Saturday 28 July 2012

What did you think of the glorious opening ceremony laid on for us by Danny Boyle last evening, then?  I must humbly confess to some cynicism (as hard as it may be for longer-term readers to believe that I possess even the merest whisker of cynicism...), about the costs to our already beleaguered nation; the transport chaos (Olympic road lanes be d*mned), the inexcusable c*ck-ups (Q: How many G4S Security Guards does it take to change an Olympic lightbulb? A: Six squaddies and a policeman...) and the soul-less sponsorship Nazis (only MaccyD's are permitted to sell chips - sorry - "fries", and the rumours go that the police have been ordered by the refreshing carbonated beverage suppliers, Coca-Cola, to Taser anyone seen with a Pepsi can until their cold, dead, ungrateful body stops twitching).  However, I am now prepared to admit that I may have misjudged.

The opening ceremony was spectacular, and particularly well put-together - with a most refreshing blend of older, current, and potential future sporting heroes.  I very much enjoyed the part involving Her Majesty the Queen and James Bond - it was both surprising and amusing, and did much to convey just what a good sport our inestimable monarch is.  Quite excellent.  I will never understand why I was never approached for the role of Agent 007.  I had a great sense of derring-do AND looked very natty in my bow-tie.  But I think some of the stunt work may have been little overwhelming.  Yes - perhaps that was it.

Now then.  I HAD intended to use this blog entry to tell you all about the very special guests I have been entertaining at my home this weekend.  Alas, however, I have been getting distinctly behind-paw with news and must delay this to report, instead, a most distressing situation.

A delightful evening walk in the countryside had been enjoyed by Gisèle, Betty, my partner and myself, in the cool air, once the heat and humidity had decreased a little.  It was all most pleasant.  I ambled peaceably behind my partner whilst Betty and Gizmo dashed about, squealing, giggling and chasing any wily beastie that was sufficiently foolhardy to move within their line of vision.  The two ladies were quite some distance ahead as we began to turn our steps back to the car.

All of a sudden a stomach-churning, horrendous scream pierced the air.  It was Gisèle.  She was screaming as loudly as her lung-capacity could allow.  "Betty!  BETTY!!!" we heard her wail, as my partner and I broke into a run towards whatever was going on.

"That bl**dy thug, Betty!" I muttered furiously, through gritted teeth,  "How could she?!?  After everything?!?  I'll KILL her!  I'll-"  But I was stopped, in my tracks AND in my thoughts.

For Betty was not attacking Gizmo.  She was defending her - or, rather, trying to.  Little Gizmo was being attacked by some cows, who had been loitering, unseen, in the corner of an adjoining field.  Betty was bravely trying to put herself bodily between her precious friend and the bovine tormentors.  As my partner and I watched in horror, one of the cows finally succeeded in stamping on poor Gisèle, who shrieked in agony and fell to the ground.  As Betty put up another valiant effort to hold off the cows, my partner gathered up the trembling and barely conscious body of Gizmo as gently and quickly as she could.  Once Gizmo was off the ground, Betty joined us as we all ran along the remainder of the footpath towards the car.

Once safely in the car park, my partner laid Gizmo gently on the ground.  Betty and I watched, subdued, as the little Jack Russell struggled to her feet, squealing with every movement, and permitted my partner to begin feeling her bones for breaks and/or fractures.  The back legs seemed sound, but something was very wrong somewhere.

It was difficult to know which aspect of the incident left me feeling more wretched: the injuries to our tiny friend; the desperate despair of my partner; the heartfelt sorrow and concern etched on Betty's face - or the guilt I felt at having suspected that Betty was Gizmo's attacker.  These were notions to be processed at another time, however, for my partner had located the specific area causing Gizmo the most torment.  It wasn't good.  The hoof had impacted on Gisèle at the base of her spine, where the tail (which is, in fact, a part of a dog's spine) joined the body.  It seemed flattened - and such was her pain that when my partner felt the base of the tail poor, traumatised, Giz involuntarily whipped around and bit my partner very, very hard, drawing blood.  But it wasn't Gizmo's fault.  My partner gave the poor dog a reassuring hug.  As she opened the car door, Giz, with a further shriek, jumped in.

"Well, that's something." I murmured to Betty.  "At least she can move herself."

It was NOT a pleasant journey home.  Betty did her best to soothe, but could not console, poor Gizmo.  My partner was in torment - what should she do?!  She was unsure as to how best to proceed.  On the one paw, Giz was able to get in and out of the car AND up and down the stairs unaided - plus the fact that my partner still owed the vets some £400 from MY treatment.  On the other paw, however, Gizmo was clearly in very great pain.  After a brief conference whilst Gizmo slept (she had been able to eat a little chicken-and-rice dinner), we decided to see how she was in the morning.  My partner had, coincidentally but fortunately, pre-arranged for the day off work so that an inspection of a broken door could take place.

No-one slept that Thursday night.  Feelings were too raw - and Gizmo was unable to completely lie down.  She rested her head and shoulders on her pillow, but kept her rear end raised high in the air, with an accompanying squeal each time she moved.  Eventually, my partner was able to construct a pile of cushions and pillows that enabled Giz to at least rest, supported in this peculiar position.  

Betty once again demonstrated that she had undergone a complete character transformation for the better.  Nothing was too much trouble for her in helping to make Gisèle more comfortable.  Everything the large and formerly-aggressive dog could do to assist was done instantly, obligingly and without so much as a grunt of complaint.  As exhaustion overcame me and my eyes began to close I witnessed Betty humbling herself to the lowest rung in a dog's hierarchy for the sake of her fallen friend.  She was washing her.  Yes, proud and powerful Elizabeth was washing Gisèle with her own paws and tongue!  I felt deeply humbled and moved.  My drowsy eyes closed on the affecting sight of Betty - sweet, noble, good Betty - washing Gizmo's bottom gently and with the utmost care.

With the dawn of Friday came stark realisation for my partner.  Gisèle was no better.  I saw my partner locked in torment betwixt undoubted further financial misery and the morally-correct thing to do.  Of course, there could be but ONE decision.  And it was the right one.  Torments though there may be, when my partner decides that the right way, however difficult, must be taken then she is firm, resolved and determined on her chosen path, deviating for nothing and no-one.  Thus, we all piled silently into the car at 8.20am for an out-of-hours emergency appointment.  Elizabeth and I remained in the New Teal Megane as my partner carried a still-whimpering Gizmo into the waiting-room.

This was harrowing for my partner in more ways than one.  Primarily there was concern for the suffering little one cradled in her arms like a mewling pup.  In addition, there was foreboding for the inevitable expense of treatments and assessments for a partner who was already constrained to only one meal for herself per day and the most reduced circumstances in which it is possible to exist.  Notwithstanding either of these, however, it was the first time that she had entered that building since 5 January.  Under any other circumstance, nothing could have induced her to re-enter that place; to see "that table" and the last time she...

