Alan Titchmarsh

I don't make a habit of watching Alan Titchmarsh's afternoon show - apart from anything else I am normally at work - but even as an ambivalent non-viewer I was sorry to hear he was having the notorious Cesar Millan as a guest on his show.

As someone who finds Cesar Millan's programmes, methods and influence an ongoing and depressing problem in both my work rehoming rescue dogs and my hobby teaching pet dogs, I was disappointed to hear that another TV show was giving him airtime.  I assumed he would use this time to blind us with his white teeth (certainly not with science), and to promote his upcoming arena tour.

That may well have been Cesar's intention, but what happened was something quite different, and quite unexpected.

If it hadn't been for the heads up on various dog forums I would not have watched it at all.  But from the comments I was seeing from people I know and trust, I knew I had to see it and finally at 7pm I got onto Youtube to see what all the fuss was about.

I sat through the first few minutes unimpressed, this was standard Cesar, his humble beginnings, his journey to the USA, his belief that he has a natural understanding of dogs, his psychology centre.  He is charming, he has a(n allegedly) cute accent, he smiles a lot.  Usually I would have switched off by now.

Then fluffy, cuddly, mild little Alan Titchmarsh surprised me, surprised a nation of dog lovers, and quietly stood up for dogs everywhere.  When Alan described what he had seen in videos, dogs being punched and kicked, he mentioned spike and electric collars, and from his actions and body language I could tell he had watched the footage and watched the dogs, and he had felt for those dogs being hurt.

Alan came across as very genuine, very sincere, and that is what worked.  He is not an expert on dogs or dog training, he spoke as "normal bloke" who likes dogs, has a pet dog, he found what he saw to be "unacceptable" and the methods "barbaric".  He hardly raised his voice, he used no jargon, and he asked some very straightforward questions.

Cesar failed to give any meaningful answers.  My favourite part was when asked why he didn't use food rewards, he offered a totally random anecdote about a parrot.

By the end I was tearful, choked up, something totally unlike me.  I went and posted a thank you on the show's facebook page - again something totally unlike me.

Thank you on behalf of my dogs?  What kind of soppy bunnyhugging nonsense is that? 

When you have personally worked with so many dogs who flinch away from hands, who are scared of having any collar on, who run away from the sight of a clicker thinking it is a shock collar remote control, when you see a puppy pinned for hanging on to a toy, dogs who have been taught not to growl, taught that no-one listens when they are scared, who have been labelled aggressive, unrehomable, and when you have seen how hard it is to rebuild their trust, and still years down the line there is a memory and a fear, and you know it was all absolutely avoidable, then you might understand. 

People who copy Cesar's methods damage dogs.  I know this first hand.  I have never met a dog Cesar himself has worked with, but I know that despite what it says on the screen people do try the things they see him do, they try their own interpretations, and their relationship with their dog suffers.  I have met plenty of dogs damaged by his methods.

Often the owners damage themselves too, as they do not have his quick reactions and instinct to protect themselves - often they get bitten.

This is not a hate campaign, this is not personal, and unlike the vocal minority on certain newspaper websites today, I certainly don't want to torture Cesar Millan or even shout at him.  I want to educate him.  This is about making a choice to use humane, scientifically proven, kind, effective training.  In conjunction with good management, it works. 

Yesterday could be the turning of the tide, it is time society saw through these outdated ways of training dogs, not just the scientists, the trainers, the experts, but all of us, dog owners and non-dog owners alike.

Well done, Alan, very well done!

New house

It is now nearly two months since we all moved to the new house.  The stress on the humans was considerable.  Everything takes so much longer than you think it possibly could, packing things, carrying things, sorting things, folding things, putting things in a safe place and never being able to find them again, cleaning things, breaking things, wondering why you even have so many things!?!

Eventually all our possessions were in the new house, and all we wanted to do was sleep, but my brain refused as the wall was in the wrong place.  So was the door, the window, oh and the stairs, which shouldn't even exist according to my bungalow-acclimatised logic.  We solved the wall/door thing by moving the bed, but the stairs I just had to get used to.

The dogs had to (re)learn a few new rules. 

Thou shalt not barge thy furry self past me on the stairs.  How is this different to thou shalt not barge thy furry self past me in doorways or corridors?  I have no idea, I guess you have to be furry to know, but thankfully that one sunk in very quickly.

Thou shalt sit in thy appointed spot while thy dinner is prepared and served.  Different kitchen, different spots.  Confusion reigned.

