OK, so the dog days are the period between July and September, so I am a little late. But it struck me that I have been living here for three years and haven’t mentioned the experience of living with dogs. As Zoe, our dachshund, left for the great badger-hunting sett in the sky yesterday, it seemed a good time to write.
I have always thought that you are either a dog person or a cat person. And having had two felines I used to place myself firmly in the latter camp. I like animals that are essentially self-sufficient loners who choose when and where to engage with people. Maybe that says more about me than my pets but it’s probably because I hadn’t realized that dogs could be equally discerning.
For the past three years, however, I have been watched over, toyed with and subordinated by Zoe, the miniature dachshund, and Nessie, the Norwich terrier. As Nessie’s father was Das Terrier there is a strong Germanic theme running through their veins and it shows in many ways. It may be misguided to anthropomorphise dogs, but part of my learning is that it is very difficult not to think of them as people.
Maybe that is why the standard walking route has become a story book of other dogs we meet and have come to know. There is Louie, the coolest dog in the world, who is so chilled out because he is a genius, jazz-pianist who spends his nights wearing a pork-pie hat and playing in speakeasys. His bodyguard is Toby the Pomeranian whose zeal in controlling his garden border is only matched by the total decorum and daintiness he shows when being walked by his mother.
The other way you know that you have become a dog parent is that you are able to do the three-poop pick up on a walk with one bag. My early efforts usually found me having to have a thorough scrub of my hands when I got home due to my failure to execute the single poop grab satisfactorily. Walking that final mile with hands smelling less than fragrant always got pitying but knowing looks from the more experienced dog owners.
My introduction to Zoe was being told “don’t look at her, she doesn’t like it” and feeding her treats to avoid a savaging. She had been tormented by a toddler and ended up in a rescue when she was three. and was not going to allow an Englishman to disrupt the iron control she had over the household. I probably only survived because she worked out that I had opposable thumbs which meant I was useful for serving dinner to order.
Although of German descent, Zoe had a Napoleon-complex. Despite her limited stature she was fully committed to global domination and firmly believed that everything is part of the greater Germany and subordinate to her needs. Less than a foot high she was entirely sure of her capability to run with the big dogs and pee in the tall grass.
Zoe believed in reinforcing the dachshund reputation for being idiosyncratic, smart and manipulative. Little else justified the frequency with which a fully house-trained and intelligent animal expressed her displeasure at some minor human indiscretion with indiscriminate peeing. She was also wholly opinionated about music which explains why the first time I played guitar in front of her she pooped on the floor while giving me a disdainful dachshund side eye.
All that said she never nipped me which is more than can be said for the incautious who forgot how a small hound can sneak under your feet and only has teeth to remind you of their presence when you step on them. The fact she had a 30-inch vertical leap in her also meant that she was entirely capable of leaping up and sinking her teeth into someone’s backside. Watching that happen to an Arsenal supporting scouser was one of the moments where man and dog truly bonded.
The other good news about Zoe was that she was food-oriented which allowed the occasional trade of good behaviour for a treat or six. In that respect her final few weeks was a smorgasbord of all the things she had ever wanted but not been allowed because they were bad for her. The only thing she turned her nose up at was Spanish wine which I put down to a long-held grudge about Franco’s refusal to sign up to the Second World War.
Nessie, on the other hand, is known as either the BTE (Best Terrier Ever) or the GOAT (Greatest of All Terriers). Now, I know that every terrier person thinks they have the GOAT but I can tell you that Nessie could beat Serena at tennis, Usain at running and Magnus at chess if she wanted to. She could even beat the Brexit campaign at telling fibs if she wasn’t what I have learnt to think of as an honest dog.
Nessie did, however, almost get me in the most trouble it is possible to imagine. She loves to go for a walk, and I had been told that I should always put her in her box before taking Zoe for a walk. In the early days I thought I was in charge and decided to ignore the warning and the door was only open a crack before she vaulted over her sister and disappeared down the sidewalk.
There I was, an Englishman abroad in country where they drive on the wrong side of the road, have indiscriminate gun ownership and speak in a funny accent. And I had allowed the BTE to escape without any identifying collar. There are make or break moments in a relationship and this was unlikely to go down well.
The only option was to unharness Zoe and begin the long task of running around the neighbourhood hoping to get lucky. With heart filled with dread at all the things that could have happened I went to begin the task only to see Nessie sitting on the corner of the street looking at me with a grin on her face. She thought it was funny to teach me a lesson but didn’t want to hurt my feelings too much.
For now, we are a one-dog household with Nessie having the dubious pleasure of having to look after two humans. She will be good at that because she is kind, gentle and funny. And we will think of Zoe often as we sit in the garden and remember how she would express her wholly conditional affection by nestling against a convenient thigh to keep warm. Have fun, little dog with a big personality – we will miss you.
