Dog Whisperer in Argyll

It’s official. I am a secret Dog Whisperer. I was reading in yesterday’s Guardian about the Dog Whisperer beloved of Sky watchers and owners of troublesome pooches – Cesar Millan, who has made his fortune changing the behaviour of dogs who drive their owners nuts. And there they were: his Top Training Tips.

A brief summary will give you an idea. You begin with no touch, no talk, no eye-contact with the dog. This, apparently, honours the canine way of getting acquainted.
[I never look at dogs. I pretend they're not there. Even ones I know well]

You mustn’t begin a relationship looking for a soulmate. Apparently this shows if you give the animal a name too soon.
[That's easy. I would never own a dog, so other people have to call them names. I like human soulmates, myself]

You mustn’t attempt to humanise the dog. It’s a dog. It won’t listen to you.
[Golly, do they listen to me. I just say "no" and they listen. Great]

Doggy fulfilment is based on exercise, discipline and affection – in that order. Too many dog owners feel that if they practise the authority figure bit then their dog won’t love them. This, apparently, is all wrong.
[The dogs I practise my skills on with greatest regularity appear to love me, despite my best efforts. I hadn't read this stuff when I met them]

You shouldn’t approach a dog on first meeting. You wait. Apparently this makes the dog respect and trust you.
[I never, ever make up to a dog. It's a pity they're not human, as they don't reciprocate]

You mustn’t talk up a walk before you go. The walk is, apparently, about bonding and creating a pack experience, not going to Disneyland.
[And did you know that dogs can understand spelling? Even W-A-L-K sends them into paroxysms of awfulness]

So there you are. I've been a dog training expert for years and not known it. But you know, it does work, all this stuff. Mrs H's dogs charge to the door, barking madly, see it's me and skid to a halt. They never, ever jump up on me. I just need to work out how to get them to avoid me altogether when we're indoors ... Anyone?

A dog's life?

I had a new experience yesterday. I went to the vet. No, I wasn't ailing and no, I haven't acquired an animal. I was meeting Mrs Heathbank who had been held up by a scarcity of vets and was lurking in the car park with her canine companions awaiting their turn. Because it was a mild, pleasant afternoon, other animals and their people were doing the same thing, and the car park was quite busy. Apparently an ailment called kennel cough is rampant in Dunoon and vaccinations were the order of the day for the Heathbank Kennel Club, whose members include one Hamish, yet another small spaniel.

However, this jolly family outing was put into perspective by the presence of another friend of mine whose 15-year-old dog was at the vet for the last time. If you know me at all, you'll know that dogs are not my thing, but I found it difficult to be detached as I stood with this quiet, dignified collie waiting to be called. When he left, my friend couldn't bear to go and her partner took the dog away. There was no fuss, and we went on talking. I was aware of trying to keep it light and mildly distracting - and then the partner returned carrying the lead. And that was that.

I hope I was of some use. But I wonder if everyone who gets a puppy or a kitten thinks on that day of the other end of the animal's life - because any pet-owner stands a good chance of outliving their pet and having to deal with their end. And many will have to make the decision when that end will be. I suppose they think it's worth it.

This post, by the way, is dedicated to Charlie, who thinks I write too much about church. Tomorrow I feel a post coming on about grammar ...

All fun and games ...

Cynddyllan?
Originally uploaded by goforchris.

The title of this post might alert the sharp-eyed to the novel I've been reading (more Mars bars?), but gives a pretty good indication of an excellent day. Holy Trinity church stands on a hill at the foot of the Bishop's Glen, and in the grounds (extensive) there are several extremely mature trees. In the winter gales they moult - twigs, sticks and whole branches - and the resulting debris makes for a scarey ride on the tractor mower. Today I picked up more than half of these bits; Cynddylan (aka Mr B) did interesting things with the tractor mower and the Rector produced sackfuls of wonderful dead weedery and used it to do her Ray Mears thing with the fire.

It was a wonderful day. The sun was wall to wall, the birds were giving it laldy, the wood smoke drifted under the trees, the fire was so hot that all was reduced to a small pile of grey ash, and we had a picnic. We ended with the regular midweek Eucharist, scented by bonfire instead of incense.

Another good thing was the reappearance of Progress report as one of The Teens prepares for Higher English - though I have to confess that tonight I'm too tired for more than perfunctory comment on her essay - interestingly on the same piece of journalism that we were considering yesterday.

And one bad thing. What kind of person owns a dog, diligently picks up and bags its excrement - and then leaves the malodorous little parcel in the middle of the pavement, or (worse) tied to a fence? I rest my case ....

Of Dogs (with a nod to Bacon)

A very large dog
Originally uploaded by goforchris.

I’ve been thinking about … dogs.

We live in a very odd society. Over the last few weeks – to say nothing of the past 60 years (aagh) – I’ve heard perfectly ordinary, respectable, otherwise kindly people say that they can’t stand young babies (“I like them when they can talk back”) or adolescents (“I’m frightened of teenagers”/”I can’t talk to them”/”they were only nice till they were ten; now they’re awful”). No-one bats an eyelid at such remarks. And the converse is true also – I find that when I admit to having enjoyed my time in the classroom, and that I especially liked teaching adolescent boys, people think I’m a freak.

So it’s ok not to like kids. But try saying in polite company that you don’t like dogs. That’s quite another matter. Especially if you aren’t necessarily afraid of them (not the wee ones anyway). If it’s merely a matter of repugnance then you’re a pariah. Apparently like-minded people, people with whom you have a good relationship, suddenly shut up, as if you’d confessed to necrophilia. It’s very odd indeed.

Imagine this scenario: your best pal takes up with a man who, for starters, always wears a hairy coat. He never takes it off, regardless of the weather. He is, therefore, smelly. He bathes only rarely, but likes to wallow in muddy ditches. Smells again. He never, ever, cleans his teeth. (You’re getting it). He has no awareness of other people’s personal space, which he invades with joyful abandon. He comes into your house, if you let him, and pokes his nose into everything. He sticks that same nose into malodorous messes (supply your own) and then into your face. He scratches his privates noisily and with abandon. He will never grow out of any of these traits, and he will never make up for them with witty conversation.

If that scenario did indeed apply to your pal’s latest (human) squeeze, you could deplore him with impunity to the rest of the sisterhood. But see when it’s a dog?

Very, very odd.