Thou shalt not chase cats in the garden.  Not convinced we have solved this, as such, but the neighbourhood cats appear to have opted out of the training process.

The good news is, three dogs have settled wonderfully.  But as I feared, Alf struggled.  He was fine for the first couple of weeks, after all, he is used to travelling with me, he has stayed in hotels, caravans, tents, holiday cottages and visited different friends and family with me for all the time I have had him. 

But after about ten days, he started to wonder when we were going home. 

His anxiety levels continued to rise, he was following me to the loo and waiting outside for me in case I flung myself out of the window.  Of course, not all dogs who follow their people around indoors are a cause for concern, and many people have perfectly well-balanced dogs who like to accompany them at all times but it is not normal for Alf to be a velcro dog at all.

It is not usual for him to sit on my feet in case I move, leap off his bed if I look at the front door, or lie across the bedroom doorway at night in case I leave home under cover of darkness.  Even when I'm driving along I can feel his gaze drilling into the back of my head.  

He came out in flakes on his legs, and a rash on his face, and was itching himself to bits.  Although I was convinced it was mainly stress, he went back on all the allergy treatments from last year, as well as what felt like all the herbal anxiety treatments in the world - poor rattling dog!

He is not the only dog to find moving house stressful.  I know of dogs who have started fighting, dogs who forget their housetraining, dogs who destroy sofas... oh no hang on, the sofa was Alf last time I moved.

Thankfully, his flakiness and itchiness has almost gone now, and he has started to settle down and relax more.

Hopefully soon he will accept we are all staying put, and won't feel he needs to keep such a close eye on me.  I do keep promising him I am not about to run away to sea - I don't even have a passport!

Lennox

The Save Lennox campaign came to an end yesterday, as Lennox was "humanely put to sleep" by Belfast City Council, a sad end to over two years of legal wrangling, accusations and counter-accusations, leaks, politics, protests and petitions.

Was Lennox dangerous?  Was he a Pit Bull type?  I don't know the answers, and that is almost no longer the point.  Lennox has become a poster boy, in his death he will be turned into a martyr for a cause, and his case has brought BSL to the attention of many people who neither knew nor cared about the legalities of the shape of dogs before this.

First and foremost, Lennox was a victim of a short-sighted law that caused him to be seized purely on the basis of his appearance.  Section 1 of the Dangerous Dogs Act 1991 banned certain breeds of dog.  In the case of "Pit Bull types", the document used was published in the USA in 1977.  Pit Bull Terriers have never been recognised by the UK Kennel Club as a breed, so there is no UK documentation that could have been used, and this is why the law refers to a type not a breed.  Bear in mind, at this time six month quarantine rules had been in force for nearly 100 years for dogs entering the country, and it seems to me extremely unlikely that the UK population of "underground" pitbulls would have had much genetic overlap with the USA population of show bred American Pit Bull Terriers.

Even supposing the ADBA description of a pedigree show American Pit Bull Terrier was appropriate for an unregistered fighting-bred pitbull type on a different continent, that 1977 description was 14 years old at the time of the legislation, and a further 21 years have passed since then.  I would not be surprised if in dog fighting circles 21 years equates to about 21 generations of dogs.

21 generations of selective breeding in any species can reap huge changes in both temperament and physical characteristics.  Where is the evidence that the law is even looking for the right thing in 2012?

People tend to assume the look and character of a dog breed is a fixed thing.  They think if you breed a Spotted Flooping Hound with another Spotted Flooping Hound, they will all look the same, forever.  This is not true, as not all Spotted Flooping Hounds will have the same number of spots, and within a few generations a breeder could easily select the most or least spotted examples, and the kennel down the road could do the opposite.  In a few years you could have a new breed, the Lesser Spotted Flooping Hound.  The debate on whether this is a breed, a line, a strain or even a crossbreed comes down to paperwork and politics, and is a complete red herring for this discussion, as anyone breeding pitbull types or other illegal fighting breeds in this country is not going to be attempting to register them with the Kennel Club anyway.

In show breeding, breeds tend towards physical conformity, and a line up in the breed ring can be like a house of mirrors where the same image repeats and repeats.  In many breeds, the focus on aesthetics has distracted from temperament and the original qualities of the breed have been lost.  Not all terriers show an inclination to kill small furry things.  Not all gundogs show hunting or retrieving instincts.  Not all collies show herding instincts.  In the same way, breeds originally used for fighting, bear-baiting or bull-baiting are generally accepted to now be perfectly safe pet dogs to own, as this temperament has been bred away from (e.g Boxer, Bulldog, Mastiff).

