Handbags and Poobags: Tales of a Soho Boxer Dog (9 page)

Chapter 19: THE ENJOYING OF HOLIDAYS

One part of dog ownership I wasn’t so sure about was the fact we were tied more to the home and less able to go on holiday. Foreign holidays seemed out of the question, after looking into pet passports and canine channel crossings it certainly seemed complicated.  But one year when Basil was about two we decided to try out one of the ‘dog-friendly’ cottages you could hire in the countryside. We decided on a beautiful little house on the Suffolk coast in the middle of Summer and prepared to relax and enjoy ourselves.

After the four hour drive through congested East London and getting lost in the countryside, with Basil fretting on my lap the whole way – yes we were still stupidly driving the two-seater Porsche - we were all a bit crotchety. I continued to be fractious the next day when it dawned grey and rainy, I couldn’t believe it, our first holiday in ages and it was going to be ruined, and all because we had a silly dog! It seemed terribly unfair as I imagined jumping on a last minute flight to somewhere sunny and gorgeous. I was used to beautiful hotels and beaches not hired houses and British weather.

Patrick vainly tried to raise our spirits and kept saying how happy Basil and he were at being away from London. And wasn’t the area beautiful? He took us to the wet and windy beach and bought us all chips to cheer us up. A seagull knocked mine out of my hands and I could have cried. It was the last straw.  But I knew I was being selfish and unfair. I had made the decision on creating this family and had to deal with the consequences.  That night we found a beautiful little pub full of normal looking people all with their own dogs and none of them were crying.   The three of us had a drunken laugh discussing the locals at the bar, our silly situation and how ridiculous I was!

The next day dawned beautiful and clear and it remained sunny and warm for the rest of our stay. We sunbathed, shopped, slept, explored, rambled, went for meals and were happy in the company of the three of us, exactly as a holiday should be. With not a room-service waiter or mini-bar in sight.  We even signed up to stay for an extra couple of days.

Basil had a wonderful holiday, he discovered a love of eating cow pats – or ‘flop snacks’ as we named them. And for the first time we had a huge, huge garden he could run around in. He spent his time rolling around in the grass, pin-wheeling between the hedges and loving it.  Once he went crashing straight through a high hedge and ended up in the field next door! He completely disappeared from sight. I heard him running on through the undergrowth. I stood up from my outdoor lunch worried. Would he come back? Should I run through the hedge after him? Then the sound of him clattering through the crops stopped. Silence. I waited. It started up again, got louder and suddenly Basil appeared again with some long grassy blades stuck to him. He’d obviously quickly realised he wasn’t in the garden with him mum anymore, but decided that life on the other side wasn’t for him and instead of taking his chance of freedom had panicked, turned round and come running back. Just in time for a sandwich.

But it wasn’t just actual vacations that were altered, we had to make changes to how we celebrated seasonal holidays too.  Basil’s first Christmas was a real cause for celebration. We bought him lots of gifts and were excited at the thought of him opening them all up. (Patrick will tell you it’s really hard to wrap a football). Basil was intrigued by the difference in the house, he really could tell something was up.

As usual we bought a large, natural tree and put it in a stand on the floor, every branch hung with glistening baubles, balls, tinsel and chains. Basil used to worry these, he would edge up to the tree and start nosing the balls closest to him. If they fell off he would chase them across the wooden floor, skittering along to try and get them into his mouth, covering his lips and snout with glitter and sometimes crushing the fragile globes into smithereens.

We started moving the lower hanging decorations higher up the tree. Basil started nosing up higher. We moved more. He followed them up the tree. Eventually all of our decorations were hanging on the top half of the tree, which made for a rather lopsided effect.  The next year we put the tree on a raised table, and still do.

As with every part of the dog world, there is a huge amount of related seasonal items you can purchase. And we bought all of them! The choc-drop advent calendar, the rawhide stocking, the canine Christmas card, the ‘My First Christmas’ food bowl, and that’s not even going into Hallowe’en (doggy devil horns) or Easter (fluffy chick toys). As you can probably tell we are very keen observers of public holidays and private celebrations and Basil is at the heart of all of these occasions.

