Tuesday, 8 March 2011

Not again...

You know how we live on the end of a road? By a junction. And that since we have lived here, we have collected 3 stray dogs from the end of the road who suddenly appear from nowhere and run about gaily to play with the traffic, because it is a well-known fact that in a dog and car fight, the car always comes off worst. Ha! (Dogs have a very skewed idea of their invincibility. 'That,' says Phoebe, 'is because they are dogs and therefore stupid.)

Anyway, Andy went out this morning to scrape the car free from ice, and five minutes later he reappears...carrying a puppy.

'Not again,' I said.
'Again,' said Andy.

This little chap was about 3 months old, a terrier cross with the most beautiful auburn fur, and a happy, sunny nature. As Andy had to go to work, I dug out the ball of string, fashioned a make-do lead, (I am beginning to think I ought to buy a dog lead to keep in the cupboard for future occasions), and set off around the streets and park to see if anyone was looking for a lost dog.

It makes me cross, people who take on dogs without providing for their safety. This is the fourth time we've found ourselves temporary doggie guardians. Unless this is God's way of telling us to get a dog, but I suspect the cats might have something to say about that. ('Too bloomin' right,' say Phoebe and Tybalt. 'What? Who? Look at me, I'm sooooo cute. I'm the most important, I am,' says Pandora.)

So I tromp around the streets and the park, asking everyone I see if they know who this little chap belongs to. The little chap is having a whale of a time, tree sniffing, running zig-zag, indulging in a spot of barking, rooting around in crisp packets, looking up at me as if to say, 'Can I come and live with you?'

After an hour I decide to give up and head home to phone all the local vets and rescue centres to say 'We've found another dog.' Honestly, we're going to get ourselves a name as dog-knappers at this rate. And as I round the corner into our road, there appears before me a young girl about 14 or 15 years old. She looks like she is looking for something. Like a puppy.

So owner and pet are reunited. I say, 'You are going to look after him properly, aren't you?' and she goes into a long speil about how they've only just got him and he escaped from the kitchen when her dad went in to feed him and they're going to get a cage to keep him in for a little while but they haven't sorted it out yet etc etc etc.

I don't really want to know that. I want to know that she is going to be responsible for knowing where her dog is at all times. I do not want my next encounter with this little fellow to be as dog jam on the main road.

'What's his name?' I ask, as the girl thanks me again.
'Digger,' she says.

I say goodbye. Stupid name, I think as I head home.

I've been calling him Basil.

Dog-sitting means I am late for my planned activity of the day which is allotmenteering. Anyway, I scoot off and spend nearly four hours digging and tidying and enjoying the sunshine before I need to return home to have a wee. And now, as on Sunday, I am stiff as a board and can't move. And I have a blister. Never mind, Plot 87 is looking good. The fruit cage is sparkling in the sunshine and the postman has delivered a seed catalogue with a £10 off voucher inside.

So this afternoon I am reclined on the chaise, making a seed list, doing a spot of writing, a spot of reading and a spot of sewing. Pandora is sitting on my lap.

'You're not going to get a dog, are you?' she says.
'No,' I say.
'Coz I'm the best,' she says.
'You are,' I say.

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