In contrast, when breeding working dogs, breeds tend towards a generally similar appearance, but working strains show far more variety in coat and type than their show counterparts - look at the working sheepdogs you see on farms or at trials, and they are all different.  They would be mostly black and white and medium sized, but not all symmetrically marked, not all one type of ear set, not all one coat length, but all selected and valued for their working ability and aptitude.  Put a working sheepdog in the show ring and you would get laughed out of town, but if you need some sheep fetching, many show collies would not have a clue.

I'm sure you can see where I am going with this.  I find it very unlikely that fighting rings would see any benefit in breeding dogs to correspond with a description of a show dog from 1977.  I suspect it is much more likely that they would breed for working ability, and in this case, this means selecting for a certain amount of size and muscle, an unpleasant, aggressive, stubborn temperament, and not fine detail of their physical appearance such as length or width of head, shape of tail, thickness of legs.

The "ideal" fighting dog could have changed immensely in the 21 generations bred since 1991, it could be a cross of any number of breeds, with or without pitbull, and could end up measuring up nothing like any of the breeds banned in the DDA.  It may still end up in court on the grounds of its behaviour, but that does not excuse the "incidental" killings of staffie crosses, lab crosses, mastiff crosses, who just happen to grow up to measure similar to a pitbull type. 

There is no proven correlation between aggression and any specific physical characteristics.  The DDA is therefore fundamentally flawed.

Lennox was only one dog, but literally hundreds of dogs have died under the DDA since 1991, most of which had never bitten anyone and were arguably not dangerous.  They died due to a hastily written law that says they look wrong, and takes no account of their parentage, or most importantly their behaviour.  Whatever the rights and wrongs on either side in the Lennox case, let the focus be on the fact that his first mistake was that he looked wrong, and in the end that is why he died.

Nerves

Two days to go.

Two days of stomach churning nerves, two days of waiting, then it will all be over, Alf's first ever final, the one I have wanted to qualify for since I first heard it existed, the rescue league.

Apprehension.  Excitement.  It's all bubbling away in there, counting down to Sunday.

The steps to get here have each felt so huge.  Every round, every rosette, I have treasured every single one.  Every time I remind myself how far he has come.  I remember the pride and emotion of submitting his first ever points onto the league website, for his first ever clear rounds last March, then places in April.  His first ever trophy in May - and his second the same day.

Then realising he was creeping towards the top of the table.  Daring to dream he might be good enough for the finals.  Wondering if the points would be enough, as the year drew to a close and other dogs still had shows in October and November, while we had none.  But he did it, he finished in the top 20.  I thought I might burst.

In February, it came, an invitation to the finals.  Thud.  Suddenly it felt it might be real.

I had to write a commentary.  Wierd feeling, surely that is what people with top grade 7 dogs do for Olympia and Crufts, not little me in grade 1 with her strange hairy lurcher boy.  I could have written so much about him, I can't even express what he has put me through at times, but he is amazing, and I love the bones of him.  How could I tell his whole story in 35 seconds?

There is the worry of an unfamiliar venue, what will the layout be like, where will the parking be, and what if we get lost on the way there?  I know my stomach will be full of monsters, never mind butterflies - and where are the loos?  Hopefully walking the course will calm me down a bit, once I see what we have to do, and once I know we can tackle it. 

But I still know my legs will turn to jelly as I walk to the ring.  I know I will have to remind myself to breathe.  I'm getting stomach flips just thinking about it now.

I hope that once I am on that line, I will think only of Alf and the course, I really need to find our bubble, more that ever, this run needs to be about me and him and nothing else.

I know it has been said before, but the hard work was getting there.  Everyone keeps telling me to enjoy it, enjoy my dog, he has earned it, we have done it together, as a team.  It is not about winning this final, it is about being there.  So I promise I will try to relax enough to enjoy it, I will try not to let the nerves spoil the experience - he tries so hard for me it's the least I owe him.

Two days.... and counting.

Silliness

Everyone needs to be silly sometimes, it is good for the soul.

One thing we have discovered is Basil has a weakness for plastic bottles.  One night, I flattened an empty 2 litre plastic drink bottle ready to go in the bin, and Basil came dancing up, looking interested, and tried to take it off me.  I played at chasing him along the sofa with it, then he grabbed it and charged around the room killing it.

