Wednesday 15 August 2012

Gisèle, I am happy to report, has made an outstanding recovery.  Not just from her appalling colitis, but also from her spinal injury.  Thanks to the vet, my partner and the tender attentions of Betty, little Giz is once again her bright-as-a-button self.  We are overjoyed.  The word "miracle" is not one I often employ - but, in this case, there is none other more appropriate.

This evening, we all enjoyed a delightful walk in the woods and it was a true joy to behold Gizmo racing hither and thither as though illness and injury had never visited her at all.  The open, honest, happiness of Betty, at having her much-loved little friend back again with undiminished character and energy, is also as beautiful as it is heartfelt.  The two of them raced around after squirrels like a pair of complete nutters, leaping across ditches and vaulting over fallen trees, laughing and squealing with sheer elation.

My partner and I were highly diverted in watching them - but, after a while, I noticed that they seemed to be running in a circle.  A wide circle of around a mile's circumference, to be sure, but a circle nonetheless.  They were obviously pursuing a scent of some description.  To my experienced eye it quickly became apparent that Betty, the larger and slower of the pair, was pursuing the scent of Gizmo - and Giz in turn was pursuing a combination of her own scent and Betty's.
"For goodness' sake!" I thought to myself, groaning inwardly, as my mind drifted towards my friend Ewan - a truly lovely dog, but one who is SO daft that even his empty skull's echo has got an echo - "Surely they can't be that stupid?  God can't have let two more like him slip through the net!?!"  I decided that I had to intervene as the two ladies sped past once again, Gisèle for her fifth circuit and Betty for her fourth.

A moment's consideration led me to conclude that Betty would be the easiest to intercept.  Accordingly, on seeing her approach, I put myself directly in her path.  Happily, she spotted me and stopped in plenty of time.  Less happily, Gizmo was so committed to the chase that she failed to notice until it was too late.  Skidding and slithering in the mud from the morning's rainfall, the little Jack Russell went careering into Betty's flank and the three of us crashed to the ground in a tangle of legs, tails and snouts.
"Brilliant!" panted Gizmo, her eyes shining and her tail wagging wildly, "Can we do that again?!"
"No." I barked firmly, seeing Betty about to enthusiastically agree.  I explained to the girls that they had each been running after the other and, at the moment of realisation, they both dissolved into giggles at their own foolishness.  My hope for their future developments was restored.


En route back home, we stopped for a moment whilst my partner collected a book which she had loaned to a friend.  It is an excellent tome by vet Bruce Fogle, published in association with the RSPCA, called "Know Your Dog" (see here).  The book is illustrated throughout with excellent and helpful photographs and so, in order to settle them after their excited walk and their suppers, my partner sat Gisèle and Elizabeth on the sofa and gave them this book to paw through.

I accompanied my partner into the kitchen and attended her whilst she did the washing-up.  I was amused to listen to the two girls on the sofa, fussing and cooing over the photographs of little infant puppies and gossipping about the various fur-styles of the older dogs in the book.  They seemed very happily occupied, so I followed my partner upstairs whilst she changed the bed-linen.

Now then.  A moment's digression, if you'll permit me.  If you are a parent, or the owner of more than one active and sentient animal, you will know that, if you can hear them then all is generally well.  It is when things are suddenly and uncharacteristically quiet that you KNOW mischief is a-paw.  In actual fact, this is often the way with more serious situations.  Several months ago my partner volunteered to be the "accident victim" in an unpleasant - but staged - motorway car crash.  It was a training exercise by the local Fire Service.  My partner was wedged into a car (with guidance as to what her "injuries" were to be), which was then rolled down a motorway embankment and into a tree.  The plucky Firemen had to act as though it was a genuine emergency, manage the (unaware and regular) traffic, secure the scene and cut the crashed vehicle from around my partner, keep her alive, free her, and finally lift her to safety.  All MOST interesting.  And, let me bark to you here and now, if you are ever unfortunate enough to be in a real accident then you could not be in better and professional hands.  (And, before you suspect that these noble Firemen were eschewing their duties in order to b*gg*r about on a motorway embankment with my partner, one of the things that my partner had to agree to was the possibility that if a REAL 999 call came through she would have to be left alone in the crashed car until the Firemen had dealt with the genuine emergency and then returned.)  Anyway - prior to the arrival of the Fire Crews, whilst she was sat shivering in "her" crashed car, she asked the Training Officer how distressed she ought to be in order to sound truly authentic.  She asked if she should scream and cry out in pain.
"No." replied the Officer.  "If you're screaming and yelling, then you're clearly not the priority.  The folks we look to first are the ones who are very quiet, trembling or mumbling.  If you've got the energy to make a racket, then you've got the energy to keep going."  See what I mean?  But enough - yet again I have digressed too long.

