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Relocating Dover came to Suffolk

Well it would be my fault, wouldn’t it? Most things are!

It’s been a long, although not particularly hard, winter. Just endless, sunless, grey days with an almost continuous cold east or north-east wind. It’s the short days and long nights that gets one down. However it now looks as though the year has finally turned the last corner and is on  the straight into spring. The warm sun has started to dry things up. The sap is beginning to rise; the tomato seeds have sprouted and are looking really well; the daffodils are coming out, and the grass is beginning to grow. Yes, I think we can safely say that a new spring is here. A new start to another year; out with the old in with the new.

A week or so ago we went out for lunch-time drinks at The Nether. It’s the kind of gathering that I’m not so good with but at which Debs seems to excel. All that aimless talking about nothing while standing around with a glass of cheap dry white wine – normally purchased at less than a pound-a-bottle from Cite Europe in Calais - in one hand and a rather inadequate, cold or lukewarm, nibble in the other just leaves me stone cold. Debs, on the other hand, loves all the chit-chat and gossip from around the village and really enjoys meeting new people and asking them up to the house. But she has always been like that. It’s what makes her sparkle.

While we were there I fell in conversation with Jed Farrow, one of our neighbouring farmers. Rather than talk about the on-going Gulf war or the state of British agriculture we discussed Rottweilers as, like us, Jed has had rotties for many years. Jed is a touch older than I am, married with a couple of grown up children, and has farmed the land around us for as long as we have lived here. In fact his father farmed it before him and I wouldn’t be surprised if his father hadn’t farmed it before him. I must ask him about that. I was telling Jed about Lad and what a terrible time we had the last few days and that I was now on the look out for a new rotty. He told him that he had recently got a new rotty bitch from a breeder in St Oysth near Clacton. Rather more for something to say that genuine interest I asked Jed how much he paid for her. “£600,” he said. What? £600 for a rotty bitch? Clearly, if one can afford £600 for a rotty puppy, the state of British agriculture isn’t as bad as we are lead to believe. The most we have ever paid, for any dog, was £150 and that was for Lad and we considered that was more than enough. If £600 is the going rate for a rotty puppy then we were going to have to look elsewhere for Lad’s replacement.

So look elsewhere I did. The next day I rang the Rottweiler Rescue Society to see what they had and if we could give a good, loving home to a rotty who, perhaps, hadn’t had such a good start in life as our Lad had had.

It appears that things have changed somewhat since I was last in touch with them. It is now no longer the case that one calls the society to make an appointment to go and see them and then pick a dog of your choosing. Nowadays prospective owners have to fill in forms and are vetted by the RRS in a manner that would make trying to join a West End club seem like child’s play. This is all to make sure that they are responsible and suitable to look after one of their charges. And, in actual fact, it transpires that even if you are approved, and the RRS does offers you a dog, you are only its guardian as the dog remains the property of the RRS for the duration of its life; you are merely looking after it and if you don’t look after it to the satisfaction of the RRS the society will come and repossess it as would a retailer had you defaulted on your hire-purchase agreement. Not only that, as if that is not enough, but before being given a dog one has to make a ‘donation’ of a minimum of £100 to the RRS plus another small ‘donation’ to cover administration costs. Suddenly £600 seems not quite so expensive after all.

Anyway, I duly filled in the forms and got the ball rolling. A while later, early one evening, the telephone rang and a very official voice said: “Hello. It’s Lucy Smallbone from the RRS. I wonder if I could talk to you about your application for a rescue?” Holding back the urge to retort, ‘If I were in need of rescue I hope I wouldn’t need to make an application’, I meekly replied: “You may.” Lucy ran through the list of questions on the application form. We then chatted for a while about dogs in general and rotties in particular and the initial animosity began to recede as she came to realise that we weren’t so bad after all and that we were just sensible people who were wanting to offer a good, loving home to a ‘rescue’. Eventually she said that she knew of a two year old male which she thought might be suitable for us. Evidently, the local RRS area representative had been asked to try and find a home for this dog as it began to dawn on the young couple who had him, that the little bundle of fur and fluff, which they had bought two years ago, had grown into a strapping, rebellious teenager who liked to do teenager things now rather than lie in his bed and sleep. Although, having said that, teenagers do excel at lying in bed all day.