She saw "the table".  She cried, almost to distraction.  But was, fortunately, ushered into the other consulting room.  Perhaps just as well, considering her mind-state.  The staff were, as they always had been, almost impossibly kind.  After careful and thorough examination, three outcomes were proffered:

1. Euthanasia, there and then;
2. X-Rays to confirm/disprove initial diagnosis;
3. Return home with antibiotics and anti-inflammatory medications to "play it by ear".

After heart-wrenching consideration, my partner chose door number two.  Gisèle was then left with the vet for sedation and x-rays.

Betty wailed when my partner returned without Gizmo.  She listened to what would happen, but was still almost inconsolable despite my partner's application of biscuits and cuddles.  Betty withdrew into the garden, her head hanging low, and I followed quietly.

"Are you all right, my dear?" I asked, as gently and sympathetically as I could.

"Nooo-ooo-oo!" sniffed Betty, miserably, "Oh Jasper, it's all MY fault.  My fault!  I've killed her, I have killed her..." she wailed on and on.

"Betty," I barked, patiently, "You did NOT kill her.  First-off, she ISN'T dead.  She'll be back from the vets soon and then we'll see what's to be done.  Secondly, I SAW that cow stamp on her.  YOU tried to protect her!"

"Yes-but-"

"But nothing!  It was an accident!"

Betty mumbled something incomprehensible through her tears.

"Sorry?  Didn't catch that, Betz..."

"She wouldn't have done it if it wasn't for me!  I TOLD HER that it would be fun to chase the cows!  I made her do it!"

I sighed.  Betty was possibly right.  Gizmo was not the kind of dog to annoy farm animals unless she had been egged-on.  With a supreme effort I shook my head and placed one of my paws on one of Betty's.

"My dear, the time for recriminations is LONG past.  We must not waste time in apportioning blame.  Let us hope for better things - and a full recovery for Gisèle.  Yes?"

"Yes..." sniffed Betty miserably.  She didn't sound particularly convinced.

At 12.15 that afternoon came the 'phone call from the vets.  Betty and I sat up to listen expectantly.  My hopes faded as I could see from my partner's expression that the prognosis was not good.

The affected area is, indeed, at the base of the tail.  The spine was dislocated and has failed to pop back in correctly.  The tail is, likely, lost entirely.  Alas, however, the popped-back vertebrae seems to be impeding the area between the bowel and the sphincter and rectum.  If she should be, as anticipated, unable to perform her natural bodily expulsions then there is nothing more that man, God nor science can do for her, except to administer the final injection that will usher her from her pain and into a better place.  

Gisèle has been despatched home with medications for complete rest - a return visit to the surgeon is scheduled for Monday, and then we shall know.  One way or the other.

STOP PRESS:  Since writing the above - Gisèle is very subdued but HAS been able to go to the toilet and HAS eaten her dinner. She has been sleeping most of the day, which is good. She also made a rather sad attempt to wag her tail - there was a little bit of movement. ALL very encouraging. Betty is also being amazingly delicate and taking tender care of her little friend.

We shall keep you posted, dear reader...

Tuesday 24 July 2012

“No, well, what you want to do, Giz,” barked Betty who, with Gizmo, was taking advantage of the first truly lovely (and dry) day for months to sit outside upon the patio, “Is to make a curl out of it and then lay it flat down the side of your pretty head.  That way, it won’t look quite so comical.  Can I show you?”

Gisèle nodded.  Betty was offering her advice on how to tame the unruly little tuft atop her head (the “Bobby Charlton comb-over”).  Extending a claw, Betty twirled the tuft into a pretty curl and patted it flat on Gizmo’s head.  “Personally I don’t think it looks that daft,” continued the big dog, “It’s actually quite sweet.”

“It makes me look silly.” said Gizmo, “I wish Mistress would snip it off.”

“Well that wouldn’t help much.” replied Betty, sensibly.  “It’d only grow back again.  At least it’s different – it’s got a lot of character!”  She finished manipulating the furry outcrop.  “There you go!”

Gizmo got up and trotted to the French window to peep at her reflection.

“Oh yes, that’s much better.” she smiled.  Betty wagged her little stub of a tail.

“Or…” barked Betty, “Or what you could do is to divide the tuft in half and make two separate little curls and have one on each side – come here; I’ll show you.”

Giz obligingly trotted back over to her new friend and inclined her head towards the large dog that, only a short while ago, had come extremely close to killing her.  There was no hint of this now, however.  Betty frowned in concentration as she restyled the fur on Gisèle’s head.

“How d’you know how to do all this, Betz?” asked Gizmo, from her bowed position.

“I go to a dog beautician several times a year.” replied Betty, as she continued twirling fur with her claw.  “You pick up all sorts of things there.”

“What, like fleas?!” giggled Gizmo.  I tensed, lest Betty should fly off the handle again at Gismo’s cheeky comment – but Betty laughed heartily, to my inestimable relief.

“Yeah, I did catch fleas from one place.” she chuckled.  “We didn’t go there again.  OK, I’ve finished – see what you think.”

Gizmo returned to the window and looked at herself again.

“Oh!” she declared, turning her head this way and that to examine all angles. “Oh, now, yes.  Yes, I DO like that.”

“It suits you.  Come back over here and I’ll show you how you can do it yourself.”

Dear reader, I could hardly believe the truth of what I beheld with my own eyes.  In such a short space of time, and despite all that Elizabeth had inflicted upon poor Gisèle, the two girls were now firm friends!

Due to the marauding presence of Betty, I have not yet had an opportunity to become more acquainted with my partner’s new companion Gizmo.  I had already witnessed sufficient evidence to prove that she was an exceptionally affable (if a little ill-read) young lady, but such forgiveness, acceptance and benevolence was on an uncanine scale new, even, to me.  With almost any other dog (or, indeed, any creature in general), the most that Betty could have hoped for after what she had done would have been reluctant, grudging forgiveness.  But the fact that her good-natured little victim had had the grace to forgive and then extend the paw of friendship both astonished and delighted me.

Of course, this had also had an extremely pleasing effect on Betty.  She stopped frowning at the world and began to enjoy a more peaceful manner of conduct.  She was also practically beside herself with joy and pride at having, finally, a genuine and real friend.  She barked, in introduction, to all she encountered (and repeatedly, to anyone who would listen,) “This is Gizmo.  She’s my friend.” or “This is my friend Gizmo.”

For Betty is approximately 7 or 8 years old and had lived thus far without the blessing of any true friends.  It had taken the tiny Gizmo (who was small, even by normal Jack Russell standards) to show her just how precious the simple blessings of heartfelt forgiveness and sincere friendship could be.

For Gisèle, it seems, is a jewel among bitches.  There is no limit; it would seem, to her goodness.  She is determined to see the best in everyone and to be friends with whomsoever she encounters.  Don’t get me wrong, she can be a cheeky little pickle sometimes, in a non-malicious way.  But the sweet girl’s conduct is generally exemplary.  She took at least as much joy in Betty’s friendship as Betty herself did.