Chapter 20: THE JOY OF COOKING

There is something attractive about dog food. I’m not sure what it is but it smells rather enticing sometimes (even though it is foul to have in your mouth) and I like mashing up little biscuits into it.  I started to prepare Basil’s food like I would Patrick’s, trying to tempt him with little titbits and gently warming everything up, maybe with a drizzle of oil. He likes a small cheese starter sometimes to get his appetite going.

I would be despondent if he didn’t eat everything, as if he didn’t like my cooking, which is obviously ridiculous as I hadn’t really prepared the tins of beefy stews myself (but is probably for the best as I am an appalling cook).  I became, and still am, obsessed with him getting vitamins and vegetables so I mash them up into his food bowl, and I really have to mash them up well because Basil will always manage to find and delicately pick out even the tiniest bit of carrot, pea or broccoli, leaving little chains of  vegetables in an otherwise licked clean bowl. He’s quite clever and dextrous really. Patrick tells me it’s because of his prehensile upper lip.

Despite not being able to rest if there is a bit of lamb in the slow cooker he’s not overly obsessed by food. I know some dogs are completely driven by the need to track down and consume anything they can get their paws on. I remember a woman telling me about the time she had mistakenly left her kitchen door ajar, allowing her big Labrador to break in and scoff three whole loaves of bread. Three! Basil would have daintily turned his nose up at that, he only likes one or two slices spread with (real) butter.

Although one of his very early food habits really gave us a shock. As we couldn’t go out as often in the evenings as we were used to during his puppy days, Patrick and I took to eating a lot of takeaways and convenience foods which we shared with Basil. He’d happily snap up discarded slices of pizza and tasty scraps and seemingly wander off to eat them, or so I thought. After the thawing of a bit of a cold snap we woke up in bed to find an excited, muddy Basil depositing a frozen black lump between us. Patrick extricated it from the sheets and held it up for inspection.

“
Is it coal?”
I asked, taking a sniff, “
where on earth has he got that from
?”

“
Hmmm, I don’t think it’s coal
” replied Patrick as he started crumbling the object between his fingers
.
Realisation hit and his face became horrified:
“Oh no, it’s a bloody PORK PIE.”

Disgusted, we both leapt out of the now grubby bed and raced into the garden. An old hole had obviously just been re-opened in the flower bed, it was lined with frozen pizza slices, bits of pitta bread and full of black cocktail sausages and the other half of the pork pie. Like an archaeological buffet, complete with maggots. We hadn’t had party food like this for a while, not since we’d held a bit of a Halloween celebration a few months before. Basil had obviously stolen the snacks while we weren’t looking and dug a special hole for them, supplementing it with any bits of takeaway offered to him and building up quite a hoard. We emptied the hole and covered it back up while Basil looked on, probably upset his secret squirrel stash had been discovered and destroyed. As long as it meant we weren’t going to wake up to any more foodstuffs that needed carbon-dating he’d just have to live with it. Sorry boy.

We share a lot of our food with him, when buying ingredients for a roast dinner we always buy enough for three so Basil gets the same as us. One of his best delights is a bowl of cooked chicken with gravy (and of course the ubiquitous mashed up vegetables).  Patrick will always give Basil the last bite of any sandwich that he has made ‘
because those are the rules’
, and the dog now certainly expects it!  If the boys are home alone it’s quite common for two plates of poached eggs and kippers with bread and butter to come out of the kitchen – one for each of them.

If we eat out we will always take any leftover meat home for Basil, wrapped up in a napkin and stashed in my handbag. The trick is to always remember that you have done this and give the ‘doggy-bag’ to your dog the moment you walk through the door. I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve looked in my handbag the morning after an evening out to find a slimy paper package filled with last night’s uneaten lamb. Cold and stinking up everything else in there. It’s like my drunken, forgotten chips all over again! Will I ever learn?

