Monday, May 30, 2005
doggy tales
Every family has its animal legends, 'the dog that saved the baby' is a fairly common one.
In my family, legend has it that as a baby, being sunned in the back-yard in my basinette, I was saved from a huge black snake that was taking a less than friendly interest in my well-being by the family miniature foxy, a runty, smelly black and white animal named Trixie. Other friends and acquaintances all seem to have a more or less similar legendary family dog in their childhoods.
In fact my childhood was plagued by runty, smelly black, white or black and white dogs. Tess was the exception. A blue cattle cross who was allowed to have one litter of pups (my mother's wisdom was that female dogs should always be allowed one litter to improve their temperament before being 'de-sexed' (spayed)). Tess, true to her breed did a lot of damage to the heels of passing pedestrians and the tyres of the postie's bike before being 'given away to a good home on a farm' (according to mum) I always had my suspicions, and looking back I'm not sure that the threat of imminent legal action didn't consign Tess to a far harsher fate.
Next came -white and black- Ponka - so named by my much younger brother who was always wandering around with a wet nappy hanging off his skinny bottom and to whom the words 'stinka, pinka, ponka' (we were a literary family!)had been said so often that his favourite and almost singular word was 'ponka'. Ponka lived to a ripe old age and lived up to her name with a ripe old smell that permeated the family home long after she'd been 'skittled' (my father's euphemism for put down by the vet). I think we all heaved a sigh of relief when old Ponks was put out of her misery. Learning to catch fleas on my legs in the dark was something I can thank Ponka for. They were so thick in the house it was almost possible to pinch together any inch of skin and catch a flea on it.
After Dad died we grown up and left home kids decided that mum needed a dog to keep her company, so without reference to her, we bought her a black Labrador cross at a local fete and so mum enjoyed the company of Nigs (named after the lengendary, child-saving black labrador from her own childhood)for the next 14 years or so. Mum didn't want that dog but it ended up being her best friend. We kids were paid out for our gift by the fact that Nigs was only ever bathed when the youngest brother came home and consequently ended up as smelly and flea-ridden as Ponks before her.
One of my favourite dogs was a great dane named Athena (owned with a former husband who went on to name his future daughter after the dog!). This dog had a penchant for destroying things around the house when left too long alone or otherwise aggrieved. I can't tell you the number of times I came home to find feather pillows ripped up and feathers covering every surface but Athena's best trick was the time she'd been chastised severely by the man of the house. We had a dirty clothes hamper, a cylindrical cane basket about 5 ft tall. Lacking nothing in height, Athena had tipped over the basket, pulled out every item in it and strewn them all around the house. Strangely, nothing was ripped or chewed except Bob's absolutely favourite shirt, an almost sheer cotton with an intricate ruby red and deep green paisley pattern (well this was the early 70s!). It was ripped to shreds. Her message was loud and clear - don't mess with me buster!
Seamus was a huge and docile Irish Wolfhound who had a penchant for lying across doorways where it took a good bit of agility to clamber over his recumbent form. Do that several dozen times a day with a baby on your hip and see how you like it. Seamus got me out of a speeding fine once. I'd been pulled over by the police and was cursing my bad luck. When the policeman came up to the car and I rolled down the window, Seamus stuck his head out. The cop darted back a step, made some noises like 'do you know what speed you were doing madam' - then just waved me away with a caution to pay more attention next time. I reckon he was too scared to hand the ticket in the window or ask me to open the door. Little did he know, Seamus would have licked him to death.
But without a doubt my best dog ever was Daisy, a faithful and intelligent Australian Queensland Blue Heeler cattle dog. Daisy had a few hair-raising scrapes such as the time when she bit through the electric cord leading to the pool motor and another when we found her swimming round and round and round the pool, unable to get out again.
When she was young, we often found single shoes - shoes we'd never set eyes on before - around our yard. It seems when she got bored, she became the neighbourhood shoe-napper.
The next door neighbour rode a postman's bike and came up one day to show us the bruises on her legs where Daisy was attacking her every time she rode down her own drive when we were away from home. My eldest son who fancies himself something of a dog handler took Daisy to the beach once, then had to spend half an hour calming and providing first aid to a woman Daisy had decided to 'round up'. Another time we took her camping down the coast where the camping area had a resident goat. Daisy treed the goat for about 2 hours till we rescued it. She loved chocolate and could smell a chocolate at 100 yards. One Easter she ate all the tiny chocolate eggs hidden for the children't Easter egg hunt before they woke up (including most of the foil wraps) and another year ate the little bags of chocolate money right off the Christmas tree.
Even though I'm not a dog person, Daisy decided she was my dog - she was incredibly protective and always alert and so very, very smart and you never worried about intruders while Daisy was in the house. She tended to dislike men and while she never batted an eyelid at the boys' friends, she was unreliable around older men, particularly tall, thin men whose names started with the letter G - now how bizarre is that!
