy walk and bumped into my tenant Wagner coming back from his walk with the lovely (and currently much desired) Jaffa, who is being kept under temporary house arrest except for short walks. She was on a leash. Ragnar perked up at once. He went from a loping, laid-back Ridgeback to prancing Lipizzaner in the flash of a whisker.

He and Jaffa had disappeared under suspicious circumstances at his dinnertime two days ago. Neither dog responded to frantic calls, which upset Wagner because he is a professional guard dog trainer, and Jaffa is normally highly obedient. While I am less sensitive to my calls being ignored, Ragnar missing at dinner time was a first. He hasn’t missed dinner in ten years. I had only relaxed when I realised that Jaffa was also missing – even more uncharacteristic! She likes popping in to see if my dogs (picky eaters) have left anything.

As a highly trained Alsatian Guard Dog, she is relentless, and will charge a man firing a gun. So Wagner was not impressed by what he regarded as gross dereliction of duty on her part. Ragnar had returned wagging his tail and grinning sheepishly, and she had been kept under lock and key since.

Normally, Ragnar the Regal Ridgeback is a gentle giant. But one trip down the Primrose Path had converted him instantly into Attila the Hun, and now the air was crackling with testosterone as he started growling at poor Sniper (another contender for the affections of the fair Jaffa), while at the same time trying to present a winning profile to his lady-love. The transformation is amazing.

Wagner

Wagner calmed them down and joined me – keeping a sharp eye on all would-be suitors. And being a tracker, those eyes miss nothing. This is important, because Ragnar and Sniper are not the only contenders. The most ambitious one is Scooby, the miniature Dachshund, who clearly is a member of the “size-does-not-matter” school of thought. Love is in the air, and he is reaching for the stars.. literally. Because from where he stands, the stars are only marginally higher than the alluring wave of Jaffa’s elegant tail.

Unsurprisingly, we got to talking about dogs and we found ourselves at my house consulting an enormous tome he lent me, called “The Complete Illustrated Encyclopaedia of Dogs & Puppies (over a 1000 illustrations – features ALL breeds)” which keeps me fascinated for hours.

Having Wagner around is teaching me how little I actually know about dogs. We are having a lively debate over whether Jasmine is in fact a Siberian wolf-dog or a Malamute.

“Look at those furry hind-feathers”, he says.

I look. Trotting ahead of us, her hind-feathers are so furry it looks as if she is wearing inflated beige jodhpurs. The creamy flag of her furry tail and her hindfeathers seem almost like a separate dog, they are so different to the rest of her.

“The Husky does not have feathers like that. Malamutes have them because they sleep out in the snow in Alaska. That is why their paws are so tufted
and furry – to prevent frostbite”

I’m just going by what I googled and what her last owner told me. Wagner is, of course, right.

Paging through the book, I am crooning over dogs that look like my beloved hound, Montmorency. He has been gone for some years now, but is as alive to me in heart and spirit as ever. He was nearly eighteen when he died of Cancer, and losing him was a terrible blow to us all. The trouble with mongrels is that they are one of a kind. Of course, all dogs are individuals, but with purebred dogs you at least have a sporting chance at replicating them.

“Look at this beauty” I exclaim, pointing to the Francais Blanc et Noir . “If it had a bit more tan, it would be Monty – although the ears are longer”.

Wagner is unimpressed.

“The longer the ears, the bigger the thief”, he says.

“It says here that it is a sociable and pack-orientated hound with strong scent abilities”

“That means it doesn’t really bond to a particular person. It will hang around sleeping in front of the fire as long as you feed it, and if it catches an interesting scent, it will be gone for three days”

I laughed. It sounded a bit like my ex-husband. Clearly I am as bad at choosing the ideal dog as I was at choosing men.

“So what about the Basset Bleu de Gascogne?” I ask, hopefully.

“Short, French, with a nothing-can-stop-me attitude like Napoleon.”

“..and the Basset Artesiene Normand..?”

“Napoleon crossed with Hitler.”

So that is what “strong scenting instinct can be a source of distraction during training and play” means. I was starting to understand the jargon. Like “house with character” to the house-hunter means “interesting but falling down”.

“This one says ‘would make a good pet under the right circumstances’..?”

“Needs a three metre electric fence, locks on your cupboards, and a stun gun. You’ve seen Sniper..” (he’d recently pinched a packet of Beenos out of the very top shelf of the passage cupboard) “.. and he’s a German Gun dog. The Germans bred a dog that was at least trainable. The French didn’t. Those French dogs operate on pure instinct”

I sigh and close the book. But at least I have cheered up.