April 22, 2013
OK Northern Ireland, I love your scenery, I love your friendly people who are the nicest in the world except when they’re trying to kill each other (and that even includes the man who greeted me with a cheery ‘keep going girl’ from the footpath as I slogged up a hill into the wind on the Brompton), I even love your weather which, for someone who is used to South West Scotland, counts almost as semi-arid although I could do without your omni-directional headwinds – but what is it with your dogs? Twice in the last two days I have had a loose dog chase after me on the bike, snapping and snarling, something I’ve rarely had to worry about anywhere else.
Yesterday we were heading down the coast road when two dogs emerged from a driveway and one shot across the road (my heart was in my mouth because it’s a fast road) to sprint along beside me barking in fury. And then this afternoon, returning from the supermarket, a Jack Russell (regular readers will remember I’ve had issues with them before) was instantly transformed from mild-mannered family pet to a one-dog wolf pack, albeit quite a small one, snarling at my wheels and looking ready to keep chasing me across side streets regardless of any traffic. Both times the dogs had let the other half go by and only took issue with me. I’m not sure if it’s because one bike might be just about allowed to pass but TWO is beyond provocation – or if it’s something about the Brompton that sets them off. Come to think of it, I’ve passed grown men on bikes that have reacted in similar ways …
Either way, I haven’t really felt in any danger. In fact – and I think this a far more effective Britishness test than which cricket team I support – both times I was more worried for the dog’s safety than my own. I did wonder whether I ought to have stopped rather than risk having them hit by a car but I wasn’t really sure whether I was going to be able to get across the finer points of the green cross code to an enraged canine, so I took the coward’s way out and kept going until they gave up. I suppose it’s good to know I can outride a mutt, even on a Brompton, uphill, and into the wind.
May 12, 2010
I was in a farmyard this morning, and I noticed a little black and white cat, barely more than a kitten, coming out of a barn with a mouse in its jaws. It dropped its prey at the feet of the old sheep dog which sleeps chained up in the sun there, and nudged it with its head, as though to show it what a wonderful present it had brought it.
‘Awwwww,’ I said to my cycling buddy. ‘How cute is that?’ and we cooed for a while at the little vicious killer and its ancient partner in crime.
I have definitely lived in the country too long now.
September 26, 2009
The embarrassing part of this story is that it happened just after the other half and I had faced down two really mean looking boxers (the dogs, not the sweaty men in satin shorts) which had decided that the track up to the footpath was part of their territory. Having got past that particular hazard, we were walking down the road home discussing dog-ownership etiquette. ‘They really should be under better control,’ I said. ‘It’s not like the herd of little tiny dogs down at the turn to the ford. Those ones get out but they’re not exactly scary.’ ‘Yeah,’ said the other half. ‘They sort of remind me of how many five-year-olds can you take in a fight.’
How we laughed. Until we got to the turn off for the ford and one of the herd – not my friend from last time – came bounding over the wall towards us. Now normally when dogs get out of their territory they’re pretty craven, but this one hadn’t read the manual and the next thing I knew it had dashed across the road, swung round behind me, and closed its tiny needle-sharp teeth on my calf. Ow. Suddenly the words ‘you stupid bitch’ were entirely appropriate (for indeed, it was a she) although I only thought of that when I had got home and inspected the damage. It’s pretty humiliating being bested by a creature you could theoretically drop kick over a wall (although perhaps not so humiliating as realising you could only take 12 five year olds in unarmed combat. That’s my nursery teaching career out the window then).
So our walks from now on may have to be accompanied by stout sticks. And I’m going to start being extremely cautious around cows…
*Yes, I know this is the archetypal not-news story but hey, it’s my blog and it happened to me and I bet you any money that even in the days of hot metal, ‘Dog Bites Newspaper Proprietor’ would have made the front page.
November 27, 2008
Spotted in Bigtown this afternoon: a smiley sort of labrador busily picking up all the discarded plastic bottles along the river bank.
Admittedly, she was doing it because she liked to play with them, not because she’d been trained to gather them up and put in the bin, but as her owner said, ‘Ach well, if it makes me look good, I’ll no argue wi’ that!’*
Still, it’s a thought. And with a different sort of dog (Rottie, staffordshire, growly alsation) trained to return litter to the litterer with menaces, we might actually be getting somewhere…
* As you can see, I’m making great strides with the language. Although the postie was telling me something complicated about his lost horse** yesterday that I couldn’t make head or tail of.
** Not how he delivers the post, in case you’re wondering. We’re not that rural
September 25, 2008
Wherever we go – on foot or bike at least – we’re followed by the sound of barking dogs. Every house and farm has at least one, although a small pack of them is more usual, generally yelling blue murder at us from behind the safety of the gate. I’m not sure if they bark at us because pedestrians are unusual, or because they bark at everything: passing cars, pheasants, clouds, the rain, air. But bark they do, bravely seeing off the desperate brigands threatening their hearth and home.
Then yesterday, one of the mini wolfpack that lives on the corner of the turn to the ford* managed to get out by leaping the wall as we went past. Within the gate, its less agile companions were still baying for our blood. Six inches away, on the other side of the gate, this ferocious vanguard of the pack was … rolling over to have its tummy scratched. Ah. It did have the grace to look embarrassed about it, but a tummy scratch is a tummy scratch after all, and I give particularly good ones.
Perhaps, if the writing lark doesn’t work out, I will have to take up burlglary. A few handfuls of dog biscuits and a willingness to be licked may well be all the equipment I need. And for a guard dog of my own? I think I’ll be getting some geese…
*Dry at the moment, but thanks for asking