Returning to the present, as I patiently (i.e. without laughing) sat and watched my partner wrestle valiantly with a recalcitrant duvet-cover, it suddenly struck me that things downstairs had gone awfully quiet.  Padding to the head of the stairs, I cocked my head to one side in order to listen more carefully.  Lots of whispering was going on, accompanied by MUCH muffled giggling.  This did not bode well, so I thought I had better investigate further.  I had not even begun descending the staircase before a sudden and dreadful thought gripped me.  With an increasing sense of foreboding I went downstairs.  But I needed no visual affirmation - my worst fears were confirmed: Betty and Gizmo had found the chapter on courtship and reproduction.

Amidst stifled hysterics, the two girls were looking at a large photograph of the two dogs (or, more correctly, a dog and a bitch) engaged in "the act" (I trust I need not be more descriptive).  Elizabeth, by my reckoning, was no stranger to the ways of the flesh, but this was quite clearly the young Gisèle's first such educational foray.
"Look!" squeaked Giz, barely able to speak through her laughter, "Look where he's put his pee-stick!  Ewww!! Hiihiihiihiihiihiihiihiiiiiii.....!"  Betty spluttered the beginnings of a reply, but she then noticed me peeping through the balustrade at them.  Betty nudged Gizmo in an obvious, though what she intended to be a subtle, way; the two of them glanced briefly from me back down to the picture in the book (which now lay open on the floor) and then dissolved into fresh volleys of giggling.  As I had been seen, there was nothing to be gained from trying to slink back upstairs, so I mustered as much as I could of my little-remaining dignity and finished my descent of the stairs.  "Good evening ladies." I remarked, determinedly ignoring the open book and seating myself by the French window.  I could feel the two pairs of eyes on the back of my head, accompanied by yet more ill-suppressed giggles.  At length:-
"You ask him!"  That was Betty.
"No, you ask him! Hiihiihiihiiiiiii.....!" giggled Gizmo.
"You ask him!  Hurrhurrhurrhurr - snort! - hurrhurrhurrr."  For an attractive and elegant lady, Betty possessed an absolutely filthy laugh.  I half-expected Sid James and Kenneth Williams to appear through the door at any moment.
"Nooooo! YOU!  Hiihiihiihiiiiiii.....!"

Gisèle's high-pitched giggle was starting to seriously grate on my nerves, as was the apparent reason for them.  I stood up and turned to face them.
"Can I help you with anything, ladies?" I barked irritably.  Betty, somewhat uncharitably, gave her friend a gentle push and Giz tumbled onto the floor in front of me.
"Hiihiihiihiiiiiii.....!  Umm... does it hurt when you sit down...?"
"What?!"
"Your 'Little Jasper'!" barked Betty, emboldened by her friend's courage.  "Does it hurt when you sit down? Do you have to move it when you sit down so you don't squash it?!"
"Er - I've never really thought about it." I muttered.  "So I suppose that must mean that no; I don't.  Anything else?"

There followed a succession of increasingly cheeky and detailed questions,  all of which - naturally - were interspersed with saucy giggling.  At one point I, unfortunately, let down my guard (I was amused by one of the ladies' pert remarks and deluded into informality by the shared union of our laughter) and barked:
"Oh G*d!  I remember the night Little Jasper was impaled on a sharp thorn!  That's something I won't be repeating!!"  (By this, I refer to the occasion - described in an earlier blog-post - when my partner and I were still living at my partner's parents' house and ventured onto the front lawn well after the witching-hour to view a rare full-lunar-eclipse.  The eclipsed orange moon was strikingly beautiful and a once-in-a-lifetime (at least, for me) spectacle.  Alas - prior to returning to the house and my bedchamber - I lifted a leg to download a final, pre-sleep, wee-mail.  Unhappily my target of choice proved to be a large rose-bush and I inadvertently speared Little Jasper on a large and unyielding thorn.  My screams woke up half the street and I had to lie down with Little Jasper carefully draped across an especially-chilled cushion for the next three days in order to fully recover).  Following my relation of this harrowing trauma, my voice trailed into nothing as I saw the two girls gaping at me in open-mouthed horror.  And then:-
"Hurrhurrhurrhurr - snort! - Hurrhurrhurrhurrrrrrr....!"
"Hiihiihiihiiiiiii..... ohnostopitplease - hiihiihiihiihiihiihiiiiiii..... ohnoithurtsdon'tithurtsBettyplease, hiihiihiihiihiihiihiiiiiii..... ohBettynohiihiihiihiihiihiihiiiiiii.....!"  The two helplessly giggling dogs clutched and pawed at each other as they collapsed together, lost in their united hysterical, mocking, laughter.