Back to the morning in question: after the fur-style recommendations and the swapping of tips as to the best kind of faecal matter to roll in prior to going out to meet dogs, the topic moved on to dietary matters  (women, sorry girls, can have a somewhat limited range of conversation subjects sometimes.  Thus, they had already gone through fur-styles, make-up, perfume and boys.  This left only diets and menstrual cycles – and, thankfully, neither Gizmo nor Betty is currently On Heat).

“How do you maintain your slender shape, Giz?” asked Betty.  For Gisèle is, indeed, VERY slight of figure; one might almost call her skinny.  I know that my partner sometimes worries that her charge is TOO thin.

The lady in question was busy washing her lower forearms and paws.  She looked up briefly at her friend and said matter-of-factly “Sometimes I gets Colitis.”  (I really am going to have to educate Gizmo in basic speech patterns; she’s worse than Ewan and has nothing like his excuse.  I shall wait until Betty has gone home, however, for the sake of discretion.)

“What’s Colitis?” asked Betty, looking puzzled, “Is that some kind of special food or exercise regime?”

“No, it’s like a bad tummy.” replied Giz.  “I can only eat some types of food or I gets it.  It makes me poo out blood.”

“Eeeurgh!” winced Betty, “That sounds horrible!  Does it hurt?”

“Not too much.  It’s embarrassing though.  When I’ve got it and I needs to go, I HAS to go and sometimes I has made a mess in the house.  But Mistress says it’s not my fault and so we cleans it up.  It’s really annoying when I’s on a walk though, because it” [the Colitis] “makes me think that I still needs to do a poo when there is no more poo in my bottom, so I pushes and pushes but, of course, nothing comes out.”

Betty gave Gizmo a look of the utmost sympathy.  I almost thought she was about to cry, but she managed to restrain herself and instead gave Giz a big slobbery kiss on the top of her head.

“Thank you Betz.” smiled Gizmo meekly, looking up at her friend, “But I’s OK.  If I gets it, then Mistress gives me half a grilled chicken breast chopped up with two spoons of plain white rice for my dinner and I’s alright again after a few days of that.  I doesn’t eat meat out of a tin like you does, though – that’s what makes me bad worst of all.”

“Poor Giz.” sighed Betty.  “I bet I know what’ll make you laugh…!”

“What?”

“A… FIIIIIIIIGHT!!! Rowrrrr!” and Betty leapt up and bowed to invite Gizmo to play-fight.  Giz immediately bowed in response and the whole house was filled with giggling, pretend-growls and shrieks and the two dogs racing up and down the stairs, in and out of rooms and around the garden in a long, joyous game, before the two collapsed in a breathless heap of fur, still laughing and tapping at each other.

It was a most happy sight.  And, lest it be suspected that I have dreamt up this scenario of canine friendship merely to quell the fears of nervous readers, I offer to you now this photographic proof:

Heading back to the car after a lovely walk

Enjoying a shared joke (most probably about me and of a highly disrespectful nature)

Getting ready for sleep...

Shhh...!   Sweet dreams, girls.

Happy days!

Thursday 19 July 2012

"Why?!" I complained to my friend Eddie the Rottweiler one morning whilst he was sitting by his partner's car, waiting for her to locate the keys within their house so that they could go out for the day.  "Why me?  Why the h*ll, of all dogs, do I have to deal with this nonsense?!"

I was referring, of course, to the continuing "awkward" situation between Elizabeth (Betty) and Gisèle (Gizmo) within my own household.

"But Jazz, darling," replied Edward, "I thought you liked the ladies.  You've had several wives and far more girlfriends than" [Ed's fellow-Rottweiler and long-term 'gentleman companion'] "Angus has imbibed in calories - and that's barking something, for his hips grow ever-more formidable by the day."
"Yes - but never all at once in the same PLACE at the same TIME." I sighed.  "I mean, none of them ever actually KNEW about each other!"  Apart, of course, from the near-miss I'd once had when I inadvertently almost called my girlfriend Candy by my wife Isolde's name - but I had managed to extricate myself from that one by a few neatly-timed flatteries.

"Well, perhaps this is some sort of comeuppance for you, young man." snorted Eddie sanctimoniously.  I, after all, would never be unfaithful to Angus.  No, I thought to myself, you abuse him to his face.
"Anyway," continued Ed, "Where the h*ll have you BEEN all these months?!  Angus and I have been beside ourselves."
"Can't rightly explain it, Ed."  I barked.  "I seemed to be here - then I wasn't; I was somewhere else.  And now I'm here again, but not really here.  Except that I AM here... oh, I don't know.  It's mad."
"But you DID die though, didn't you." said Edward solemnly.  It was not a question, but a statement.

I was dumbfounded.  HAD I died?  I didn't know.  Perhaps I had...?  What was the place I was in?  It struck me now for the first time, however odd that may sound to you, dear reader, that Kipper was there alive and well - and yet he had CERTAINLY died; I had seen his lifeless body.  I recalled a conversation with him in that place about some of our old friends from Stokenchurch Dog Rescue.  Kipper had told me that Rex was there, as were some of my other former chums - Ghost, Topic, Rats, Plum, amongst others.  I had enquired about little Pebble, the Staffie-Cross, only to be told that he hadn't arrived yet.  "He has not yet crossed over." were Kipper's exact barks.  When pressed as to what that meant, Kipper cryptically replied "He still lives."

I shook my head.  It was beyond my comprehension.

Raised voices suddenly began to waft across the cul-de-sac from my house.
"Oh d*mnit, they're awake."  I muttered, slowly and reluctantly getting to my feet.  "Better go.  Have you got a good day ahead, Eddie?"
"My partner and I are meeting Angus and his partner for coffee and breakfast pastries - and then we're all going on a long walk." he grinned.
"Don't fancy swapping places with me for the day, do you?" I sighed.
"Not for a SINGLE second, love." laughed Ed good-naturedly.  "I never was much good with women.  You're on your own there, sweetie."
"Cheers for that Ed.  Give my regards to Angus."

And, with that, I trudged as slowly as I could across the road, back home.

Despite the early hour, the bickering had already intensified to a feverish rate.
"You little thief!  You stole my breakfast!!" Betty was snarling at a cowering Gisèle.
"I didn't!" piped the little terrier, sounding highly aggrieved.  "I never eat any breakfast!"
"Why did you eat MINE, then?!"
"I DIDN'T!"
"Well, who HAS eaten it then, because I haven't!"

I was just thinking about going upstairs to hide, when my sleepy-eyed partner wandered into the kitchen.
"Morning dogs..." she mumbled, getting herself a glass of water.  "Breakfast time..."  And, with that, she placed breakfast biscuits into Betty's dish and gave Gizmo a small piece of banana and a grape to eat.
"See?!" said Gizmo, unable to keep an element of triumph out of her voice; and she hopped neatly out of the way as Betty looked up from her breakfast and snapped at her.

A morning of uneasy calm persisted.  We all went into the garden to do some gardening and appreciate the brief burst of sunshine.  Alas!  Cometh the afternoon; cometh the onslaught.

