Eric the Viking

Well here it is, post 150. Never thought I would make it this far. This is a rewritten story. Hopefully, this is tighter.

Based on a true story (but still fiction)

Eric the Viking

It’s said that love is blind; which can be a prerequisite of living with animals. Particularly when it comes to Border Collies. Strands of time, now and again, pull together and remind you of that fact.

I had resisted going along to dog agility classes for weeks even if there was an inevitability about being made to finally attend. So there I am watching on in a field in Moulton. It’s April and whilst it’s spring, mornings can still be chilly. There is the smell of fresh grass in the air as I stay close to a wood fence a few yards from an asphalt road. I leave the training to my other half. Progress has been limited for Eric the collie who, invariably gets easily distracted and, within seconds, is scavenging for food rather than concentrating on the task in hand. Snacks and drinks for dogs and humans are on a makeshift set of pasting tables to the side. It can be all too much for a mutt like ours who is already sniffing underneath, in pursuit of the smallest of crumbs.

The organisers are two middle-aged women wandering about with clipboards. They both wear zip-up coats, ankle-high wellington boots and head-scarfs that make them look like royalty patrolling a rural estate. Although the sun is out, the ground is soft under foot having absorbed rain for the last couple of days. All around is a cornucopia of obstacles including jumps, ramps, tunnels, gates and poles. A young Alsatian is about to take on a wooden hurdle as part of its training circuit. I watch, my eyes scanning the panorama of Dalmatians, Retrievers, Labradors, Terriers and Poodles.

I stand pondering Eric’s lack of discipline. He is a rescue dog that was adopted when he was a few months old. A typical collie, his coat is black and white with a flash of fur at the nape of his neck and a shepherd’s lantern of a tail (black with a white blob at the end). His face is reminiscent of a badger’s – Badger Boy being one of his numerous nicknames. Hard-wired to chase sheep it’s a familiar ritual for him to lie prostrate on his belly out on walks when a dog is coming the other way. He never has rounded up any other canines but the trait is there.

A woman in a duffle coat scampers after her manicured poodle who is padding through a red and purple plastic tunnel. She shadows its progress, making excited noises like the surrogate mother she is. My thoughts drift. Collies will eat anything. Most dogs will eat most things as puppies. When Eric first came home, having established himself, he was soon chewing up pink unicorns made in Taiwan, threadbare tennis balls and brown teddies. It’s a rite of passage that canines go through and some never leave behind. An older woman who walks her two bulldogs around the estate each morning has them carrying cuddly toys in their mouths as they navigate a daily circuit. I imagine this is to stop them eating children and/or other dogs which looks distinctly possible judging by their broad shoulders and wide gait.

There’s a limit to what’s “normal” in this respect, though. Having accepted a collie propensity to eat just about anything, it wasn’t long before a rogue’s gallery of chewed items had been compiled. Shoes, slippers, cushions, cardboard, pants, socks and bras (the latter stolen from washing piles). Even shoe polish was nearly swallowed at one point. It was like having a great white shark for a pet. One day someone would scoop him up in a fishing net and discover the half-eaten contents of his stomach. Anything could be in there – bikes, tyres, Pinocchio - anything. You could be forgiven for thinking that this was bad enough. It wasn’t. There was the afternoon I wandered from the kitchen into the hallway clutching a mug of coffee, to see Eric lying on his bed with his head facing the wall. As he turned, he was clearly eating something out of the ordinary….wisps of smoke were rising from his mouth. A double take later, I rushed to see what it was that was down his gullet this time. He was in the process of devouring a mobile phone and the smoke trail was coming from its battery. I fished the lethal object out of his throat, taking care to hold his head to avoid any kind of retribution. Eric carried on as though nothing had happened. The subsequent trip to the vet confirmed that, whilst it may have been a close call, there was no trace of any damage. It was just a shame about my lad’s poor mobile phone…

I pull my coat collar tighter as the wind gets up. A grey-haired, old man is grinning, watching his cockapoo successfully finish a run of hurdles. The women with clipboards are drifting between attendees, swapping small talk and making encouraging noises about progress. Anne is standing in front of a stretch of poles sticking out of the ground that Eric is supposed to weave in and out of. She has her dog-walking coat on. It’s a parka with a faux-fur collar, deep pockets and reaches down to her ankles. Her petite demeanour and blonde hair belie a genuine strength of character. The woofer is looking everywhere other than at the challenge ahead. This isn’t going to go well.