This was unbelievably cute - the bottle was as long as the dog - and unbelievably funny - Basil attempted massive leaps with the bottle between his teeth and somehow always made it, and it was impossible to watch him in action without laughing so hard it hurt.

The game was entertaining enough that I hardly needed reminding to play it again the next time we finished a bottle of drink.  Basil bounced around in full on crazy mode and we laughed and laughed, and when he dropped the bottle I pounced on it and threw it for him and he did it all over again.

The game has developed over time, and one day he brought the bottle back to me.  We played tuggy, but I didn't make him let go, and when he "won" he was ecstatic at his own cleverness and strength, and came straight back to see if I would tug again.

The plastic bottle game is now one of Basil's favourite things, and he still starts every game with a few laps of all the furniture and making as much noise as possible.  Then I have to pretend I want to steal it, and stalk him along the sofa with my hands.  I play chasey-chasey with my fingers, shuffle my feet, and pretend I can't see him, he puts on his stupid ears and plays hide and seek at 900 miles an hour around the furniture, crashing the bottle into the legs as he goes.

The thing with the plastic bottle game is it was always meant to be silly, just pure fun, it never had any rules or any purpose.  It's not as though I didn't play with Basil at other times, on his walks, in the field, we would play fetch or tuggy games, but they didn't initially tap into his silliness in the same way. 

His sheer joy at being given a plastic bottle to race around with brings a smile to my face every time.  Not for nothing is one of his many nicknames "Basilly".

Silliness is great.

Never

"I would never..."

It seems to me a lot of people who pride themselves on being animal folks are forgetting how to relate to their fellow humans. I have heard "I would never..." an awful lot recently. Whatever happened to putting yourself in someone else's shoes and trying to see their point of view? You may still not have made the same decision in their position, but trying to understand why they have acted as they did surely means as a decent human being you can offer support and sympathy.

"I would never give any of my dogs up."

Never is a long time. Anyone who cannot come up with any scenario where they may have to face this possibility either lacks imagination or leads a truely charmed life. Yes there are people who get rid of their dogs all too lightly, who buy a puppy on a whim and kick them out for growing too big or too inconvenient. But this isn't about them.

What if you were injured or ill, reliant on carers or hospitalised for a long period of time? What if you lost your job during this time, and you couldn't afford a dog walker?

I have only spent a few weeks on crutches at a time, but that was enough to teach me that being able to walk my dogs isn't something I should take for granted. If I hadn't lived where I did and been able to hobble out to a secure field and let them run, what life would they have had for those few months? And what if it wasn't months but years?

"I'd never give up a dog for biting."

For biting who? You? The postman? Your children? How many times? I have never yet come across someone willing to rehome their child in order to keep their dog, so if a dog is not suitable to be around children, and the owner does not have the skills, time or resources to make that dog suitable, then rehoming can be the best choice for everyone.

What if the dog was fighting with your other dogs? What if you got caught in the crossfire and ended up in A&E and your other dog ended up at the emergency vet? Is forcing those two dogs to live together for the next 10 years really the best option? However careful you are there will be a door left open one day, or a bit of toast dropped, errors that trigger a fight and possibly injuries. With all the management and behaviour work in the world some things are not fixable, and living with tension and stress is not easy.

"I would never live somewhere that didn't allow me to keep my dogs."

I've always flippantly said I would live in my car if I had to, but I know that would not be a long term solution, it would not be fair on my dogs. Many of us are lucky, as I know I am, there are people who would take us in, my parents, other family members, some good friends, I would be very unlikely to be truely homeless. But what if you were?

What if you had no parents, no job, no money? What if your partner has left you with two children under 5 and a dog, you are offered emergency accommodation but are not allowed to take the dog, do you turn it down and risk losing your children to foster care, or would you rehome your dog? One of the first dogs I remember booking into a rescue centre was that exact situation. The owner knew the dog was young, healthy and friendly, and going to find a new home really easily. She was looking at months of instability for herself and her children. She cried buckets, I don't think for a moment she took that decision to part with the dog lightly, and she deserves credit for having the courage to give the dog a brighter future.

"I would never be able to do your job."

I'm no saint, I don't do this job as a penance, I do it because I believe in what we set out to achieve, to help and rehome the animals, responsibly, and to provide backup for when things sometimes don't work out. But don't forget we get to see the happy endings, that is why I do it. And if you don't think you could do it because you love animals too much, I would say you are wrong, you probably couldn't do it because you don't like people enough.