I was sitting in the kitchen, keeping my partner company as she washed some vegetables in the sink for cooking later.  All of a sudden, there came an almighty roar, followed by piercing screams.  My partner and I fled into the living room and saw, to our horror, Elizabeth pinning Gisèle to the floor, with the little dog's head completely in her mouth.  Giz was on her back, flailing and struggling against the powerful Betty.  Without a thought for her previous bite injury, my partner instantly waded into the melée and separated the dogs.  Blood immediately fountained forth from Gizmo's pretty face and my partner screamed at the sight.  Betty took one look at what she had done and fled upstairs.

Gizmo's cries and screams seemed to shake the whole house and penetrate through to the very marrow of my bones.  My partner laid her upon a cushion on the sofa and began to inspect the damage.  A part of Gisèle's left-upper lip had been torn off and there was a fang-sized hole through the flesh of the lower jaw on the same side.  I almost recoiled in horror at the sight -  never had I seen such injuries inflicted upon an innocent, undeserving dog.
"Better get her to the vets', quick." I advised, trying not to think about MY last trip to the vets' surgery. "That top lip will need a few stitches at least."
My partner began to cry, adding her sobs to poor Gizmo's wails.
"I can't!" she wept, "I daren't set foot in the vets' with another dog - I still owe them £400 from you, and I can only afford to pay them a few quid a month!"  Little Gizmo was not to be neglected, however, and my partner set-to with what she had immediately to hand - a small quantity of Scotch whisky and some cotton-wool.  Giz squealed as my partner began to clean and sterilize her wounds.
"My face!" croaked Gizmo through her wracking sobs, "Oh, my pretty face... Jazz!  I is ugly!  I will never be pretty again!"
"Oh, don't say that, my dear."  I soothed, "It will all mend in time - don't you fret, now."
"Is it very bad?" she whispered.  I smiled softly at her and moved in for a closer look.
"My dear, you are as pretty now as you have ever been.  And you will only grow more beautiful with each new passing day..."
Gisèle regarded me doubtfully, before giving way to her pain and crying loudly again.  I averted my gaze and sighed.  I never was much good at lying...

As I looked at the sweet little terrier, lying on her cushion, howling and crying with pain and humiliation, a blaze of anger surged through me.  With one, last, glance at the poor suffering one, I turned and marched upstairs, spoiling for a fight of my own.  I located Betty in the bathroom, trying (and failing) to hide behind the lavatory.  She seemed to be attempting to render herself as small and transparent as she could and was trembling and sniffling.
"Spare me your false and pathetic efforts at remorse." I spat.  "You're going to bl**dy-well come downstairs with me right now and look at what you have done."  I scarcely stopped to draw breath, I was that irate.   "Madam, you disgust me entirely.  You are not worthy to bear the name of dog.  I had laboured under the impression that you you were a well brought-up and mannered young lady.  Now I see that I have been utterly mistaken.  You are a creature - less than a creature - of worthless-"

"Oh, please - PLEASE - stop.  I'm sorry, I'm SO sorry!" howled Betty miserably.  I looked at her and was somewhat taken aback to see that her face bore an expression of abject guilt and mortification.  She was also genuinely crying.  "I didn't mean to! I'm so very, very sorry..." she sobbed.  I sat down rather suddenly, unsure of what to make of this new scene opening up before me.

"Then why did you do it?" I asked, as gently as I could manage, given that Gizmo's anguished wails were still drifting up the stairs from the living-room.
"I don't know!  I couldn't help it!" wept Betty.  "I only meant to be playing but then Giz didn't want to and I got annoyed and then when she started to cry I bit her - I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"  And then she added, most pitifully of all, "This is why I am never allowed to have any friends!  No-one wants to be my friend and I never have anyone to play with!"  At this she dissolved so far into her tears that she lost the power of barks.  A pinprick of pity stabbed me, despite the wickedness Elizabeth had inflicted on Gisèle.

"So you only wanted to play with Gizmo...?" I mused, thinking carefully.  Betty nodded glumly.  A sudden thought struck me.  "Betty, did you TELL Giz that you were only wanting to play with her?"
"Why do you do that?" sniffed the big dog, "Don't they” [other dogs] “automatically know that you’re only playing?”

“No, my love.  You have to tell them.  Were you never taught to play-bow to invite a game first?”

“Well, yes, but I never really bothered with it.”

“Then, I fear, that might be part of the problem.” I explained gently.  “Unless you initiate a game with a play-bow – and receive one from the other dog in return – then how is the other dog possibly to know that you are not issuing a challenge to a genuine fight?”

“Ohhh…” mumbled Betty, a small light of realisation beginning to dawn in her eyes.  “So Gisèle thought that I REALLY meant to fight, when I only wanted to play a game…?”

“Precisely so, my dear.”

“Ohhh…” She repeated thoughtfully.  Then Betty gave a sudden gasp and hoarsely yipped “Jasper!  Have I hurt her very badly?”  She gazed at me with nervous apprehension.  There was but one way; to tell her the truth.

“Little Gisèle will bear the scars of this day for the rest of her life.”

At this, Betty cried out and began to wail just as sorrowfully as Gizmo.

“I’m SO sorry!” she repeated miserably.  “I SO wanted to be friends with her!  I like her and I didn’t want to hurt her!”

“Well – why don’t you come along downstairs with me now and tell her these things?”

“Oh, noooo!” wailed Betty, “She will never forgive me, and I will NEVER have any friends, ever.”

“You might be surprised.” I smiled.  “Little Gisèle is quite unique amongst dogs that I’ve ever encountered.  I have never known a young dog – a Jack Russell Terrier in particular – who is so loving, sweet-natured and forgiving.  I truly believe that she has not one single malicious hair upon her.  If any dog bears the capacity to forgive what you have done, it is Gizmo.”

“That just makes it worse!” whined Betty, “I don’t deserve to be forgiven.  I am a bad girl.  Bad, BAD girl, Betty!”

I let Betty get over this latest outburst of sobbing, and then said “Well, let us see what happens.  But first, you must come downstairs with me.  You have to understand that sometimes unthinking actions can have unpleasant consequences.  You will come downstairs with me now and see Gisèle.”  I stood up, turned to exit the bathroom, and looked back at Betty as I added “This is not a request.  Follow me now please.”  A submissive Betty sighed and stood up too.  “And I suggest that you pick out your teeth before you show yourself,”  Betty hastened to comply, and attended to her teeth with her fore-claws.  She still had a small part of Gizmo’s upper lip wedged between two of her teeth.

As I descended the staircase, I saw that my partner had done a magnificent job of cleansing the wound and was now busy with her embroidery scissors, snipping away the long fur on the affected side of Gizmo’s little snout, so that hairs would not adhere to the wound and impede the natural healing process.  The injuries were no longer bleeding and the fumes from the whisky had becalmed the frightened dog, who was now lying peacefully upon her cushion.

Unhappily, as soon as she spotted Betty meekly creeping down the stairs behind me, Gizmo began to quake and squeal again and had to be held down by my partner.

