I'm a spaniel

I was at the gym this morning, on the cross trainer, running uphill like a crazy woman (as always). I had Nina Nastasia on my headphones, listening to It’s a Dog’s Life, and the thought crossed my mind...  I am a spaniel.  A bloody spaniel. 

Let’s look at the evidence, eh?  What do spaniels do?  They run around, in circles, expending HUGE effort for, frankly, very little return.  They exhaust themselves (well, eventually) by covering every last inch of ground.  While sensible dogs are nosing around in the undergrowth, or ambling along the path, those spaniels are diving into undergrowth, tearing their ears on brambles.  They’re easy to train: relatively intelligent so can pick up instructions quite easily, learn new tricks and blindly carry them out, wagging their tails all the time and panting happily.  They’re dippy as fruit loops – neurotic bordering on delusional.   What else? Oh yes, they’re stupidly, pathetically, eager to please.  If you were to say, ‘Hey, dog, wanna dive into ice-cold water and go fetch that pheasant?’ they’d wag their tails and go, ‘How many times?’  Oh, and they eat shit.

So. I’m a spaniel. 

At this point you’re probably sitting there, thinking, ‘Now, I wonder what kind of dog I’d be?’ and, let me guess, you’re thinking German Shepherd, Boxer or Staffordshire terrier (if you're a bloke: I’m right, aren’t I?) or Border Collie (smart sassy woman) or Yorkshire terrier (cutesy woman). But  you know, it’s a bit like when I went to a shamanism workshop and we had to journey to find our spirit animal guides… I can’t begin to tell you how many eagles and wolves and bears were floating around.  Nobody had a hamster. 

Anyhow. I’m sick of being a spaniel.  I want to be a terrier.  Look at Asbo. He doesn’t give a flying feck about anything.  If he wants to go on a walk, he’ll go.  If he can’t be arsed, he will refuse, point blank, to leave the house.  If he chooses, he can be perfectly well-behaved - it’s just that, most of the time, he doesn’t choose.  He does what he likes and doesn’t give a damn what anyone thinks.  He behaves appallingly and blithely whistles (metaphorically).  He isn’t scared of his own voice, he steals shamelessly and, if he doesn’t like the cut of someone’s jib, he bites – hard. 

So, there you have it.  I’m unleashing my inner terrier.    

What kind of dog are you? Are you obedient and perfectly trained?  Maybe it’s time to chew up your lead, bite the postman and pee up the curtains.  Wanna join my badly-behaved pack?    

 

Bitten

Yesterday wasn't the best of days, to put it mildly. It hadn't been the best of weeks really. Adrian went up to London on Monday for the Telegraph party then headed straight off for Wales leaving me, the boy, the dogs and the roofer. There was a leak in the breakfast room but it seemed like a pretty standard job. Except...


‘Look up there,’ said Gary, pointing up at the exposed innards of the bay. I peered; couldn’t see a thing.
‘The wood’s all rotten.’
‘Oh.’

So the quick job turned into the major job, necessitating carpenters and builders and scaffolding. And the dogs were going ballistic and any thought of trying to get on with the total rewrite of my book went out the window.
Then Gary knocked at the back door and I backed out of my study, trying to keep the dogs inside and Asbo went mental and bit me – hard – on the knee.

I ignored it, dealt with Gary, made the guys a cup of tea but it hurt like hell and when I took a look I felt a bit sick. It was a pretty deep bite with blood seeping all over. I bunged some tea tree oil and a plaster on it and shook pretty dramatically for a bit. Then wondered if I ought to get it looked at. Asked on Twitter (source of all knowledge) and was inundated with people yelling at me.

‘Can you come in right away?’ asked the receptionist at the surgery. So I did. Seems they take dog bites pretty seriously.
‘I can’t stitch it,’ said the nurse. ‘In case of infection. But I’ll tape the wound closed. Oh, and the doctor says you need a week’s course of antibiotics.’
‘Really?’
‘Afraid so.’

Having spent the last week fending off a throat infection with chakra toning and oregano oil, it seemed pretty ironic that I was getting the darn things anyhow. Karma bites again. Payback for all the snarling on Monday.

‘They’re pretty strong, so you might get thrush,’ she carried on, jauntily.
‘Oh great.’
‘Just take lots of live yoghurt.’
‘I eat that anyway.’
She frowned. ‘I didn’t mean eat it.’ She gave a downwards glance.
‘Oh.’
‘Yup.’
‘Right. So maybe not the cherry variety then?’

She shook her head patiently.  So hey ho, there we go.

Oh, almost forgot. We now have a new addition to the canine crew. Meet Jakey. Jakey is a liver and white fluffy coated springer spaniel cross. He’s seven years old and loves rolling in mud. At this point I can imagine you are all (especially Milla) clasping hands to foreheads in total despair. Let me explain.

A while back we were sent the Cats and Dogs movies on DVD. As an extra little gift, Ellie Graham, the lovely PR from THINKJAM asked if we’d like her to sponsor a dog on our behalf with the Dogs Trust. James was well up for this and Jakey is the result. If you’ve got children (but can’t have a dog) this is such a great idea. We received a little dossier on Jakey (and apparently we’ll hear from him three times a year). You also get a year’s worth of WAG! Magazine (no, not football nonsense, the Dog’s Trust’s organ), a fridge magnet and a window sticker.

The Dog’s Trust look after 16,000 dogs a year.  If you are thinking of getting a dog, maybe think about rehoming one, rather than buying a puppy?

‘Can we visit Jakey,’ asked James, with a glint in his eye.
‘Nope. Afraid not.’

Sensible, sensible Dog’s Trust!

For more info check out www.sponsoradog.org.uk