I’ll never forget the time we took him to our newly found local dog-friendly pub and ordered three steaks off the menu. The barman didn’t even blink an eye, asked how we would all like it cooked (Basil: medium rare) and his even arrived in a silver dog bowl ready chopped. Needless to say it became one of our favourite pubs and we often ordered a’ la carte for Basil who developed a taste for their pitted olives and bread, but turned his nose up at their kind offers of dog biscuits.  It’s a far cry from drinking in Soho at 4am, but almost as much fun.

When I met Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall at a cookery event of all the things I could have asked him, any culinary question on earth, I couldn’t help but quiz him on what he fed his dog and asked if he had any tips for Basil and I. After looking at me for a second to check I wasn’t mad (no just a bit drunk on organic nettle beer) he confessed to cooking up a few doggy treats himself and we happily discussed the merits of feeding fish to your pooch.

Basil’s food cupboard is stuffed with not just dog tins and chews but steak and kidney puddings, jerky, sardines in oil and there is usually a rotisserie chicken, fresh liver and some stewing steak in the fridge. And when I bake cakes or biscuits he is always hanging around to lick out the mixing bowl.

I worry sometimes that he is ruined for basic dog food but thankfully if there is nothing human forthcoming from us he doesn’t turn a can of chum down especially if its warmed up with some oil and cheese, which is a relief if you are too tired, hungover or drunk to oblige him with an egg sandwich.

Quite sweetly after he has eaten he regularly comes over to me for a little kiss and a cuddle, which I like to think is him coming to say thank you for his dinner. Patrick says he is just hanging around to see if there is any more, but I know better.

Chapter 21: THE STUDY OF ANATOMY

When Basil was a tiny puppy he was bitten or stung in the garden and came flying into the house yelping. He charged upstairs before we could grab him and hid under the bed shaking. We were totally at a loss what to do. Upset, we sat downstairs debating whether or not we should take him to the emergency vets (it was late at night) when a little face poked round the corner and with a worried lurch he leapt straight onto my chest and buried his head into my armpit. He lay there for a while shivering and whimpering. 

This was a big turning in point in our relationship, I realised that we weren’t just responsible for his physical needs (feeding, watering and cleaning up poo) but his emotional ones too. He came to me for comfort and reassurance, and I felt my heart expand with love at having such a responsibility for the little chap. 

We did end up taking him to the vets (cue an amusing, fast and free late night taxi race across town). But by the time we arrived he was, of course, fine and didn’t need the pain relieving jab he had, in fact he was doing his best cartwheels for the enchanted vet. All ended well, but I will never forget that night and how my view of owning a dog completely changed.  I feel sorry for all of those dogs in the world who don’t have the love, security and warmth of the ‘forever home’ they deserve. The owning of an innocent creature has certainly made me more emotional, sensitive and aware of wider problems. The only two charities I give to regularly are canine and childrens ones for this reason.

However much emotional security and love we give Basil, he gives it right back. I swear he can tell if you are anxious or upset or even in discomfort. One particularly grim day I was sitting on the sofa in pain, enduring what eventually turned out to be a miscarriage. I was confused and hurting and waiting to speak to a duty doctor and Basil just sat with me for hours. Very still, his head rested in my lap, he wouldn’t leave my side and didn’t pester me once for playtime, a ball or a treat as he usually would. As Patrick couldn’t be with me that day the comfort I got from Basil made me realise that he really was a member of my family – and one I could rely on.

But he can be a bit obsessed with us. When walking with Patrick and I, if we split up for whatever reason (usually when I am lagging behind on a run), Basil will attempt to keep equidistant between us. He has to know where everyone is at all times. He anxiously herds us around the house too, if one of us is on the top floor and the other on the ground floor, Basil is right in the middle unable to rest until we are all in the same room. I think he is only really happy when the three of us are in bed and he can lay on top of both of us, keeping us in check.

Basil has been in hospital for overnight stays twice and I was a wreck both times. The second time I had to leave work early (leaving an email to the team asking them to ‘
pray for my boy’
) just to be nearer the hospital.  I hate the little shaved patch he gets on his front leg where a drip has been inserted, for some reason it makes him look even more pitiable. It’s like they do it on purpose to make the owners feel worse when their dogs are bought out after their ops and all shaky on their paws. They are led out from behind closed doors and make a sad attempt to jump up at you with usual gusto - but just can’t make it. It’s terrible.  Basil always looks at us stoically as if to say: ‘
Don’t worry, I was ok, I got through it – just about’.
I remember after his castration he was so wobbly he was careering off walls all evening before collapsing in an undignified heap.