“She’s coming back to kill me!” screamed Giz in terror, “She’ll kill me!”  My partner gently shushed her, and placed herself differently, so that she was between Gizmo’s direct line of sight towards Betty.  She instantly saw that I had attended appropriately to Betty and automatically knew (in the way that true soul-partners always can) what was transpiring at my instruction.  As my partner held Gizmo in a comforting and secure embrace I nudged Betty forward.

“Elizabeth.” I barked, clearly and loudly, “You have something you wished to bark to Gisèle.”

At my shove, Betty stumbled hesitantly forward and approached the sofa.  Gizmo tried to recoil but was held, gently yet firmly, in place by my partner.

“Gizmo.” said Betty, quietly – and without even a trace of sarcasm, insincerity or malice in her tone – “I am truly and very deeply sorry for what I have done.  I never did mean to hurt you, but I know that I have, by mistake hurt you very, very much and I am so much more sorry than I can bark.  I would very much like to be your friend but I will understand if you never want to bark to or sniff me ever, ever again.”  And then, still full of heavy remorse, Betty began to slope away to the kitchen.

There was a tiny, almost imperceptible, sound from the prostrate form of Gizmo.  Only Betty and I heard it properly, the squeak which issued forth being out of the common audible range of humans.

“’S alright Betz.  I forgives you.”

I felt moved almost to tears.  Betty was too overcome to show herself for at least the following few minutes.  When she returned, she was carrying one of the few possessions that stayed here whenever she did; her lovely scarlet brushed-cotton luxury blanket.  Betty proceeded to drag it to the sofa, where she carefully placed it, piling it up and around Gizmo.  Having accomplished this, Betty trotted back and forth collecting Gizmo’s favourite toys and placing them next to her on the sofa as well.  In fact, Gizmo had fallen asleep, but I (as Giz would when she awoke in the morning) appreciated the gesture and the heartfelt sincerity behind it.

And so it was, despite all these tribulations, that a semblance of calm and order was restored to this little household.  Well – perhaps, as we shall see, not quite calm and order – but certainly an end to the unfortunate savage bloodletting of late, and new friendships rising from the ashes of these misunderstandings…

Good night.

Friday 13 July 2012

Well – it lasted for a day – possibly a day and a half; certainly not much more.

Ambling happily back to the car after a most enjoyable walk the sweet, early-evening, peace and tranquillity was swiftly rent asunder.

“You wee-ed on me!” came the stentorian bark of Betty, with an angry suddenness that sent alarmed birds spiralling into the sky in all directions.

“No I didn’t!” protested Gisèle, sounding hurt and aggrieved.  “I never did wee on you!”

“You did!  You wee-ed on me!”

“I didn’t!”

“Did!”

“Well – you wee-ed on me!”

“Only ‘cos you wee-ed on me!”

“AND you kicked me!”

“Did not!”

“You did – you kicked me and wee-ed on me!”

I was somewhat taken aback.  But this was as nothing compared with the developments that occurred when we all got into the car.  The two ladies were still bickering and, inevitably, the moment came when even the peaceable, gentle, Gizmo was pushed beyond the limits of her endurance.  As soon as the car door was closed on us all, Betty recommenced hostilities.

“At least I’m not UGLY.” she sniped, viciously.  “YOU look like a scrawny little RAT!”

“Stop it!  I can’t help being skinny!” cried Gisèle.  “I DON’T look like a rat.”

“You DO.  You look like a nasty, flea-ridden, scrawny little rat!”

“I do not!  I do not look like a rat!  I is a little dog, not a rodent!”

Poor little Giz is so young that she has not yet learned to articulate herself properly – a fact which I suspected Betty wouldn’t be slow to seize upon.  I wasn’t wrong.

“You even SOUND like a rat, with your stupid squealing! “I is a little dog”, indeed.  You are an ugly little rat!”

“No I’m not!!”

“Rat-face.”

“At LEAST I haven’t got a FAT BUM!” yapped Gizmo, with angry exasperation so sudden that it took even Elizabeth by surprise for a few seconds.

“What did you say?!” growled Betty, dangerously.

“You have got a FAT BOTTOM!”

Oh, bl**dy h*ll, here we go… I muttered to myself.  I tried to catch my partner’s eye, but she was determinedly concentrating on driving, despite the insults flying back and forth between the two girls.

“Rat face!” – that was Betty again.

“Fatty-bum!”

“RAT-face!”

“FATTY-bum!”

And on it went.  It was still continuing when we pulled into the parking space outside our house.  By this time, I had had more than enough and was beginning develop a nagging little headache.  Once we were all inside, I had anticipated peace – but, alas, it was not to be.

“Scrawny rat-face!”

“Big fat, fatty-bum.”

“Oh, pack it in, the pair of you!!” I barked, finally losing my rag. “Or I’ll knock your bl**dy heads together!”

I instantly felt a twinge of guilt at this general admonition, as quite clearly the blame lay with Elizabeth and not Gisèle.  But the latter was not helping herself by prolonging the dispute.  Both young ladies at last fell silent – Gizmo with mute acquiescence, Betty with a look of acquiescent mutiny.

Most unhappily, in this moment of fleeting peace, young Gizmo was seized with a most ill-timed cough.  As she hiccupped, Betty (who is somewhat older and on occasion somewhat hard of hearing) mistook Gizmo’s little cough as a further repetition of the insult on the size of her posterior.  With a howl of rage, she launched herself at Gisèle with such fury that neither my partner nor I had time to react.

Betty’s mighty jaws clamped down on Gizmo’s little bottom, and Gizmo screamed in pain and terror.  Yelling and howling herself, my partner tried to separate the two bitches, earning herself a very nasty accidental bite from Betty in the process.  I was enraged.

“STOP IT!”  I shouted, “STOP THIS AT ONCE!!”

“No!” retorted Betty, her voice muffled as she had Gizmo’s tail gripped between her teeth.  “I haven’t got a pretty tail – why should SHE have one?!”

The appalling fight continued until my bleeding partner was successful in prising open Betty’s jaws, allowing Gizmo to escape.  The little Jack Russell sprang away from her assailant, wailing and shaking.  I immediately put myself between her and Betty, who spat two great clumps of Gizmo’s fur out of her mouth onto the carpet.

My partner was in a state of subdued shock.  Betty retreated upstairs whilst my partner fetched her First Aid box and began to tend to Gisèle – before, I noticed, attending to her own bitten and bleeding hand.  Fortunately for Gizmo, Betty’s attempts to bite off her tail had not been successful.  Once the bleeding had been staunched and the pain subsided a little, Giz lay morosely on a cushion.

“Is it gone, Jazz?” she whimpered.

“What?”

“My tail.  Is it gone?”

“No, my dear, it’s still there.”

“D’you think it will fall off?”

I looked carefully at the base of Gizmo’s pretty tail.  The bite was certainly a nasty one, but one which would heal, given time.

“No, my dear.” I replied, gently. “Elizabeth’s fangs have only pierced the uppermost base of your lovely tail.  The joint is perfectly sound underneath.  Your sweet tail will not fall off and the wound will heal over in time.”

Gisèle seemed relieved and reassured – and then she noticed what my partner was doing (tending to her own bite-wounds).