It is people who have cared for these animals through their lives so far, people who are in tears at feeling forced to give them up, people who will donate the money to fund the rescue centre and people who will offer these animals new homes. Focussing on the sad puppy dog eyes is only half the story, and you sell yourself short as a human being if you cannot see the human side of the story.

Work

I have a full time job, and I have dogs.  I'm starting to feel like I will be hauled out and shot at dawn any day now.  According to many people who have never met my dogs, my dogs are neglected, under-stimulated, under-exercised, unloved and miserable, and I am selfish for keeping them.   I have lost count of the number of times a variation on this has been said to me by a visitor to the centre, on the phone, or even during a homecheck, usually just a few minutes after asking in passing if I have any dogs of my own - who are home alone at that very moment!

I would say my dogs are content, fit, active, fed a good diet, walked, played with, trained, groomed, cared for, and better off than many dogs.  Yes of course I would love to spend all day with them, but my employment has paid for their care and provided a roof over their heads since I first got Toby!

Ironically enough I am hearing more and more about rescues who will not rehome to people who work, not just full time, but anything over a couple of hours per day.  As I work for a rescue, and many of my colleagues also have dogs, I am continually defending rescues who home to full time workers, and trying to convince full time workers it is possible to rehome a dog, after they have been turned down elsewhere. 

I have homed many dogs to people who work - it would be incredibly hypocritical of me to refuse to do so, when my own dogs have all been rescues.  It is not the right setup for all dogs, but I have homed dogs to be left all day, if the dog is suitable and the people are prepared to put some effort into getting the dog happy to be left.  Many dogs are quite content to spend some time alone - I go home for lunch, but my dogs sometimes give the impression that they get up to greet me just to be polite.  They are certainly not pacing, howling, trying to chew their way out, or desperate to relieve themselves. 

Do I sound defensive?  Probably I do, I go to great lengths for my dogs, our days are planned around them, when I am not working I am with them, we bought a van to take them places in comfort and safety, we spend a lot of money on their care, half my bookshelf is devoted to understanding them better, our holidays include them, even our wedding and honeymoon had to be suitable for the dogs.  For anyone to question my commitment to doing my best for them, yes that hurts a bit.

There are thousands of dogs owned by people who work full time, and most of those are happy, well adjusted, healthy, fit and loved, and in fact I see many of them each week at training classes, and in the summer at agility shows.  Those dogs don't have a bad life at all, there are far worse fates for a dog than being home alone for a few hours while your owner earns the money to feed you.

Crufts

A week after Crufts finished and we've just finished watching all the agility on the catchup, which this year is on YouTube for the first time. We are very lucky as agility addicts that all the main ring coverage is live streamed, and available to watch back online.

This year, as for the last few years, I went to Crufts on two days to help with the rescue agility display - although on the Saturday it was a very fleeting visit, leaving home at Stupid O'Clock to get to the NEC just after 8am, and leaving before getting stuck in the crowds. On the Thursday I was there for longer, as the display was in a really good slot in the middle of the day.

I get some mixed reactions when I mention I am going to Crufts. I see it as an amazing opportunity to promote rescue dogs. No other event anywhere will bring together so many people who care about dogs. The rescue agility display includes dogs of many breeds, some recognisable, some total mutts, and the message for all of them is the same, "I was unwanted, but look at how far I have come". The message is not about reaching the highest levels of agility (although some rescue dogs do), it is just about showing that these rescue dogs are happy, trainable, sociable, lovely dogs.

Some people feel it is inexplicable that someone who works in rescue should attend something run by the Kennel Club, who support breeding. I don't see rescue dogs and breeding as totally incompatible. I have been working in rescue long enough to meet many good breeders who truly do provide lifetime backup, and often not only for the dogs they have bred, but to others of their breed whose breeders do not take responsiblity.

However, I have to confess I avoid the breed rings at Crufts. I see too many things I am uncomfortable with, too many dogs "strung up" on show leads, too many dogs showing mild avoidance of the judge or handler. There are too many question marks in my mind over how and why so many dogs are bred - I know some excellent breeders, but by definition they are not representative of the average. It is possible to spend all day at Crufts and not see any breed showing - I'm sure some people do nothing but shop!

There is good and bad in all areas of course, and I see things that make me cringe around other disciplines too. I know one person who cannot bear to attend agility shows in case they see someone lose their temper with their dog, as once they saw a dog scruffed. It is true there are some people who are not very nice to their dogs. But you will see them everywhere, at the park, at the vet, at the beach - staying away from shows of any kind will not protect you.

