9.3 Our Beautiful Monster

This is an instalment of an autobiographical series. For more information and a list of instalments so far, see right.

A troupe of puppies, their coats a mixture of colours and patterns, tumbled over an assault course of planks and bricks. Frog and I watched them. We were outside a cottage in the wilds of Central Devon’s farming country.
    A large brown and white springer spaniel emerged from the cottage and planted herself next to us.
    ‘I think she approves of us,’ I said to Frog.
    ‘I think that too,’ he replied.

Both Frog and I were more disturbed by Penny’s death than we had been by that of Brindle. Penny had been taken from us prematurely and it was horrible to think that she might have been poisoned. What must she have suffered?
    I tried to walk without her but it was hard. My back went and I spent a lot of time lying on the sitting-room floor in pain and misery.
    Six months after her death I was in the village seeing the physiotherapist about my back.
    ‘I don’t suppose you’re interested in a puppy,’ she said. ‘The sister of the practice nurse has some that need homes. They’re an accident, a mixture of her springer spaniel and the farm collie next door.’
    That had to be a sign, I thought. All the best animals came to you, rather than the other way round, and perhaps a new dog would heal me.

There was only one female left as all the others had been spoken for, and we wanted a female of course. She was outrageously pretty, white and black and spotted like a dalmatian. She watched us as she scampered up a plank, as if making sure she had our full attention.
    The next day, after a night to check our decision, we fetched her. She howled as we took her from her family but as soon as we stopped in a layby and let her out on to the grass (on a lead) she scampered off nose to the ground, intent on exploring her new world.
    The family had called her Lauren, which was a sweet name but not easy to call (and I expected to be doing a lot of calling), so we called her Ellie instead after the owner.

Ellie, just arrived

I’d forgotten how appalling puppies were, and Ellie was particularly bad.
    She had sharp little teeth which she wasn’t afraid to use, so I had to wear wellies at all times in the house in order to protect my legs, and throw handfuls of tiny dog treats on to the floor to distract her.
    We decided to attend a series of puppy parties at the vet’s so that Ellie could learn to be with other dogs and we could learn how to deal with her. At the first party however, she grabbed all the toys and piled them up under a chair, growling at any of the other puppies who approached.

Guarding a bone

Outside she immediately revealed her sheepdog heritage by tearing off after any woolly creature she saw in the distance, rounding up flocks (if I hadn’t caught her in time) and driving them from one side of a field to another.
    As she grew slightly older and bigger, she tried to do the same with me, running in a circle around me, snapping at my legs. I called it ‘going wolf’ as I could see her transform in an instant from tame to wild, good to bad. It usually happened on windy days in wide open spaces like the middle of fields, and in some ways I sympathised with her because I probably felt something similar myself. I couldn’t stop her however and I couldn’t catch her and I feared that one day she might seriously injure me.
    Frog and I decided that both we and Ellie needed the individual attention of trainer.

I still had a bad back but I don’t think the trainer understood that. I think she simply thought I was rather pathetic.
    ‘She’s a PhD dog, you know,’ she said. ‘Not an ‘O’ level one.’
    Frog and I nodded in complete agreement with her.
    ‘And how much time out walking are you going to be giving her?’ she asked. ‘She won’t manage with just a trip round the block.’
    ‘Two hours a day,’ I replied, that being my usual dog-walking time and the amount I needed.
    The trainer looked surprised.

With regard to Ellie’s tendency to ‘go wolf’ she said, ‘You’re going to have to get on top of this, otherwise you’ll have a problem dog and then you’ll have to pass her on to someone who can control her.’
    The trick she said was for me to keep Ellie on a long lead at all times when we were out. When she started circling I had to stamp on the lead and work my foot up it till I was as close as I could be to the snapping jaws. This should leave only a few inches of lead which would immobilise her. Then I had to take hold of her by the collar and keep her head still until she calmed down (and switched back into domestic-dog mode). Which could take some time.

    We practised during the training session, but back home on my own I was terrified because I could see that it would be dangerous to get it wrong. I knew I had to do it however because of what the trainer had said, and I did, first time. I was proud of myself.

Once Ellie had finished her course of injections and could go out in public she acquired another delightful trait.
    Because she was so pretty she gained a lot of attention. Men and people with dogs tended to leave her alone but everyone else fondled and cooed.
    Ellie would play up outrageously, rolling on her back and pretending to be sweet. She could spot a likely person at a hundred yards and would trot towards them imperiously. Frog and I called these people her ‘victims’.
    Often she would tag along with complete strangers, obviously thinking that they were a far better bet than we were. We would then have to retrieve her with profuse apologies.
    It was hard to train the behaviour out of her because it was the people we had to train as well. We thought about getting a harness for her with a message on it that read something like, ‘Beware. Femme Fatale. Please ignore.’

It was tough going, and my back still hurt, but as Frog said, ‘She’s a monster, but she’s our monster, and we’ll do our best by her.’

Our beautiful monster

In any case, far bigger things were happening out in the world.

To be continued