“Mistress!” she squealed, “My Mistress is hurt!  I must help her!  Oh, it is ALL my fault…”

I shushed the panicking terrier quickly.

“It’s alright, my dear.”  I comforted her, “You are NOT to blame for this.  You did not bite her.  The miscreant is hiding upstairs, like a spineless cat.  Barking of whom…”  I leapt down from the sofa and trotted upstairs, locating Betty in the bathroom.  The ‘Standard’-Schnauzer glared at me defiantly, as though she was daring me to chide her for her actions.

“I think you have an apology to make.” I sighed, after what seemed like an age of awkward silence.  “You inflicted a nasty bite on Gisèle AND my partner.”

“Sorry.” muttered Betty, with gruff insincerity.

“Not to ME, you fool.” I barked.  “Come on.”  And I led a recalcitrant Betty downstairs and shoved her towards Gisèle, who lay whimpering on a cushion.  After another difficult silence I hissed “Say it!” through gritted teeth into Betty’s ear.

“Sorry.” grunted Elizabeth to Gisèle, in a tone more reluctant than remorseful.

Gizmo sniffed back fresh tears, sighed, and then looked up at Betty.

“That’s alright Betty, never mind.” she yipped, in a bright but still slightly-subdued bark.  “I am very sorry that I said you have a fat bottom.  It’s not true.  Your bottom is VERY pretty.”  And, with that, the sweet-natured, innocent Gizmo rose from her cushion and planted a kiss on her former attacker’s cheek.

I felt much moved by this humble and touching gesture.  Betty, on the other paw, flinched and curled her lip when Gizmo gave her the friendly, peace-making kiss.  Unable to contain herself, she rubbed her cheek vigorously on the arm of the sofa, obliterating all traces of Gisèle’s kiss.

“Urrrgh!” she muttered aloud, “Better wipe off that muck!  I might catch rat-poisoning or something…”

I was utterly disgusted, but my first thoughts were for poor Giz.  Her lip trembled, as she flopped down in distress.  Her resolve crumbled – and sweet little Gisèle dissolved back onto her soft pillow, her tears of mortification and pain spilling uncontrollably down her pretty cheeks.

But if I thought that this would be the worst of it – then I was sorely mistaken.  This was only the beginning…

Saturday 30 June 2012

At last!  I am BACK!!

It is so wonderful to return to my blogging home – although I cannot rightly explain precisely where it is that I have been…  This is not due to any bond of secrecy; I just am at a total loss as to how to account for it.

I have tried to look at previous blog entries, to see if they contain a clue, but met with no success.  I asked my partner to help me to scroll back with the mouse (I have never been able to use the mouse, being denied the human blessing of opposable thumbs) but she refused.  She said that I must not look.  I also noticed a small, exquisitely carved, dark mahogany, marquetry box sitting on the computer desk, next to the monitor and the telephone.  Closer examination revealed a small brass plaque affixed to the box, which read “JASPER”.  I was intrigued.  My partner told me that I must never, EVER, under any circumstances, open - or attempt to open – this box.  Of course, this only intrigued me further, but my partner was insistent.  She has told me that I cannot know what transpired or what is in the box.  I must concede that she has generally been consistently correct about such things, so the recent past will remain a mystery.  But what DID happen to me…?

I remember tears; goodbyes; a trip to the vets – and then…  Then what?  There was a departure of sorts.  In no time at all I found myself falling, falling, falling through blackness.  I couldn’t see anything, but I wasn’t afraid.  Down, down I fell – until, suddenly I felt myself being caught by a large, gentle pair of hands.  I struggled to see into the velvety blackness but to no avail – and then, all at once, I was no longer falling but floating.  Floating, drifting, in the great nothingness, supported by the large and gentle unseen hands.  I paddled my legs, savouring the sensation of “swimming” in air.  Gradually, I noticed that I seemed to be rising.  The blackness began to fade to tones of grey and finally a misty rose-pink.  With alarm, I realised that I could no longer see my snout in front of me.  I looked down; I couldn’t see my feet either!  I felt whole, but seemed dispossessed of my whole body – I was PART of the nothing…

Whilst I was musing on these alarming discoveries I failed to realise that I was no longer floating.  I was no longer supported by the mysterious hands.  In fact, I was standing in a lush green garden – and I was not alone.  With a yelp of pure joy I recognised Kipper, my dearest friend from the Rescue Home (see my “Evolution of Jasper” series).  We greeted each other in mutual ecstasy.  Despite the fact that I seemed to be entirely invisible he could clearly see me and I him.  Standing beside him, I marvelled at the exquisite surroundings.  It was like a fantasy landscape from a dream, yet I was undoubtedly standing there.  I suddenly recoiled in terror and flung myself at Kipper as a Bengal tiger and a large lion walked past.  But my horror was as nothing compared to my astonishment as I noticed that trotting alongside them was a tiny terrier puppy.  I gaped, open mouthed.  The little pup was chatting excitedly, jabbering away to the two large wildcats, who were listening politely with interest and not the slightest glimmer of hunger or malevolence in their eyes.  My gaze strayed to the edge of a river where the water that flowed was of the purest crystal blue.  A couple of zebras and an elephant were drinking at the water’s edge, totally unconcerned by the small group of huge alligators drifting aimlessly nearby.  I wanted to cry out a warning, but only a pathetic and mildly embarrassing squeak came out of my mouth.

“They’re not drinking because they’re thirsty.” said Kipper, mistaking my incredulity.  “They just like the sensation of it.”

I found my voice.

“Is there food here, then?”

“For those who want it, yes, there is plenty.  But are you hungry?”

I thought about it.  I expected to be ravenous.  But I wasn’t.  I felt as though I had just eaten a good dinner, not stuffed too full, but satisfied.  Most odd.  I was about to ask Kipper about it, when I noticed a young man, dressed in white, half-leaning, half-sitting on a large grey rock nearby.  He was smiling at me and my friend Kipper.

“That man’s hurt!” I barked in surprise, looking at several nasty-looking wounds that he bore.  “I didn’t think that anyone was hurt here!”

“He isn’t hurt.” grinned Kipper, wagging his plumy and magnificent tail, “Those are marks of honour!  They did hurt once, like my heart did and your snout did – we all hurt once.  But he’s the only one who has kept his scars.  He says he doesn’t mind them, he says that they’re a good reminder.  You can ask him if you want, he doesn’t mind.  Go on.”  Kipper nudged me forward and I hesitantly crept towards the young man.  He was very handsome – quite swarthy, with a slightly Middle-Eastern look to him, but his eyes – oh! His eyes were the kindest and most beautiful I had ever seen.  He had the sort of look to a human that straight-away puts you at your ease, like my partner or a nice vet, someone who just wanted to help you be the best that you could be without forcing their own ways upon you.  I liked him instantly.  As I trotted up to him he grinned.

“Hullo Jasper.” he said, and I felt a glow wash over me at the sound of his voice.  “You are welcome here.”  He patted my head and played with my ears the way I liked.

Somehow, without knowing or understanding anything, I knew that it was going to be alright.