"Oh, naff off, the pair of you." I grunted, which only served to increase their mirth at my - and my Little Jasper's - expense.

I stomped back upstairs in high dudgeon.  As I rejoined my partner, who had vanquished the stubborn duvet and was now attending to the less-troublesome pillow-cases, I flopped to the floor and sighed.

"You know," I opined, "I think I actually preferred it when they hated each other...."

Tuesday 7 August 2012

STOP PRESS: Since writing much of what follows below, Gisèle has been seriously - almost dangerously - ill with Colitis.  After six different courses of medication from the vet she is, just this evening, beginning to recover.  I do not propose to enter into details - they are grossly unpleasant and Gizmo is a very discreet young lady.  Suffice it to say that the past few days have been excessively traumatic and it has taken the combined efforts of the vet, my partner, myself AND Betty (for, yes, nothing could have been more touching than the lengths to which proud Betty went in order to assist her little friend.  And this INCLUDES washing Gisèle's bottom and keeping my partner company whilst carpets were repeatedly scrubbed).


Did you hear about the Olympic gymnast who walked into a bar?
He lost six points and the chance of a medal...

Hehehe - we are still very much enjoying the Olympics here in England.  The way it has captured the best of our national spirit is wonderful to see and, at time of writing, Team GB have won 21 Gold Medals, 13 Silver Medals and 12 Bronze Medals - all fantastic achievements.  But what particularly irks me sometimes are cases in which an athlete who has won a Silver or Bronze makes a statement along the lines of "well, obviously I'm disappointed..."  This annoys me intensely.  Yes, you may have won "only" a Bronze - but you are still the third best in the entire World!!

It has been a fortnight (though it seems much longer) since Gisèle had her accident and she continues, albeit slowly, to mend.  She took her first walk yesterday evening and managed extremely well.  Alas, however, she is unable to sufficiently lift her tail in order to avoid soiling her fur when defecating, so my partner has obtained some moist baby-wipes to assist with cleansing purposes.  Giz is also reluctant to return to the vehicle after her exercise (this is a new development, we are unsure as to why it might be the case - I thought that, perhaps, she and Betty had "had words" but they remain good friends so it is a mystery) and this rather sours the walks somewhat.  Last evening, my partner, Betty and I had to pursue Gizmo for some 45 minutes before employing strategic manoeuvres in order to catch her and fix the lead to her collar and, this evening, my partner had to get cross with the little terrier.

Any irritation was soon dispelled, however, as it is still early days for little Gizmo - and she had been damaged very seriously indeed.  When my partner returned with the reluctant Giz to the vets on Monday, she did not have the same fortune as previously, and had to lift Gisèle onto the very table onto which she had last lifted me.  As ghastly as you may imagine this experience to be, the visit was not improved when the x-rays of the unfortunate Jack Russell were displayed to my partner.  On seeing them my partner was stunned into silence and she wondered, along with the new young (male and quite handsome - but let us not go there) vet, how Gisèle was achieving her recovery.

These are, obviously, not the actual x-rays, but are a true reproduction:

Normal dog skeleton

Close-up of normal rump section.

Close-up of Gisèle's current rump section

See what I mean?  That HAS to hurt.


Elizabeth continues to be excessively gentle and nurturing.  It is a joy to behold.  I'm not sure that Gisèle, by herself, would have been brave enough to enjoy a walk so soon after her accident were it not for dear Betty, watching over her and guarding her every step.  But it is not merely when out and about that Betty maintains her vigilance over her tiny friend.  Oh no.

For Betty has been tailing Gizmo throughout the house and garden, ensuring her safety in all things.  If Giz chooses to nap in the bathroom, Betty will follow and make sure that there is no water, on which Gizmo might slip, in on the floor and that no bags or boxes stand close to Gizmo's chosen resting spot, in case the little dog rolls over in her sleep and knocks her rump.  In the garden, similar trip hazards or other obstacles have been moved aside by the newly-safety-conscious Betty.  Within the bedchamber, none of Betty's effort is spared in procuring the best pillows and section of duvet for her belovèd best friend - she has even been sighted warming Gizmo's favourite teddy-bear prior to placing it next to where Giz is sleeping.  But Betty herself announced that her greatest triumph in securing Gisèle's comfort has taken place in the kitchen.  She proudly conducted us, followed closely by Gizmo herself, into the kitchen yesterday evening and stood, beaming, awaiting our fawning praise.