In my family, legend has it that as a baby, being sunned in the back-yard in my basinette, I was saved from a huge black snake that was taking a less than friendly interest in my well-being by the family miniature foxy, a runty, smelly black and white animal named Trixie. Other friends and acquaintances all seem to have a more or less similar legendary family dog in their childhoods.
In fact my childhood was plagued by runty, smelly black, white or black and white dogs. Tess was the exception. A blue cattle cross who was allowed to have one litter of pups (my mother's wisdom was that female dogs should always be allowed one litter to improve their temperament before being 'de-sexed' (spayed)). Tess, true to her breed did a lot of damage to the heels of passing pedestrians and the tyres of the postie's bike before being 'given away to a good home on a farm' (according to mum) I always had my suspicions, and looking back I'm not sure that the threat of imminent legal action didn't consign Tess to a far harsher fate.
Next came -white and black- Ponka - so named by my much younger brother who was always wandering around with a wet nappy hanging off his skinny bottom and to whom the words 'stinka, pinka, ponka' (we were a literary family!)had been said so often that his favourite and almost singular word was 'ponka'. Ponka lived to a ripe old age and lived up to her name with a ripe old smell that permeated the family home long after she'd been 'skittled' (my father's euphemism for put down by the vet). I think we all heaved a sigh of relief when old Ponks was put out of her misery. Learning to catch fleas on my legs in the dark was something I can thank Ponka for. They were so thick in the house it was almost possible to pinch together any inch of skin and catch a flea on it.
After Dad died we grown up and left home kids decided that mum needed a dog to keep her company, so without reference to her, we bought her a black Labrador cross at a local fete and so mum enjoyed the company of Nigs (named after the lengendary, child-saving black labrador from her own childhood)for the next 14 years or so. Mum didn't want that dog but it ended up being her best friend. We kids were paid out for our gift by the fact that Nigs was only ever bathed when the youngest brother came home and consequently ended up as smelly and flea-ridden as Ponks before her.
One of my favourite dogs was a great dane named Athena (owned with a former husband who went on to name his future daughter after the dog!). This dog had a penchant for destroying things around the house when left too long alone or otherwise aggrieved. I can't tell you the number of times I came home to find feather pillows ripped up and feathers covering every surface but Athena's best trick was the time she'd been chastised severely by the man of the house. We had a dirty clothes hamper, a cylindrical cane basket about 5 ft tall. Lacking nothing in height, Athena had tipped over the basket, pulled out every item in it and strewn them all around the house. Strangely, nothing was ripped or chewed except Bob's absolutely favourite shirt, an almost sheer cotton with an intricate ruby red and deep green paisley pattern (well this was the early 70s!). It was ripped to shreds. Her message was loud and clear - don't mess with me buster!
Seamus was a huge and docile Irish Wolfhound who had a penchant for lying across doorways where it took a good bit of agility to clamber over his recumbent form. Do that several dozen times a day with a baby on your hip and see how you like it. Seamus got me out of a speeding fine once. I'd been pulled over by the police and was cursing my bad luck. When the policeman came up to the car and I rolled down the window, Seamus stuck his head out. The cop darted back a step, made some noises like 'do you know what speed you were doing madam' - then just waved me away with a caution to pay more attention next time. I reckon he was too scared to hand the ticket in the window or ask me to open the door. Little did he know, Seamus would have licked him to death.
But without a doubt my best dog ever was Daisy, a faithful and intelligent Australian Queensland Blue Heeler cattle dog. Daisy had a few hair-raising scrapes such as the time when she bit through the electric cord leading to the pool motor and another when we found her swimming round and round and round the pool, unable to get out again.
When she was young, we often found single shoes - shoes we'd never set eyes on before - around our yard. It seems when she got bored, she became the neighbourhood shoe-napper.
The next door neighbour rode a postman's bike and came up one day to show us the bruises on her legs where Daisy was attacking her every time she rode down her own drive when we were away from home. My eldest son who fancies himself something of a dog handler took Daisy to the beach once, then had to spend half an hour calming and providing first aid to a woman Daisy had decided to 'round up'. Another time we took her camping down the coast where the camping area had a resident goat. Daisy treed the goat for about 2 hours till we rescued it. She loved chocolate and could smell a chocolate at 100 yards. One Easter she ate all the tiny chocolate eggs hidden for the children't Easter egg hunt before they woke up (including most of the foil wraps) and another year ate the little bags of chocolate money right off the Christmas tree.
Even though I'm not a dog person, Daisy decided she was my dog - she was incredibly protective and always alert and so very, very smart and you never worried about intruders while Daisy was in the house. She tended to dislike men and while she never batted an eyelid at the boys' friends, she was unreliable around older men, particularly tall, thin men whose names started with the letter G - now how bizarre is that!
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