And then I found myself back here, typing this to you now.  It is all most odd.  For I have found myself in a den of women.

They are everywhere.  Well, it is a very small house.  First, there is my partner.  Next, a large grey tousle-furred pretty lady of middle-age named Betty.  And last, but by no means least, an exquisite young wire-haired Jack Russell called Gisèle.  Why?  Where did they come from?  I am not entirely at ease in finding myself amidst this nest of harridans.  One can almost taste the oestrogen that pollutes the air.

Besides these horrors, I have other concerns.  It is almost as though I am here – yet not here.  My partner, Betty and Gisèle, undoubtedly can see and communicate with me as before.  I am not entirely convinced, however, that everyone besides these three and certain others are aware of my presence.  I daresay it will all become clearer in time…

For the present, however, my partner took me quietly to one side.  It seems, as she confided to me, that Betty and Gizmo (Gisèle’s commonly-used nickname) do not get along.  Far from it, in fact.  There has been much bullying of the latter by the former and some savagery has ensued, culminating in a distressing episode during which Betty tore off part of Gizmo’s lip.  With tears in her eyes, my partner implored me to step in and restore order to the household.

Stepping in to mediate between two exceptionally attractive feisty young ladies...?  Well, it’s a tough job – but I believe I may know JUST the Staffordshire Bull Terrier for the task, hehehe…

Sunday 10 June 2012

Well, little Gisèle (Gizmo) continues to grow more delightful by the day.  We have had some lovely walks this week (weather permitting) and she is impeccably well-behaved each time.  It's good to know that she can be trusted off the lead, as she has seemingly boundless energy.  I've also finally achieved success in discovering something that she likes to eat for her dinner.  This was a worry, as she is slightly too thin and in refusing the various things that were offered night after night she was starting to get thinner.  She likes, it turns out, the same thing that Jasper liked - meat in jelly with a handful of mixer biscuits.  She's not a big eater of treats and snacks though, which is perhaps a good thing.


Gizmo is very buoyant and amusing in her attitude, she's quite comical.  She has a funny little tuft of hair on her head, which is usually laid flat but occasionally sticks up and makes her look hilarious.  It's just like the classic "Bobby Charlton comb-over" - 

I'll try and get a picture of her (as opposed to one of our nation's finest) to show you what I mean.


She almost came a bit of a cropper yesterday actually.  We had enjoyed a very long walk (even Giz was flagging a bit) in the woods and met some very nice ladies walking their dogs - two large, Retriever/Setter-type chaps; one black, one russet.  The larger, black-furred dog (I believe his name was Tudor), his owners informed us, was very elderly although he didn't look it.  Gizmo, ever eager to make friends with other people and dogs, was her charming self - but very soon received possibly the greatest shock of her young life thus far...  Tudor gripped her firmly with his fore-arms either side of her rib-cage, turned her around, mounted her and began thrusting in a manner which can only be described as sexual (my sincere apologies to the more sensitive reader).  Nothing could deter Tudor, despite Gisèle's loud protests, and in the end his owner had to spank him with her stick to get him off poor Giz.  She immediately fled, with the young russet Setter and the elderly Tudor hard on her heels.  She was quite happy to play with them, but every time Tudor caught her he recommenced fornication procedures.  I am afraid I had little sympathy for her.  She was flirting outrageously with both dogs and squealed every time Tudor caught and tried to "enjoy" her.  In the end, I had to pick her up and carry her back to the car, as I ended up walking with the ladies and their dogs and chatting - they were parked in the same car park as me - for the short distance to the end of the walk.  Tudor's owner said that he looked about ten years younger - Gizmo must have been good for him...!  But I kept her safe and unsullied all the way back to the car, whether she liked it or not.  I shall have to be more careful in future; this is the first time that I have owned a dog who has not been "done" - I didn't know how powerfully alluring an unspayed young lady can be to a lusty hound - and there is no way that I can afford to have her "seen to" just yet.  Actually, part of me disagrees with the idea of having an animal's vital functions interfered with, or removed altogether, for the sake of human convenience.  Of course, it is very worthy to prevent thousands upon thousands of unwanted puppies being born - but, I sort of like Gizmo as she is and am not inclined to meddle.  She will certainly be supervised most scrupulously when she is in season - but... well; it's a hard decision to consider.


This leads me on to a not entirely unrelated subject, which came about long before Gizmo entered the frame: Betty and Fizzy.


I am relieved that Gizmo has made friends with Fizzy - but Betty didn't even try.  When she was first spotted by Ewan and Fizzy they were sitting in their vehicle and Betty was in the work-yard.  Fizzy barked at first sight of pretty Betty but Ewan, I noticed, was looking at her with interest, a beaming smile and a twinkle in his eye.  Fizzy obviously noticed this too and clouted poor Ewan around the back of the head until he was cowed into barking unpleasantries at Betty as well.


Poor Ewan - he does adore his Fizzy AND his behaviour has been remarkably less mad since she went to live with him - but I believe that such things have not come without their price.  Fizzy has not been spayed and, even though Ewan HAS been neutered, she pursues him with  relentless intensity when she is in season.  Their owner told me that, when Fizzy is on heat, Ewan abandons the dogs' shared basket and attempts to hide from Fizzy under the dining-room table - he apparently believes that there is such a "forest" of table and chair legs under there that he cannot be seen.  But Fizzy invariably finds him, drags him out and smacks him around the back of his head until he capitulates and performs his conjugal duties.  Poor Ewan.  He is still utterly devoted to his Fizzy though...


Anyway, the relationship between Betty and Fizzy was doomed to total failure once the seeds of jealousy had been sown.  Initial steps were taken to try and encourage a friendship between the two, but immediately abandoned when the futility of the idea became obvious.  Ewan doesn't seem to mind - in fact, I think he secretly enjoys the situation.   I'll admit, though, that I am not the only one who finds deeply troubling the fact that these two otherwise intelligent, articulate and attractive young ladies would happily tear each other limb from limb - and all for the ultimate "prize" of Ewan's affections.  Worrying.




Before I turn back to little Gisèle, I would like to say a very hearty thank you to the friends who sent lovely messages after the previous post - Lance, Keetha, Gibbs, The Secretary, Lady Miss Till and others - I am immensely grateful  to you.   ♥




For various reasons I have decided against revealing which of Jasper's chums throughout the blog during his lifetime were real and which were fictional - not least because Jasper will imminently be resuming his rightful place as author of this blog and I'd hate to incur his wrath...  You are most welcome to see if you can guess which are real and which are imagined if you like but, for now, my typing fingers are sealed.  I WILL tell you, however, that the character (real) which is most like his genuine self (apart from Jasper himself of course) is, perhaps surprisingly, Ewan.   He really IS that dim and generally helpless without Fizzy - but, as Jasper was always keen to stress, utterly inoffensive and friendly.  Very little effort indeed is needed when putting words and situations into Ewan's online persona - the work has already been done by nature itself.