Crufts means something special to the agility world. Qualifying to take part in one of the Crufts agility events is a lifetime ambition for many people, and a true achievement. I just wish people would realise that for those 60 seconds in the ring they are representing agility, to the whole dog world. Other dog owners will judge agility by what they see, and handlers shouting in frustration at their dogs does nothing for any of us. My pet hate is handlers who ignore their dog at the end of the run, no praise, no toy, not even a smile, just walk out of the arena (sometimes chatting to the ring party). How must that look to the general public?

For me, Crufts was the reason I first tried agility. When I was younger the BBC used to do an "activities" programme about a week after Crufts, that featured the obedience, agility, and other non-breed aspects of the show. This was pretty much the highlight of my TV year as a child,along with One Man And His Dog of course, and I always knew when I had my own dog we would try agility.

Now Crufts has come to mean that the agility show season is getting close. Watching so much awesome agility is the perfect motivation to do some more training, shows are nearly here, the evenings are drawing out, roll on summer! I really struggled with Crufts the year Alf and I were out of action, as it was just a reminder that I was going to be an observer not a player.

And it's not just me who gets lifted by Crufts - I'm sure many people watch it and dream of maybe one day being on that green carpet, and train harder or better. This week at training one of the newer members of the club turned up with a new lead, new toy, and new attitude. Wow. The dog has always been brilliant, but this week the handler was brilliant too, so positive, and really getting the best out of the dog. The difference? She went to Crufts and got inspired watching the agility. It just goes to show how much can be learnt by watching the best handlers and dogs in action!

Trust

Basil got scared yesterday.

It was a bleak reminder that however confident he now appears, the fear is still there, and he has not forgotten his past.

His beautiful new waterproof, windproof, posh winter coat arrived yesterday morning.  Putting it over his head was almost like his fleece, so he thought that was fine, and the belly strap was a bit like clipping up his harness, so that was ok too.  However, the back leg straps that are designed to stop the coat billowing out like a cape were a different story.

Somehow Basil got his foot caught on the elastic.

When he realised his foot was caught he screamed, then turned and grabbed my thumb, panic panic panic, grrrrrrrrrrr grrrr grrrr, bite bite bite, retreated into a sit with his caught up leg folded under himself, and simply shook.  I have to give him credit, even in this state he didn't hurt me, I don't have a mark on me.  His bites were perfectly inhibited, he made his point that he was scared and wanted my hands off him, he had no intention of wounding me.

It was so horrible, to see him shaking, ears flattened back, eyes wide, terrified, all because of a strip of elastic stuck between his back toes.  He didn't dare move, as every time he tried to stand up the coat pulled the elastic tighter.  He was vibrating so hard I could hear the fabric of the coat rubbing against the wall, so so scared.  He was confused, he wouldn't break his stare away from me, on one level he wanted me to help him, but he didn't want my hands anywhere near his feet.  His two greatest fears - humans hands and things touching his feet, all rolled into one.

If I'd written this last night, it would have been called "Fear".  It would have been about how dogs remember the bad stuff, mental scars that can last a lifetime, how sad that he was like this, how awful that dogs can have such baggage.  After all these months with us, one little thing and all his handling fears seemed to be back, I was cross with myself for allowing such a stupid thing to happen, and cross for the demons in his past that had destroyed his trust in me.

Last night, it took him a couple of hours to forgive me, before he would climb up and curl into his usual tv-watching postion under my left elbow, and another hour before he would be stroked without tensing up.

This morning, he had the new coat on for his walk with only a small worried wrinkly-nose face, after all, he is used to his fleece coat on for morning walks, so I didn't attempt the back leg loops, and he wore it cape-like.  I could almost hear the music in my head as he galloped up the field... Suuuperdog.... dah dah du-daaaah!  His front must have been warm, but his back must have been freezing - I didn't pay all that money for you to have a cape, you silly dog.

Later, I put his new coat on him again, without the leg loops, armed myself with some stinky treats, and we sat down on the sofa, Basil next to me, Alf on the floor.  Alf sit, treat, Alf down, treat.  Basil sit, treat, stroke your head, treat, down, treat, touch your back, treat.  Basil are you looking a bit worried?  No problem, Alf will do a couple of things till you decide you do want treats too, Basil sit, treat.