My mind’s drifting again. I am now in the gateway to Wales – Abergavenny. We are at a cottage off the beaten path. A large, glass patio door leads on to a lawn from the lounge and the whole place has only recently been renovated. New carpet runs throughout. Eric can’t contain himself and wants to keep going out. He’s constantly pithering by the sliding door that’s between him and the countryside. He’s still young when we visit; two years old. We have a great week albeit a little stressful with the nagging fear of collie Armageddon. It’s the last day and we are packed, ready to leave. Anne is doing her final sweep to ensure everything is left ship-shape for the owners. We both spot the same thing at the same time.

There’s…..a…..hole…..in…..the…..brand……new.….lounge…..carpet.

We both creep towards the scene of the crime. It’s a golf ball sized indent with an incriminating length of woollen thread next to it that’s been pulled. By teeth. Someone’s teeth. A dog’s teeth. We look at each other mortified. The kids – Jemma and John - are in the car wondering what the delay is. Think fast. What do we do? We grab the nearby dining table and shunt it towards the damaged carpet. A table leg now covers the small crater. Just enough to cover things up. We leave as quickly as possible.

Some of the obstacles in the field look like quite a challenge. One is a large, triangular object with ladders running up both sides. It’s not difficult to work out what the dog has to do. I watch a Pomeranian glide up and down with effort. Its owner is a woman wearing large-lens sun glasses. She is laughing, delighted that her canine protégé has made the grade. I notice a few other people glancing at the pair with a hint of jealousy. I imagine things gets quite competitive at times. Eric is back at the refreshment table. Anne is striding towards him looking angry. She’s losing patience.

We have been here a while; I look at my watch which suggests half an hour. It feels longer. Dogs really will eat anything. Well, some dogs anyway. Eric seems to be insatiable. With the exception of lettuce. He spits that out. To be fair, lettuce has no calorific value. I wonder how he knows that. My mind has drifted again. I’m back in Abergavenny. Anne and Jemma are on horseback ready to go trekking in the Black Mountains. I am left holding the collie along with my lad John. The children are fourteen and eleven respectively with my son the youngest. They see pet ownership through children’s eyes. The ponies trot away, off on their journey through valleys and forests. I wave at my wife and daughter as my lad tugs at my arm. He utters “um” as I look down at the dog on his lead. His head is buried in cow pat. He is devouring it in large gulps. We are on the site of a ruined abbey and there are farm animals roaming around including cows and sheep. As I pull him away, two ladies with their own dogs are laughing at me. They are dressed appropriately in proper walker’s garb - padded gilets and water-proof trousers.

“It’s only half-digested mulch. It’s quite normal for dogs to eat that.”

The woman speaking sounds well-spoken and has a reassuring smile. I thank her for the advice whilst feeling uncomfortable. I shuffle away looking out for further cow pats like they were land mines. I still can’t cope with the idea of my dog eating poo.

Anne is standing on her own in a patch of grass absent of other people. She is smiling at me probably wondering what I am thinking. Eric is about six feet away and padding towards her. The next few seconds pass in slow motion. Completely oblivious and still looking at me, Anne doesn’t notice as Eric cocks his leg. He’s standing right next to her. Now he’s urinating, the spray cascades into his owner’s side. It’s like a pipe that’s burst.  She is still smiling and then realises what is going on, probably from the shocked expression on my face. Everyone close by stops and stares. Anne peers down and then frantically shoos the dog away whilst brushing at her coat with her hand. She scowls; it’s wet. Eric wanders off nonchalantly as though nothing has happened. Well this is new. He hasn’t done this before.

And that was the last of agility training. Eric remains a renegade dog with collie instincts and a roguish nature. With a rap sheet as long as this, you might wonder why he’s still with us. Of course, the answer is we wouldn’t have it any other way. The deal with dogs is that they give you unconditional love. No strings. For Every unfortunate incident there are countless others that make you feel good about life: woofer walks through the seasons, licks on the face that make you smile and whispered conversations late at night when you need a friend. That’s not to say that he hasn’t gone on to commit further misdemeanours but what dog hasn’t.

*Image is my own