To Gisèle, then.  She came to live with me on what was originally intended to be a temporary basis on Saturday 19 May this year.  My colleague (Ewan and Fizzy's owner) telephoned me on my mobile in the early evening to ask for my help in a bit of an emergency situation.  Her nephew, who lived just around the corner from me, had to leave his house and be gone by the end of that day.  He had also lost his job and his car.  He had managed to find a room to rent elsewhere, but was unable to take his dog.  Could I help by taking the dog in the interim?  My colleague could not take her, as she already has Ewan and Fizzy and is only allowed a maximum of two dogs where she lives.


I was reluctant, to be honest.  I was not ready, financially or psychologically, to have a new dog, plus I also have a commitment with Betty's owner.  But I couldn't leave a dog to be sent off to a rescue home or worse, and Betty is not due to return until at least 24 June, so I agreed to temporarily accommodate the dog - for a month at most.  Less than five minutes later, the nephew arrived in the van belonging to my colleague's partner with little Gizmo in his arms.  After a brief chat, she was left with me.  She arrived with a collar and two leads, a small bed, a bowl and a cage.  I was given £10 to buy some food for her and told "just stick her in the cage all day and let her out for a wee at night, she won't be any trouble."  And that was that.  Still reeling somewhat from shock, I dismantled the cage and put it away as soon as the van had departed.  I had never made any dog of mine sit in a cage all day, and I wasn't about to start now.


The poor little dog was terribly confused and afraid.  She sniffed the house all over, refused to eat or drink anything, and put herself to bed in her little foam basket trembling and crying.


I still hadn't quite recovered from the incredibly rapid turn of events the next morning - in the space of fewer than ten minutes I had gone from being dog-less but increasingly content with my pet-free situation, to owning a bewildered and energetic live-wire  of a two-year-old Jack Russell.  I was particularly unimpressed the following Monday morning when, already at risk of being late for work, I opened the gate and the dog shot off like a bullet.  Cursing, swearing and calling for her, I took off after her, accompanied by one of my neighbours.  We caught up with her on the other side of the housing estate, her progress halted by some mercifully secure fencing.  I scooped up the dog, thanked my neighbour, and left for work feeling hot, tired and cross.


My colleagues were enchanted by the sweet little dog (although, I thought bitterly, they hadn't had to pursue her across a housing estate with their neighbours watching and laughing) and there was no shortage of takers for her if she didn't go back to her owner and I didn't want to keep her.  After that initial couple of days, however, Gizmo and I began to bond.  I couldn't blame her, of course, for her initial behaviour - she was young, frightened and confused and had been left with a total stranger in a house completely unknown to her (one which, no doubt, smells strongly to a sharp canine nose of Jasper and Betty).  But little Giz continues to grow more affectionate and delightful by the day; almost by the hour.  She has been extremely well-trained - her obedience is total and her behaviour at home and out of doors is impeccable.  She is also now utterly devoted to me and entirely trustworthy with other dogs and children.  The rest of the history you know.


So, a most bizarre acquisition of a new dog.  But perhaps it was meant to be.  I am not much of a believer in the fates or spirits behind such odd coincidences, chance happenings or circumstances.  But what I DO know - and this is rather bizarre - Jasper's little holly-tree, which he helped to unearth and support following notice of it (a bird must have dropped a berry, as there is no holly nearby.  See here for Jasper attending to his sapling tree),  was beginning to die and wither to a brown, chewed-up tiny stump.  Since the arrival of Gisèle, however, it has begun to grow and flourish again, sending out bright new green shoots.  Make of that what you will...




Keep smiling!

Monday 4 June 2012

Well, here is something of a surprise.  Which, being me, will probably come as no surprise at all to anyone except myself.  I have tried to find a new writing-style for Jasper's blog - tried, but failed at every attempt.  I just cannot do it.  This evening as I was walking Benji (Cinnamon Trust devildog) I realised what was wrong.

My writing-style IS Jasper, for this blog at least.  I recall, on Jasper’s passing, that one of my friends, Keetha, said that in time I would find my own voice.  I have tried – but this The Dog’s Blog and not my blog.  Several times since that bleak January day there have been incidents, silly little happenings, Ewan’s ongoing innocent blunders at work, etc., and each time I have imagined how it could have been expressed here on the blog by Jasper.  His sardonic style and brand of wit (if one can call it wit) were all his own.  I cannot find the words to put into the mouths of his canine friends and his various misadventures without him.

So, I have come to a decision.  This will continue to be Jasper’s blog.  He is gone – but his words live on.  During his lifetime, I was in Jasper as we composed our blog entries.  Now that he has gone he exists in me – and “his” writing continues.  Please don’t be deceived in me – I have not spent too long out in the sun and baked my brain.  Nor have I lost the few marbles remaining to me or taken complete leave of my senses.  I know and accept that Jasper Horatio Stafford is dead, physically and spiritually, and that he is not coming back.  But his forceful character, which long-time readers have seen grow and develop here since the inaugural post on Sunday 13 August 2006, has imprinted itself so firmly on this blog – and my part in it – to fall away.  Forgive me then, if the posts continue from Jasper’s viewpoint and in his voice.  I hope you understand.

I have been steadily learning to live again through the good offices of Betty.  I now have a new permanent canine sidekick.  She came to me in the most coincidental, unlooked-for and convoluted way – the merest coming together of chance and fate.  I didn’t want another dog – indeed, I STILL owe the vets’ £400 (or $616, if you prefer) from Jasper and can barely afford to feed and house myself, let alone another dog.  But we will find a way, I know it.

She is a wire-haired Jack Russell Terrier (undocked and unspayed).  The name with which she arrived was Gizmo, but I prefer sensible, proper, names for dogs and so have rechristened her Gisèle (with Gizmo, or Giz, for short).  Here she is:

Sweet, isn’t she?!  She is about two years old and has an utterly delightful character.  She is already great friends with Rosie next door, William across the road, as well as Ewan and Fizzy.  And here she is making friends with a colleague’s young Cocker-Spaniel puppy, Bug:

I have been caring for Gizmo for just over two weeks and she became “officially mine” at 11.28am on Friday 1 June 2012.  She and Betty have yet to be introduced.  I have no qualms about Gisèle – she delights in meeting new doggy friends and playing games with them.  Betty, on the other hand, inspires less confidence.  I’ve been told by her owner that she greatly dislikes other dogs.  I have yet to see evidence of this myself – the only dog Betty truly despises is Fizzy (and that is entirely mutual) – but all other dogs we’ve encountered have been tolerated with equanimity.  Fortunately, Gisèle has already charmed my parents (particularly my father, who is utterly entranced by her.  I cannot blame him – Giz is very reminiscent (apart from the curly fur) of our first-ever family dog, Jaki the Jack Russell) and they have generously offered to look after her whilst Betty is staying, should the two ladies fail to get along – for I cannot afford to do without the money that Betty brings in just now.

The next post will describe how Gisèle came to find a home with me, precisely WHY Fizzy and Betty would happily tear each other limb from limb, and – to mark a clean break between the old Dog’s Blog and the new Dog’s Blog – a revelation of which of Jasper’s friends and characters were real and which were fiction… stay tuned!

Keep smiling!!