Slowly we continued, sometimes Alf is so useful, I picked up his feet, treat, rubbed his belly, treat.  Basil watched intently, and from the first tiny touches on his legs we yo-yoed back and forth from his head down to his feet, then I started touching the coat and the elastic.  Every time Basil looked worried, I threw him a treat over by the fireplace, so he scampered off to get it, and every time he made the choice to come straight back and watch me prodding Alf, and within seconds he was sat by my knee, wagging his tail asking me to prod him too.

It was his choice, it wasn't bribery, he wasn't held still or on a lead, I wasn't shoving the treats down his gob and trying to touch his foot while he was busy chewing, that wouldn't have achieved anything at all, expect maybe put him off taking treats, or taught him to grab and run away.  He didn't get the treat until after I'd touched his foot.  He made the choice, I trust you to just touch my foot, not hurt me, and I understand that's how I earn my treat.  And when a dog sits there and wags their tail and says please touch my foot, yes the same foot I wouldn't let you near yesterday, that is trust.  So fragile, but he chose to trust.

I felt so relieved, the relationship I thought we had was still intact.  The work of the last few months had not been wasted, he had learnt that bad things sometimes happen, but that you can bounce back, that I will listen when he says he is worried, and that I don't trick him into things.  His little face focussed and intent on me and his tail wagging told me he still trusted me.

So, within a few minutes he was wearing his leg straps, nothing worth mentioning for many dogs, but after such a scare the day before this was a big achievement for Basil, and I am proud of him for giving me his trust.

Time

Time heals, they say.

Time certainly passes, and there is nothing anyone can do about that.  Each day takes me further away from when I had Toby.  Every morning, I feel guilty if he isn't my first thought when I wake up.

Time spent crying, of course that is an essential part of grieving, sometimes set off by the most trivial thing.  All the big things, I did them straight away, Toby's lead was put away with his collar as soon as we got back from the vet, his bowl put away the same evening, his coat taken off the radiator. 

But it is the little things.  Little routines that are suddenly missing.  Habits you didn't realise you had - none of the dogs need waking up when I get home now.  None of them need five minutes head start to get through their dinner.  None of the dogs need me to slow down in the field when they stop to sniff so they don't lose me, and none of them are too deaf to know when I want them to turn around, move over, or get their furry little backsides over here sharpish, or else.  None of them woof with the right tone, and none of them smell right when I bury my nose in their fur. 

But I am lucky I still have other dogs, I can only imagine how much worse it would be to go through this without them, they really do lick the tears away, Basil's tongue at warp licking speed, and then Alf nips my nose to make me smile.

Time spent thinking, talking, telling people about Toby, and the fact he has gone.  When I'm not at home I feel like he is still there, he must be, he always is, and he will be waiting for me when I get back.  Walking through the front door is like swallowing a concrete block, my stomach leaden, a hollow awareness that someone is missing.  For the first few days it took a real effort to put the key in the lock and go indoors to no Toby, and a couple of times I caught myself standing outside the door staring at it, as though it would bite me if I went too close.

Time spent looking at photos, some bring more tears, but many many more bring smiles.  I have been cold these last few days, shivering for no reason, but this is warming me from the inside with all the memories, thinking of all the good times.  Oh we had a lot of good times.  Time spent walking together, sunny, rainy, windy walks and his favourite, snowy walks.  I find some photos I had forgotten about, taken at the top of Glastonbury Tor, my three muskateers and me, very windswept.  And the next set shows the three of them flopped all over my parents' garden sunbathing, and me reading a book.  We spent a lot of time doing not much together.

And looking at photos makes me realise how time has passed.  How my gorgeous boy changed with the years, his eyes, his face, his coat.  Changes you don't notice day to day, it happens too gradually, and seeing young Toby again is a reminder of how much he had aged.  His character was always there - even in the very first Toby photo I sent home to my parents I can see that look, intense, staring at me, or more likely staring at a biscuit just out of camera shot.

In time his ashes will come back, and I will put them together with Prin's and Bob's.  Time will cover the boxes with dust, and from time to time I will brush it off.  But wherever I will go they will come with me, and I will always be glad I knew them.  My original pack of three, Toby my first, then Bob, and Prin my inheritance, they have shaped me, loved me, made me a good dog owner I hope, and taught me more about dogs than I ever knew there was to know.

Time gives perspective.  And I wouldn't change a thing.

Decisions

And then there comes a time when old age is no longer kind to a dog.

