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.

Alfie

Leaving the house together this morning, Andy and I are assailed on the driveway by an exuberant boxer dog. He is the size of a small horse and is galloping up the middle of the road until he spies us emerging from our front door. There is a lady in hot pursuit so I hang onto the boxer's collar which is no mean feat given his size and strength and keeness to play 'thrashing about like a fish on a line until I choke.'

'Oooh, thank goodness!' the lady puffs. 'I was afraid he'd run out into the main road. Is it okay if I leave him with you?' It transpires the running lady is not the owner of the boxer. And without really waiting for a response she turns and disappears in a puff of relief at no longer being responsible for this runaway creature. This is the second time in four months we've suddenly found ourselves reluctant guardians of lost dogs. The previous one was a tiny border terrier puppy. We are starting to feel like dog magnets.

'This is very inconvenient,' I think. The dog is wearing a collar and we try to read the attached tag. The dog seems capable of producing much saliva and, excited at being with new people, he immediately covers Andy's coat and shoes with a thick layer of foam. The dog translates our attempts to read his collar as a willingness to get up close and personal in a friendly, 'let's have a doggy romp' kind of way.

'He's called Alfie,' I say. 'ALFIE...SIT!' I command. Hearing his name, Alfie sits on my foot for all of two seconds before leaping up again, almost wrenching my arm from its socket. Andy manages, through a mass of doggy licks and kisses, to get the telephone number from the reverse side of the tag. Whilst he goes inside to call the number, I stand outside on the path with Alfie. 'ALFIE...SIT!' I say, again. And again. And again. To give him his due, he responds to the command but sustains the behaviour for an average of 6.7 seconds each time. It's a bit like teaching a teenage boy Shakespeare.
'So who does Macbeth meet on the Heath?'
'A flasher?'
'No, three witches. And they make three predictions for him. Can you remember what they were?'
'Wossa prediction?'
'Telling someone's fortune.'
'Oh right.'
'So what did the witches tell him?'
'Tell who?'
'Macbeth.'
'Who's Macbeth?'

It's a weary process...

Andy returns. There is no reply from the telephone number. Tybalt and Phoebe are building a barrier against the front door using the kitchen chairs and broomstick. We can't put Alfie in the house.
'And don't you even think of bringing him back here,' shouts Mrs Miggins from the back garden. She is standing on a pyramid created by the other hens and some obliging collared doves from next door and peering over the back gate. 'I'm allergic to dogs. They make me sneeze.'
'I had a Shi-tzu once,' says Mrs Pumphrey from the bottom of the pyramid.
'I don't think we need to hear about your toilet habits, thank you,' says Miggins.

Andy decides the only course of action is to take Alfie to work with him, leaving me to try an d contact the owner during the day. Luckily, we have a people carrier with a spacious open boot. As soon as Andy opens the tailgate, Alfie drags me across the drive. Clearly he knows about cars. In fact, I'm willing to bet his third favourite occupation after running wildly down the centre of a road and slobbering, is travelling in cars. He's in the back like a shot and sits obediently and expectantly as if to say 'Where are we going? Seaside? Paris? Abseiling? Let's go to the seaside.I love the seaside, I do.'

Somehow, we manage to undo Alfie's collar, slip it through a seat belt, and refasten it in an attempt to restrain him during the journey because he looks like the kind of creature who would be quite keen to sit up front and play with the CD controls and gearstick as Andy is driving. And off they go, Andy and Alfie, man and dog, Thelma and Louise.

On returning from my swim I set about the task of contacting Alfie's owner. But there is already a message from Andy. They've found her. She is very grateful and Andy is bringing Alfie back this evening to reunite them as he lives just along the road from us. Apparently, he was very good in the car on the way over to the surgery. Didn't change the radio channel once.

Just a quick extra to tell you about - I spent a very informative hour or two yesterday researching bees and bee-keeping and whilst doing so I found the website of the bumblebee conservation society. It's an excellent site and well worth the visit. You can find it at www.bumblebeeconservationtrust.co.uk Have a look. It'll make you go 'aaahhhhh!'