Give a Dog a Bone
By Norbie
- 377 reads
Norbert
Chapter 31
Give a Dog a Bone
When on days, I walk Weggie first thing in the morning. When I’m on a late, we both take him out for a longer walk. The same when I get home from the day shift. I insist on walking Weggie alone last thing at night, mainly because we live near a petrol station and a couple of pubs which can become rowdy at chucking out time during the summer tourist season. One good thing about drunken wastrels, they don’t pick on people my size. And not even a belligerent drunk would take on a beast the size of Weggie.
To begin with, I gave other dogs a wide berth, crossing the street when one approached, but the sight of me, seven stone wet through, being dragged along by Weggie, or trying to persuade him to carry his own poo, caused too much amusement for us to be ignored. ‘I don’t see what his problem is,’ I said to one man.
I soon discovered there is camaraderie amongst dog walkers. It’s like a club. You meet the same people every day. Everyone wanted to know about Weggie. I have to admit I got a little carried away, inventing a story for every scar on his body and how he lost half an ear in a fight with a grizzly bear that had escaped from a zoo. I know I shouldn’t lie, but it is hard to break the habit of a lifetime. You have to remember, I am just as damaged as Weggie.
Weggie allows male dogs one sniff. Any that persist get a warning growl, which always suffices, so after a week I let him off the lead to relieve the soreness in my arms and shoulders. It’s like trying to hold back a tank.
‘Watch out for the Chihuahua,’ someone warned me. ‘It’s a vicious little grannytickler, attacks every dog it meets.’
‘I don’t want any trouble,’ I replied. ‘Weggie has previous convictions.’
It only took a couple of days to come across the beast. I learned the wife walks it in the morning, the husband at night. Both try to snatch it up off the ground before a fight can break out, but sometimes it gets free. Weggie treats it with tolerant disdain.
The first Saturday night, walking Weggie off lead, he jumped over a garden wall and disappeared down the drive. I carried on, expecting him to catch up, but when I got home he was laying on the front lawn, gnawing at the entire hip bone of a cow. It was more like the remains of a lion kill than butcher scraps.
The same thing happened the following Saturday. On the third I waited, and sure enough after a minute he emerged triumphant with half a cow in his mouth and set off for home with a spring in his step. ‘No you don’t,’ I said, clipping him on the lead to make him do the full walk.
I feel sorry for the poor dog that keeps losing its weekend treat. It probably spends all night dreaming about a lazy Sunday with nothing to do but chomp, only to find it has been stolen by a thief in the night. I should know (about being a thief in the night, I mean).
The next Saturday we meet the killer Chihuahua. Before the husband has a chance to pick it up, the whirling dervish yanks his head out of his collar and charges at Weggie, snarling and yapping his head off. Hampered by the weight in his mouth, Weggie is too slow to react and the beast dives in and bites his back leg. Weggie swings round in pain and hits the Chihuahua smack between the eyes with the hipbone, poleaxing it instantly. It lays unconscious in the middle of the pavement.
‘Tickle our Lord! He’s killed it,’ the husband cries.
‘I was in the cubs. I know how to save lives.’ I reach down and place a hand on the still form. ‘He’s breathing. I would take him home and wait for him to recover.’
‘Are you mad? If I walk in the house with him in that condition she’ll kill me.’
Not knowing what else to do, we sit on the wall and watch and wait. Weggie, meanwhile, settles down on the grass verge and starts to chomp.
After a few minutes, another of the regular dog walkers approaches. He stops and takes in the scene. ‘Dare I ask?’
His dog immediately decides to try his luck, but Weggie is up in an instant, guarding his property, hackles raised and jowls pulled back in a vicious snarl. If you could have drawn a balloon coming from his mouth, the words would have been: “Don’t even think about it, pal. Just look what happened to the last one that tried.”
The man and his dog hurry off, leaving us to resume our vigil.
After several minutes, the Chihuahua comes round and struggles groggily to its feet. The relieved husband picks it up and heads home. The trouble is, by now it has a lump the size of bird’s egg on its forehead. There is no way to disguise what has happened.
We bump into the wife the next morning. Nunky obviously knows the story.
‘What did that nasty brute of yours do to my baby?’ she demands.
Nunky is straight in. ‘Weggie hit him with a cowslip.’
‘Are you trying to be funny?
‘It’s true, I swear. Isn’t it, mi babby?’
*
Now we have Weggie, Nunky has given up all his classes except Lunch Club and the Rambling Club, mostly because he’s allowed to take Weggie on the walks.
‘I bet Weggie loves the freedom of running along the open Downs, chasing rabbits and fetching sticks?’
‘Oh no, mi babby, he doesn’t have time for any of that. He’s too busy carrying our rucksacks.’
I am appalled. ‘What? You make him carry your packs?’
‘As long as he gets a sandwich containing anything but salad in advance, he’ll do it.’
‘Nunky, that isn’t fair on Weggie. He should be allowed to enjoy himself in the countryside by frolicking around, fetching sticks and swimming and stuff.’
‘Weggie isn’t interested in any of those things. He just plods along like he does round the estate, so he might as well make himself useful.’
‘Well, he should be. That’s what dogs do.’
‘Do you think we should take him to A&E?’
‘I don’t think it’s that serious. The poor thing has spent all his life either learning to survive or in captivity. We just need to show him that life can be fun.’
Nunky, who happens to be shining at the time, says: ‘Can you think of two people less qualified to teach anyone about having fun, mi babby?’
He is right. We may be free from Auntie’s tyranny, but I continue to be persecuted at work. And I’ve lost my bedroom. And I have double the amount of cleaning to do. I also hadn’t factored in the cost of dog food. And, it appears, dogs do need a licence. They cost five pounds and can be purchased from the post office.
I leave Weggie outside on his own (Nunky is confined to the house with a cold), go in and queue to buy one. It is always very noisy in the post office because our postmistress is old and deaf.
‘I need a licence for Weggie,’ I yell.
‘Make and model?’
‘German shepherd.’
‘Did you say German?’
‘Yes.’
‘Audi?’
‘It’s nice to meet you, too.’
‘Manual or automatic?’
‘No, I told you, Weggie.’
‘Is it a people carrier?’
‘He certainly isn’t a poo carrier, only rucksacks for ramblers with special needs as far as I am aware.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘My dog. What are you talking about?’
The postmistress screws up the piece of paper she is writing on, throws it in my face and tells me to “piss off”.
Weggie has moved two shops down and is sitting beside one of those plastic guide dogs with a collection box strapped round its neck, like a barrel of rum on a St Bernard. ‘You soft beggar,’ I say, and approach. ‘It’s not a real dog. He can’t be your friend. Come on, we have to go the post office on Winkle Street. There was a slight misunderstanding here.’
I carry on, but soon realise Weggie isn’t with me. I look back and see that just about everyone is stopping, placing coins in the box and stroking Weggie’s tattered ears. They must think he’s on collection duty. I snap my fingers impatiently and walk on. When Weggie catches up, the collection box is in his mouth. I do what any concerned dog owner and law abiding citizen would do in these circumstances. I panic and run.
- Log in to post comments