When creakiness becomes pain, stiffness becomes unsteadiness, absentmindedness becomes confusion, and sleep becomes a relief for you both.

The first stage in making any decision is realising that there is a decision to be made.  The first painful step on a difficult road.  And it is difficult every time, no matter how many times you have been down this path with a different dog by your side.  The guilt of considering there could be life without them, your loyal dog - how could you want that to be true?  How could that be a decision you even contemplate?

Good days and bad days, from when you first realise it may soon be time it could be weeks or months.  But when the soul of my dog looks out at me through those misty old eyes and I see no joy, no spark, no hope, and he asks to be set free, how can I refuse him this, when he has asked for so little all his life?

And so I stroke that soft head again, I think of all the things we have been to each other over the years, he has given me so much.  And my decision is made, not because I don't love my dog, but because I do.  How much do we love them, these dogs, so much, and how hard is it to let go, so very hard.

 

I know I will fall back on phrases it seems we dog-owners must have said since the beginning of time, "it's for the best, the right thing to do, it wasn't fair, he wasn't happy".  None of it seems enough, none of it expresses the hurt I feel, the loss, the emptiness.  None of it explains how he told me it was time, and how he asked me to be strong enough to make the choice, even though I feel like I am losing a part of myself.

Life will never be the same without him, my shadow.  The world will not stop turning, but it should.

And then I will let him go, but I will always remember.

Old dogs

For as long as I can remember dogs have grown old.  Death was never hidden from me as a child, and I have always known that muzzles go grey, dogs slow down, they don't live as long as we do and one day they die. 

I have very early memories of walking a docile old black Labrador called Bess through our village.  We were about the same height, and I was so proud to be allowed to hold the lead, although looking back she was the type of dog who just walked next to you regardless of what you did.  I remember trying to convince my dad that as the dog licence (!) was paid by someone I was related to then the dog must partly belong to me.  As we didn't have our own dog I desperately wanted just a fragment of that dog to be mine.  I'm sure I cried when she died, although I only saw Bess a few times each year.

I remember fondly many middle-aged and old dogs from my childhood, and I don't remember a single puppy.  We never had our own dog, but I had many friends in the village with dogs, and my uncles and aunts always had dogs.  I remember old dogs being treasured and loved, and mourned when they went.  I remember people going to such lengths to make their last days happy, and I remember many times those words of comfort "they had a good life" and knowing that that was important, above all else they had a good life.

It is a sad day when you first look at your dog and realise they have aged.  Not sad for the dog, they don't know, they don't think like that, and so often we say "oh he doesn't know he's old".  Age is kind to many dogs, they grow wise, they understand their families and their moods, they are comfortable in their surroundings, content in their daily routine of walks and food.  They owe us nothing, they are good dogs, one of the family.

A few stiff steps and a stretch to get the kinks out, a tad more effort needed to jump onto the sofa, but there will still be something that brings that old dog to life, and you see the joy in their face.  For Prin it was running on the beach - with occasional stops for rockpooling and to eat dead fishy things from the tideline.  For Bob, a squeaky toy.  For Toby, snow.  For Jess, balls.  Even after her sight completely went if she found a ball she would grab it and dance in front of you, then spit it out waiting to play again.  We got her one with a bell inside, so she could hear it when it rolled and she could still play her favourite game.

But from when we first see the grey hairs, notice the cloudy eyes, or realise a recall has gone unheard, we always know they have limited time left, and it makes us love them more fiercely, as though that will keep them with us for longer. 

I have lost count of the number of times I have looked at one of my oldies sleeping and my heart has missed a beat as I think they are too still, not breathing, then a tap or a shake and they blearily open their eyes, no idea you were home already and the youngsters had barked.  It takes a few seconds for them to focus on you, recognise you, and then they get their fuss and greet you.  They were just away in dream land, sleeping their days away, comfy and warm, and I smile with relief and love, just glad they are still here.

I've never lost one of mine in their sleep, although I know it happens, and I am torn between thinking it would be best for them, hardest for me.

Hello 2012

I really can't remember the last time I made a new year's resolution.

Most of us know we "should be" healthier, leaner, more organised, but the truth is guilt is a hollow motivator, and without true motivation all these resolutions are worthless.

So why is 2012 different? I think because this resolution is not for me - it will benefit me - but this one is for the dogs.

So here it is...

5 minutes of quality time per dog per day.

One to one, no phone, no laptop, no tv, (and this one is hardest) no other dogs, just me. Simple as that.