I couldn't actually notice anything different about the room or its furnishings, but it did not escape me that Gizmo's smile had become rather fixed, though the sweet girl's manner remained unalterably polite.
"See?!" barked Betty, happily, "I even ate Gizzle's dinner for her, to save her from hurting her belly when she was digesting her food!!"

Ah.  Now I understood.  I looked at Gisèle, who seemed almost straining with the effort to appear outwardly grateful.
"Oh, I see..." I murmured.  "Yes, indeed.  Well - that was, er, ummm, yes.... VERY, uh, kind - of you Betty."
Betty nodded confidently.  I glanced at Gizmo, with a wink and a sympathetic smile.  The merest glance between my partner and I instantly determined a way forward.  "Elizabeth, my dear, would you be kind enough to accompany me into the garden?" I enquired, adopting one of my most charming smiles, "I failed to profit from your advice previously and feel I would benefit enormously from a further explanation of the safety arrangements which you have made for Gisèle without-doors."
Betty looked doubtfully down at Gizmo.
"Er - I know she is safe within." I hastily continued, "If you would favour me with your company...?"
With that, Betty trotted out into the garden with me and began to go over once again the finer points of the relocation of our tomato plants.

Whilst I occupied Betty outside my partner hastily prepared another chicken and rice dinner for Gizmo, and joined us on the patio so that Giz could eat her meal in peace.

Another disaster happily averted - and we all continue in peaceful harmony.  I was careful to look away, so as to shield my smile, when I later heard Gizmo thanking Betty most earnestly for her kind efforts, whilst assuring her that the dinner prepared for her by my partner was easily digestible.


If only ALL such paths were so easily smoothed-over.  For, just the other evening, the long arm of the law finally caught up with we four fugitives from justice.

We were in the New Teal Megane, all behaving ourselves properly, Betty 'riding shotgun', with Gisèle and I sitting in the back, when my partner noticed in her rear-view mirror that we were being followed by a Police Officer on a motorbike.  On exiting the first of two adjacent roundabouts it became clear, from his flashing blue lights and obvious gesticulations, that he wished us to pull-over.  After negotiating the second roundabout, my partner steered the car into a handy lay-by.  Muttering to us about "not making trouble", she wound down her window and waited in a state of some agitation and muttering profanities under her breath.  I was similarly mystified - what COULD we have done wrong?!

We sat in uneasy silence as the Policeman dismounted his motorcycle and marched purposefully towards us.
"Hello sir!" my partner greeted him brightly, with her prettiest smile and the subtlest hint of her majestic cleavage (shameless, perhaps, but one must flaunt one's physical gifts to the utmost.  In this, I have taught her well).  "Is everything all right?"

The scowling Rozzer wasted no time in coming straight to the point.
"Is that child wearing a seatbelt?!" he barked, angrily, at my still-beaming partner.  Her winning smile faltered in her confusion.
"Excuse me?"
"THAT CHILD!" he snapped, irritably.  "In your front passenger seat!  Is it WEARING a SEATBELT?!"
"Um...."

At this point, Elizabeth turned to look at the officer.  Dear reader, it was all I could do not to laugh aloud as I witnessed the Policeman's stunned reaction.
"Errooohhh!" he yelped, as he hastily backed away, almost tripping over his own feet in his shock.  "It's a DOG!"

"Yes." said my partner, aware that she was now going to be late for work and an important meeting.
"A dog!" repeated the Policeman.  "Not a child!  But from the back it looked-"
"Yes." said my partner again.  "She's got my eyes and her father's tail.  We're very proud."

The unfortunate Rozzer gaped in open-mouthed embarrassment.  Gisèle was not aiding the situation by lying across the back seat of the car, helplessly giggling.

"Erm," spluttered the Officer, trying to recover a semblance of his lost credibility.  "I'd better let you get on your way, madam... I am sorry to have troubled you..."
"That's OK.  Thank you." replied my partner, though much of this civil reply was lost on the Policeman's hastily retreating rear as he stumbled back to his motorbike and sped off in pursuit of other, legitimate, miscreants.

We gave him a second's grace before all four of us exploded in merciless laughter, which continued all the way to the office.


Good night.

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…