The Beastie
This is Andy. Isn’t he sweet? Such soft fur and big brown eyes. And, when I mention that he is a rescue dog, there will be a collective “Ah shame”.
He did have an absolutely appalling start in life. When my sister-in-law Nicky first took him home from the SPCA he was scared, aggressive and particularly terrified of men. Thankfully, he has calmed down immensely since my sister-in-law and he moved in with us. He loves my French poodle, adores roaming the garden and has grown particularly fond of chicken breasts and Egyptian linen.
But, when Andy is taken out of his comfort zone, he changes. Then, his cute, beguiling ways become as genuine as Ted Bundy’s beautiful smile.
A family decision was taken that Nicky, his owner, would be tasked with training him to be better behaved…and he always shows great promise whilst being taught obedience in our back garden with the help of a big bag of doggy treats. But not so in the real world.
For me, walking my dog, Chloe, is one of life’s pleasures. She and I can walk for hours in quiet harmony, with her sniffing lamp posts and my admiring the gardens we pass. After all, I chose a French poodle because they are extremely intelligent and highly trainable. And Chloe is both of these things.
Being a considerate person, I thought it only fair that, when Andy moved in, he be included in our walks.
But when we put on his lead and open the gate, he becomes an absolutely nutter. He is suspicious of just about everyone and everything. He hates motorbikes and trucks, so much so that he has developed a Kamikaze move of hurling himself into the air in their direction. It truly is nerve-wracking.
I literally keep him on a short rein and now spend my walks berating him whilst swivelling my head around looking for any of his nemeses, which include motorbikes and runners.
A few months ago, I was waiting to cross a busy street. As always, Chloe was sitting at my heel, waiting for the command ‘cross’. Andy was milling around looking for trouble. I hadn’t notice three office workers walk behind me, and before I knew it, Andy had thrown himself at one of them and grabbed his ankle. I was mortified and so embarrassed. The guy pulled up the leg of his pants and stared at the site: not much to see except for a few tiny marks. There was no broken skin thank goodness. The man looked at me and he was really annoyed. As he was about to let me have it, his two very attractive, younger female colleagues started laughing. “Markie got bitten by a tiny ball of fluff. You poor thing”. The guy then chuckled and said “Ja man, stupid little thing”. They all walked off with the girls still teasing ‘Markie’. I said a short prayer of thanks for the fragile male ego and went home.
He has the heart of a dog, the bravery of a lion and the obedience of a dead slug. And yes, there is no such thing as a bad dog, only useless owners. So, whilst he might sleep on our beds and give us wake-up kisses on our noses, he is unfortunately grounded until we find Joburg’s answer to Cesar Milan!
