Phrase Writers Group

On being walked by the dog

STANLEY'S DOUBLE DAY

One hour of constant casting out and reeling in, friction burns on my hands, arms barely in their sockets; only dry land is the difference between big game fishing and walking the dog.

The day had begun travelling from my West London home to South Wales, to stay with my cousin Julia and her almost-nuclear family of husband and 2.0 children.

Actually scratch the “almost-nuclear” bit. Their family has 2.4 children; the Full Monty, or rather the Full Stanley to give their dog his due. Stanley is a sweet natured cross. Lots of collie, some fox terrier all rolled up in boundless energy and charm.

Dogs are happiest knowing their place in the pack; Julia and her husband are the pack leaders, the children are puppies, and Stanley belongs inside and out, roaming the ground floor and garden. Julia accepts muddy paw prints and associated extra cleaning as an occupational hazard.

I am an honorary pack member with a single purpose. Dog walking. Which is why, five minutes after arriving I find myself halfway down the lane, arms being torn off by Stanley, hands suffering rope burns and holding on for dear life.

Rope burns? Dog walking requires high technology. The pooper scooper, whose purpose is self-evident and if you need its manual, well I don’t want to shake your hand. And the lead is no longer a simple short length of rope but a miniature garden hose device that reels in cord by touching a button and feeds it out again using pooch-power.

Technology means risks. Woe betide the inexperienced dog walker who yanks on the lead by hand instead of relying on the retractable device. Most make this mistake only once. With my years of experience I have multi-layered rope burns!

I had hitched myself to Stanley, so to speak. The lead was locked to the collar that is a permanent fixture round Stanley’s neck. As a youthful dog, he knows all about obedience and expects his pack leaders to provide food and a warm bed on demand. I took a generous handful of dog biscuits in case “Here Stanley!” didn’t work.

Julia had warned that Stanley pulled like a canine cart horse. But I was a veteran dog walker schooled with Teddy some years ago. A powerful but placid black tongued Chow, Teddy was built like a Husky and resembled a dolphin with his ever-present grin. Discussions on which route to take were short and sweet and I trotted where he led, stopping only when and where Teddy did. Which is how I learnt his regular walks through fields and forests meeting friends and not forgetting Frolics, his favourite treats.

Down the short gravelly lane with grass bisecting the middle like a mohican haircut, past the three thick, wooden poles spaced just enough to squeeze through and into the fields. There are no farm animals to keep the grass short, but dogs of all shapes and sizes, of the manor and without manners. Hounds full of the joys of spring, whatever the season; weeing and pooing in equal measure, and not a pooper scooper in sight.

I kept Stanley on the lead. He needed to grow up and calm down before running free. Stanley bounded through the grass, only stopping when he met another dog or the retractable lead reached its full length and my aching arm just about held on. And he met lots of mutt mates. Some were smaller than the supper piled high in his food bowl back home. Others were bigger or faster. All were the same to Stanley; chums to be sniffed and then accepted.

The walk progressed. Through groves, past gates and down a forest path. At the bottom was a gloriously muddy but small pond. TBA. To be avoided. AAC. At all costs, no matter what. You get the picture.

Stanley was bonding, going through time-honoured doggie rituals. They said goodbye or rather, I pulled Stanley away and we dawdled down the path. Or rather, I did. Stanley saw the pond, and with a silent bark of “Tally ho chaps” accelerated towards it, and the industrial-strength collar clip broke free and so was Stanley. Free. And he celebrated as only a clean young boy can, in the muddiest pond available.

I tried to tempt the sploshing dog with treats. No way! Stanley left the pond, crossed the small bridge across an even smaller stream and into another field. The aquatic activities finally caught up and, having snared him with biscuit bribes, I reattached the collar and lead.

Stanley’s predecessor was Max, a brown labrador whose coat camouflaged his many muddy misdemeanors. Stanley’s black and white fur was less forgiving. Where is a high pressure hose when needed?

Rather than risk returning past the pond, we went to a nearby road and walked up it. Stanley gave several mournful looks and appeared to be tiring. Fifteen minutes later and we were at the gate to Julia’s house. This was Stanley’s cue to rush into the garden, to his water bowl for well earned refreshment.

Not Stanley. He had got his second wind, and wanted another 3 mile lap of the fields and that pond. But I can do mournful eyes too so we went inside.

* * * * *

Another day, another walk and a titanic battle of wits with a dog that had tasted forbidden fruit and wanted more of that pond.

We retraced the previous walk’s tracks and activities. Close encounters with other pooches, peeing and pooping at irregular intervals. Stanley was dropping on his haunches in the long grass to gain the upper paw, but his twitching ears were a giveaway.

We approached the pond and went straight past it without any interest from Stanley. Daft dog. Yesterday was just an aberration. Over the small bridge. Half an hour round fields, Stanley racing anything canine. Back across the bridge and again beyond the pond. Stanley sank to his haunches, hiding in the middle of the path. An approaching Golden Labrador was not fooled. The inevitable happened, two mega mutts barreling around a small path making unwilling participants of passing people.

Eventually the hounds parted -- where is a bucket of water when needed? The Golden Labrador and owner walked down the forest path and absent mindedly I walked up. And Stanley sprinted after his latest bestest friend, collar went flying and both dogs bellyflopped in the pond.

A happy but bronze Labrador was reunited with its owner. Meanwhile Stanley left the pond and chased through the stream, getting cleaner but wetter. Onwards into the fields, enjoying every soggy step.

Another essential dog walking skill is sheep shearing. When Stanley paused for breath, I grabbed and pinned him between my pins, reattaching the collar and lead. With my trousers wetter than Stanley we went home via the road.

His mournful eyes now held a different message; spoilsport!

All dogs have their day. Stanley had his twice, a double day. But there was no gloating, no superior looks. Dogs know there are far more important matters. Food and water, socialising with the pack, lying by the fire and, of course, the next walk.