A monthly anecdote of Suffolk living

Download Word Document   Return to Home Page   Publication Archive

He's in the dog-house now.

by Guy Massey

They're just like us really. There are people they like and there are people they dislike, just as there are people we look forward to seeing and there are people who, well, we're not quite so fond of. The only difference, though, is that when the dogs dislike someone they make it quite clear they dislike them, whereas we say: "Oh hello. How nice to see you again. Do come in." Giving the impression all the while that they are our best friends and that we are thrilled to bits to see them again. Also, dogs don't normally change their minds. Well, actually, Debs is like that also. Once she has taken a dislike to someone that's it, end of story.

Our three dogs come from an assortment of broken homes; we're just suckers for sob stories. You only have to mention that someone's dog doesn't sleep on the bed or is not allowed up on the chairs and Debbie is around there demanding that either they amend their ways or they give the dog to her so she, or rather, we, can look after it properly. It is often said that we don't live in a house, we live in a kennel.

Meme, our gorgeous 14 year old yellow Labrador obtained from a divorcing couple, is not so much trouble nowadays as, not only is she is old, but she is also totally blind. But, despite that, like the rest of the female members of this household, she still does exactly what she wants, when she wants. First thing in the morning, when the others go out, Meme like to have a lie in and only goes out later when we all go for the newspaper. The other two dogs, Murphy, a black labrador, and Lad, the rottweiler, came from very different homes but were brought up together and are now the best of friends. We think they're the best of friends anyway. One of Lad's favourite games is, when Murphy is sitting up, to get hold of a large chunk of Murphy's neck and pull him until he topples over. Lad then drags him across the floor with his eyes bulging out rather like a lioness might haul a dead gazelle across the Masai Mara. When Lad is eventually persuaded to let him go Murphy just gets up, has a shake to rid himself of the worst of the slobber from around his neck, and seems none the worse for the experience. Another of Lad's tricks is to catch hold of Murphy's back leg so, just as Murphy is about to step forward, he is held rigid to the spot by Lad's vice-like jaw. Murphy may not actually enjoy these games but he never objects, just accepts it as part of life, just as British posties (mailmen) accepts dogs as part of life; just an occupational hazard.

Over the years we have had a succession of posties and newspaper delivery men. The daily newspaper gets delivered to the gate at the end of the drive and, every morning, the dogs and I walk down there to collect it. It's good exercise and it's become a something of a ritual, although on a cold wet winter's morning they do poke their heads out of the back door, look up at the weather, then up at me as if to say; 'Oh come on Dad. Look at the weather. Do we have to?' And I look at them and say; "Yes you do. What are you? Urban dogs or what?"

Posties in the UK have to deliver the post to your house so don't have the luxury of just dropping it at the gate and running as the newspaper men do. Having said that we did have one postie many years ago who used to give the post to Big Brandy - another labrador - to bring up to the house, It worked reasonably well. Brandy would sit at the gate waiting for postie. When postie arrived Brandy would jump up to the window of his Land-Rover and be given the post to carry up to the house. I am not so sure he would be able to manage nowadays what with the volume of junk-mail, but, as I say, it worked reasonably well….. when he wasn't waylaid by a passing rabbit, duck or other moving wildlife. When I mentioned, just in passing you understand - we don't want to upset anyone - that maybe, if it wasn't too much trouble postie could perhaps not give the post to the dog but drive up to the house with it, postie retorted: "But he likes to take it." Yes I know he likes to take it but he's not totally reliable. And can't sign for recorded delivery!

Over the years our succession of posties have found that it has always been in their best interest to become friends with our dogs. They don't need to be friends with us, although their Christmas bonus is directly related to their friendliness, but being friends with the dogs is certainly to their advantage. Some posties are real dog-lovers and actually enjoy coming to us. Other are find it a bit more challenging and carry with them a bag of Dog-Chocs to hand out like confetti at a wedding at the first sign of danger.

Generally speaking everyone tickles along and the years roll by without incident. But even posties are entitled to a holiday and once or twice a year we have a stranger in the camp. Perfectly nice you understand, but a stranger all the same.

We had a bit of an incident the other day with a relief postie which could have turned nasty. Debbie had left early to go to the market and I was already at work. We don't know quite what happened but when Debs got back she found the two blacks dogs running around outside without a care in the world. We don't normally leave them out on their own for fear that they might chase the ducks or wander off into the next parish. Anyway, Debs rounded them up, made a bit of a fuss of them by telling them how good they were not to run off, and gave them an extra special treat. And that pretty much was that. As you see, most of the time we don't have much excitement in this part of Suffolk; the rest of the time we don't have any!

However, the next day we had an very official letter from the Post Office stating that our rotty, Lad, had bitten the postie and would we in future ensure that our dogs were under proper control. Well, putting two and two together, we think that I hadn't shut the door properly when I'd left for work and the boys had been milling around in the house when they heard postie arrive. Thinking it was Barry, our regular postie, they charged at the door which, not being shut properly, just gave way, allowing them to spill out into the big wide world. I have no doubt that they were just as surprised at finding a stranger there as postie was at seeing two big black dogs breaking out of what seemed like a secure door.

You can understand it I suppose. Posties' natural enemy are dogs and when our two charged through the door it was his natural instinct to run. To run to the safety of his Land-Rover. Well, I can tell you, if there is one thing that our Lad likes and that is to run. And he can run faster than you can run, and to prove the point he likes to grab hold of your arm and pull you along. Clearly Postie didn't think too much to this game. Especially when he saw the blood soaking through the pale blue of his right-hand shirt sleeve.

So now, poor old Lad doesn't know what's up; doesn't know what to make of it. One day he and Murphy break out, play with postie and are given extra treats, and the next day he is back on short rations and spending his days in the dog-house while Murphy is roaming scot-free. Murphy, of course, denies all responsibility indicating that he had nothing to do with it at all. The fact that he probably worked the left flank while Lad was doing the business seems unimportant and is quietly forgotten in the cross-questioning.

But Barry will be back next week and then life can settle down again. We don't do with all this excitement.

© Copyright Guy Massey, June 2002

Download Word Document   Return to Home Page   Publication Archive