Black Dog Day

Today was one in which Winston Churchill would describe himself as having a ‘Black Dog’ day.  Being a natural optimist, I very rarely get them, but when that little Black Dog comes snapping and snarling into your head – often for no reason at all – it then becomes a huge challenge to chase it away.  And so it was that I found myself this morning feeling as if I was walking uphill in treacle, unable to focus on the task in hand, surrounded by the ever increasing chaos of the house and the never ending jobs that needed doing.  To cap it all, it was raining again.  Not your delicate little English drizzle, but a full blown downpour that was causing no end of flooding problems throughout the UK, but mercifully not in Mytchett…

In vain I tried half heartedly to engage Muttley in a game of catch – often a little dodgy indoors when you have laminated floors throughout and a ball.  Not only does the ball bounce extraordinarily high, but the game resembles nothing more than ice hockey as the dog, racing towards the ball at high speed, ends up splayed bambi-like slipping and slithering towards an immovable concrete wall.  We abandoned that and tried to play with Foxy.  Now from previous blogs you will all remember one of his favourite stuffed toys, but Foxy is his absolute flavour of the week.  Resembling an old lady’s fox stole, it is sold in many pet shops as a dog toy – presumably because its head is stuffed with a ball and its backside squeaks…  Now whilst Muttley is exceedingly good at sharing his toys – with this one he has enormous difficulty in squashing his natural inclination to guard against anyone else playing with it.  So it becomes a slightly one sided game, with one throw and then about five minutes cajoling to get it back to throw again – not great when you have a little Black Dog in your head…

So I put on my coat, called to Muttley and we braved it into the rain…

First stop, the canal centre, where a very old lady wheezed into view with an equally old and fat spaniel on a lead.  Muttley careered up to the dog with me hanging on to the end of his lead.  “Oh don’t mind her”, the old lady said conversationally, “She’s as daft as a brush, can’t let her off the lead as she can’t remember her own name”.

“Oh dear”, I said, as I surveyed the doe eyed spaniel, “I guess she’s very old?” 

“Oh, it’s not that, she’s never known her name…Now, where am I going?” and after gently pointing them in the right direction, the elderly companions went on their doddery way.  Muttley strained hard at the lead as we approached a lady with two portly chocolate Labradors and a Jack Russell which was circling the trio and yapping at full throttle.  After various niceties (“Jolly nice dog, how old?” “5 months”) she gave me the benefit of her advice.

“What you need to do is let him off the lead and let him roam.  Then you need to call him, catch his eye and call him again.  If he doesn’t come to you – simply run off in the opposite direction!”

I eyed Muttley dubiously, who had brightened up considerably at the thought of having some freedom.  “I may try that another day”, I said weakly,  “When it’s not raining”.

“Stuff and nonsense, it’s worked for me”, retorted the lady as she marched on – the Jack Russell had disappeared completely at this point and as we strolled along I could hear her running and shouting herself hoarse  “Jasper!  Jasper! Where are you?  Come Jasper!”

We turned the corner and there we saw a vision of beauty in black and white…Her eyes a pale blue colour, her fur long and silky, and she turned and looked at Muttley and he melted…  A border collie who reveled in the name of Skye, and who coyly deigned to come over to my drooling pup. As her dad and I jumped rope over the retractable lead the two dogs played Bash Each Others Noses and Smack Each Others Heads on the Ground in only the way young lovers could.  With promises to meet again the two dogs departed with lingering backwards glances…

As we ambled home, the sun began to peep out from behind the clouds. As I sat at the computer with renewed energy and resolve to get some jobs done, there was a gentle nudge of a wet nose on my elbow.  There sat Muttley, with Foxy in his mouth, which he then laid with great care on my knee and with enormous trusting brown eyes.

And the little Black Dog in my head slunk off snarling – he knew when he had been beaten…