He recently had to be stitched up after a nasty cut on his leg, we went to pick him up at the end of the day and as usual he came wobbling out trying to jump up to kiss us but just not managing it. The kindly nurse bent down to put the large plastic cone on his head (to stop him worrying his stitches) and he promptly passed out. Honestly I’d never seen anything so pathetic.

Dogs wearing cones get a lot of attention. Apart from the fact your dog looks like he is wearing a plastic lampshade it is a signal to everyone else that they have been injured and there will be a few extra strokes and smiles as you walk along (and the obligatory question about
‘picking up SkySports on that thing’
from a friend). But you also look ridiculous! Passers-by who have no idea why your dog should be wearing such a thing just laugh at you. I’ll admit it is pretty funny, especially when they walk into a lamp-post. I am guilty of laughing at my own dog as he tried to walk down the road wearing one and got his head stuck in a gate.

Thankfully he’s never had a serious accident or really been that ill, apart from the time he got gastroenteritis from drinking a puddle in Primrose Hill, and he has just had an infected anal gland squeezed (but I am just unable to talk about that experience).

However, I remember one funny day we were taking a stroll around Camden and on taking the tow path along the canal the still young Basil took it upon himself to run into the water. He just started sprinting and carried on off the edge. He didn’t even jump. He just kind of disappeared. Patrick had him on an extending lead so he wasn’t hampered in his lemming attempt.  He was completely submerged! But I could see the line of the lead disappearing into the water, so rushing up I grabbed at it and with one hand raised a spinning, sopping puppy into the air.  I’m not sure who was most surprised? All three of us surveyed each other: Patrick standing shocked, still holding the handle of the lead, me balancing on the canal edge holding our dog aloft (the thin cord burning into my hand with the weight of him) or the slowly turning Basil who ruefully looked down at the disappearing ground that wasn’t meant to turn into this watery stuff.  We quickly bundled the shivering dog home and wrapped him in a warm towel. Silly boy.

Basil has joint medication administered as a gravy flavour juice in his food. Flea treatments are given when we remember or are feeling a bit itchy, (but usually when we spring clean the house, have someone over to the house or move house).  And all tablets are given in a little lump of cheap cheese – you know what they say about a spoonful of sugar helping the medicine go down? Well, it’s the same for dogs!

We still take him for regular check-ups and booster jabs, we all view it as a little family outing and best clothes are always worn. We chat with the vets in a slightly posher accent and try to subconsciously reassure them that we are responsible pet owners by asking plenty of needless questions about feeding and heart murmurs as we all nod knowledgably and smile lots.

You’ll get to know your dog’s body very well, usually because it’s always lying on top of you, but this is a good thing because you can tell when something is up with them. In our house we have various descriptions for bits of Basil or the things he does, which would mean that anyone listening in to one of our conversations might be slightly confused as only Patrick and I know what they mean. Basil shorthand if you will.

Here are some examples and best not used when you’re at the vets:

• WIGGUNS – his soft ears
  
• MUSHROOM – when he curls himself up really small to make a circle shape (as in not taking up ‘much room’)
  
• BEST IN SHOW – his noble stance
  
• HAMS – his lovely well turned thighs
  
• PYJAMA CASE – a little ruff of fur that travels up his chest and looks like a zip
  
• VELVET PURSE – his saggy, soft chops (also known as SATCHMO)
  
• LOPSIDED LIPPIES – where his bottom lips hangs further down on one side
  
• ROLLED UP SOCK – one of his white paws extends further up the leg than the others
  
• THE TAP END – getting his paws and claws facing you during a cuddle, like getting the taps in the back of your head during a shared bath
  
• THUMB TAIL – the nub of Basil’s docked tail looks like a thumb
  
• SHOVEL FACE – when he stands over you his chops hang down in a square giving the odd impression of a face shape reminiscent of a shovel