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January 2012
One Thursday
afternoon, about two weeks before Christmas, John and Daff went out for
the afternoon. Nothing unusual in that, although often we’re given the
choice of whether we want to go with them or not. I knew they weren’t
going down the Patch, as they would have taken the big car and we would
have gone too, so I wasn’t too bothered as just riding about for no
special purpose is not my idea of a fun afternoon out, especially when
I’m generally banged up with Mr Paddidog, who’s not a barrel of laughs
at any time, and Smelly Sally, who, when she’s not peeing the bed, is
emitting the most nauseating, sulphurous farts – Daff says she smells
like the south wind used to do here when Whittlesey Brickworks was in
full production.
We assumed they
weren’t going far, as they hadn’t left any lights on. As it got dark
around three-thirty then and they generally made sure we could see what
was going on if they were going to be later than that, we thought they’d
only be gone a short time.
When it had been dark
for some time and they’d still not reappeared, we began to get a bit
uneasy. Suppose there’d been an accident; would anyone know that there
were five hounds home alone? Anyway, we needn’t have worried, as they
turned up eventually, and that’s where the trouble started.
They weren’t alone.
Hopping along behind them was a little girl, about 9 months old, full of
her own importance. Now, I can just about cope with little girls these
days, although there’s only ever been one lady in my life, but this one
was more than any poor crippled dog could manage. She was a fawn
lurcher – not even a pedigree, and she’d only got three legs! Whatever
next for 2011, I thought. First Tom Barnaby, the most in-your-face
greyhound imaginable, then this apparition.
It seemed she’d come
from our vet’s. She’d been seen to be dumped from a van down a quiet
country lane and the witnesses had taken her to the dog sanctuary
nearby, from where she was transferred to our veterinary surgery, which
is also used by the sanctuary, as she had a broken left elbow. Our vet
pinned the break and she was readmitted to the sanctuary, but when they
took her for a check-up, the pins had all come loose and they had to cut
her leg off as they couldn’t mend it again.
It was apparently at
this point that our vets decided that she needed a home that understood
sight hounds, would look after her properly and give her a lot of love,
and who better than John and Daff. After all, if they could love Tom
Barnaby and Smelly Sally, they would be bound to love a three-legged
urchin. So it was mainly their fault that this thing descended on us.
“We’ve got you a
little sister for Christmas,” Daff told us. But we didn’t want a
little sister. If John couldn’t let me have Sandy last year, as far as
I was concerned, there was no room for any more dogs. I’ve got a
brother, anyway; he lives in Banbury and I’m not really bothered whether
I see him or not. He does send me a Christmas card, though, which is
the only one I ever get.
Stupid Tom immediately
fell in love with her. He never leaves her side; if she goes out he
goes with her, and when she comes in, he comes back in, too. AND he
started to pee all over the house, just to let everyone know he’s the
boss (he says) and he’s got a girlfriend. Between his barking and his
weeing, he’s just about sending John and Daff round the bend. I knew
he should have gone back to Fen Bank once his new floor was finished,
but nobody listens to me, even though I’m invariably right.
Of course, my poorly
feet have paled into insignificance now she’s arrived. Hardly anyone
notices my toes and gives me sympathy now but everyone ohs and aahs when
they see her hopping along. Discit’s not pleased, as Faune, as she’s
been called, insists on sleeping on John and Daff’s bed with her, so
she’s taken to lying right down at the bottom and sulking all night.
Poor John and Daff have to take her to the vet’s every other day so her
wound can be redressed (think of the cost of diesel!) and we all had a
rotten Christmas because part of the cut started to turn all bad and
stinky and she had to keep visiting the emergency surgery.
The worst thing about
her, though, is that she’s bright, and that is really worrying as before
she came, I was the brains of the family. She’s hyperactive and
cunning (full of hybrid vigour, Daff says, which I think is a term
usually used about tough plants) and I dread to think what she’s going
to be like when the bandages come off. We shall see, I fear.
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