It all sounded quite promising so Debs and I arranged to drive up to Lincoln the following Saturday to see him. We were told, however, that the area representative would have to be totally satisfied that we, and the dog, were suited to each other before we were allowed to take him home. The more this went on the less that I thought we, who were offering the home, had any say the matter.

Friday evening came and just as we were sitting down to dinner the telephone rang. It’s now Trudy, the RRS Lincoln area representative. Oh, here we go, I thought. Something has gone array. The best laid plans and all that. “I understand that you are coming to see Dover tomorrow,” she said. “No, Lincoln,” I said. It was then that she patiently explained that the dog we were due to see the nest day was called Dover. Anyway, I confirmed that that was the plan. She then said: “I have a better plan. I will bring him to you and if all is well I’ll leave him with you.” That was certainly a much better plan. Lincoln is a fine old city with some lovely features but you wouldn’t want to have to drive across the fens to go there unless you had to.

After another telephone vetting, and directions being given, it was arranged that we would expect to see Trudy sometime around lunch-time.

Over the years I have give directions to many, many people coming to us from all areas so I like to think that I know what I am talking about. But, almost invariably, if anyone gets lost it is because I didn’t give them full and proper directions; it’s not because they miss-understood or read-read those directions. I was, thus, suitably impressed that Trudy, with friend and Dover, arrived safely without getting lost. How they managed is anybody’s guess because when they finally appeared at the top of the drive one couldn’t see the inside of their car for the mist and steamed up windows. It appears that Dover started panting about five seconds after he got in the car, and never stop.

It is always an unnerving experience introducing a new dog into an established family. Puppies are easiest as the other dogs realise that they are no threat to the pack. But introducing a strapping two-year old rotty is like a like introducing a sulking, cantankerous teenager to a group of primary school children. I am all for throwing them in the field together and leaving them for an hour or so to sort themselves out. Debs takes a more cautious approach and insisted that Dover went in one field and Murphy and Biddy went in another so they were separated by the fence and sheep netting. Dover was thrilled to get out of the car and cavorted around the field stretching his legs and working off all his pent-up energy. When Murphy and Biddy were put in the next field all three of them - Murphy and Biddy on one side of the fence, Dover on the other - ran barking and growling, all the way along the fence and then back again. It was not a very promising start.

Debs and Trudy and friend went into the house for a cup tea and some pancakes while I stayed out to try and calm the situation. Eventually the two home dogs tired and went off to look for rabbits; Dover didn’t quite know what do to so I took him into the house to meet Meme. It would have been easier, and certainly a lot more pleasant, to take a rogue elephant into the kitchen. He charged in, totally out of control, jumped over Meme just as though she wasn’t there, smelt the pancakes, put both front paws up on the kitchen table causing all the tea and cups to spill their contents all over the table which in turn caused the girls to become almost hysterical. Of course, just as when people get lost, it was all my fault for not having him under control. Well it would be my fault, wouldn’t it? Most things are!

I felt then that it was time to get to a firm hand on the situation. I sat in the dog’s old arm chair and made Dover sit next to me. It was not exactly what he wanted to do but it was time to show him who was top-dog. And for a while it looked as though he was but eventually he began to realise that, actually, I was. When I had the situation reasonably stabilised Trudy said that she was quite happy for Dover to say with us if we were happy with him and if I would just fill in the paperwork she and friend would be on their way.

And so Dover came to Suffolk.

He has absolutely no manners and we have had trouble getting him settled. The following Sunday when things has calmed down slightly Debs laid some home-made bread on the table. While I reached into the cupboard to get the butter and my back was turned, he had the lot. A whole granary loaf swallowed in one go.

When I let the dogs out, Dover pushes passed Meme without a care. He knocks her over just as the aforementioned teenage would when pushing passed an old woman getting off the bus. But we have him and we will teach him how to behave.

So, just in the same way as the winter ended and the spring started, we lost our beloved Lad but gained Dover. Life continues its endless cycle.