We’ve all seen enough portly old gents and with arthritic, rheumy-eyed spaniels, or whip-thin joggers with greyhounds to suggest there’s some truth to the cliché that dogs look like their owners. Or that owners look like their dogs.
When in my fifties, I got my first dog - an unusually-coloured grey and white Fox Terrier - I feared that I had become a doggy cliché myself: the dog and I both had grey hair and rather long noses.
Ironically, I had hoped that owning a Fox Terrier might help me avoid becoming another kind of cliché – a woman of a certain age with a small, white, curly-haired dog with a composite-breed name like LackaNoodle or YuckyPoo.
What I really wanted was a dog whose temperament would complement mine. I went so far as to complete a questionnaire which purported to assist in the matching process.
Some of the questions – allergies, activity levels, sociability – were predictable enough. Other questions were rather more left-field: What kind of amusement park ride best describes the energy in your home? (Carousel/Ferris Wheel/Log Ride/Roller Coaster); How do you react on the road when another driver cuts you off? (Slow down to give him some space/Lean on the horn/Accelerate and try to cut him off); Does drooling bother you much? (Not a bit/Not my favourite thing/I really don't like it)
The results suggested that I’d be happiest with a Fox Terrier, a breed known for being “intelligent, outgoing, active, inquisitive and quite stylish (when groomed properly)” That sounded like me. And so it came to pass that I lived very happily with my Fox Terrier, Pete, until liver cancer and the ministrations of a compassionate vet delivered him to the Great Bone Yard in the Sky.
When in my fifties, I got my first dog - an unusually-coloured grey and white Fox Terrier - I feared that I had become a doggy cliché myself: the dog and I both had grey hair and rather long noses.
Ironically, I had hoped that owning a Fox Terrier might help me avoid becoming another kind of cliché – a woman of a certain age with a small, white, curly-haired dog with a composite-breed name like LackaNoodle or YuckyPoo.
What I really wanted was a dog whose temperament would complement mine. I went so far as to complete a questionnaire which purported to assist in the matching process.
Some of the questions – allergies, activity levels, sociability – were predictable enough. Other questions were rather more left-field: What kind of amusement park ride best describes the energy in your home? (Carousel/Ferris Wheel/Log Ride/Roller Coaster); How do you react on the road when another driver cuts you off? (Slow down to give him some space/Lean on the horn/Accelerate and try to cut him off); Does drooling bother you much? (Not a bit/Not my favourite thing/I really don't like it)
The results suggested that I’d be happiest with a Fox Terrier, a breed known for being “intelligent, outgoing, active, inquisitive and quite stylish (when groomed properly)” That sounded like me. And so it came to pass that I lived very happily with my Fox Terrier, Pete, until liver cancer and the ministrations of a compassionate vet delivered him to the Great Bone Yard in the Sky.
Some of the questions – allergies, activity levels, sociability – were predictable enough. Other questions were rather more left-field: What kind of amusement park ride best describes the energy in your home? (Carousel/Ferris Wheel/Log Ride/Roller Coaster); How do you react on the road when another driver cuts you off? (Slow down to give him some space/Lean on the horn/Accelerate and try to cut him off); Does drooling bother you much? (Not a bit/Not my favourite thing/I really don't like it)
The results suggested that I’d be happiest with a Fox Terrier, a breed known for being “intelligent, outgoing, active, inquisitive and quite stylish (when groomed properly)” That sounded like me. And so it came to pass that I lived very happily with my Fox Terrier, Pete, until liver cancer and the ministrations of a compassionate vet delivered him to the Great Bone Yard in the Sky.
For my next dog I chose a Jack Russell for her “fearless personality, boundless energy, entertaining antics and portable size.” I must have missed the question which asked Does fur bother you much? (I'm oblivious to it/I don't mind a little shedding/I love living in knee-deep drifts of dog fur). And the one about food preferences.
That’s why I now live with a dog with an avid interest in things culinary, and why I need snow-shoes to negotiate the lounge carpet. Out on a walk, Rosie the Jack Russell in question, blithely insinuates herself into every riverside picnic. She can vanish into an unprepossessing bush and emerge triumphant with a McDonald’s wrapper or a slice of pizza. At home, she’s adept at sorting the contents of an unguarded supermarket bag, neatly separating the edible groceries from the inedible, and the animal from the vegetable and mineral.
The good thing about her enthusiasm for food is that she doesn’t expect the kind of artisanal dog food that comes in gold-plated cans with hand-printed labels. She’ll eat anything, including apples, carrots, avocado and pumpkin. She attempted a packet of chewing gum once. The only thing between her and a nasty gum-chewing habit is the foil wrapper.
But food and fur are the least of it. Potentially more hazardous is the fact that both the dog and I are inclined to random bursts of high excitement - often involving chasing one’s own tail. The risk of course is that we might be plunged into a maelstrom of simultaneous tail-chasing.
My own recent tailspin - AKA Rearranging the Furniture - would have ended very badly indeed if the dog had not resisted the impulse to join in.
I always find Rearranging the Furniture a challenge: dust-mice and dog fur discovered in the wardrobe; torn patches of wall paper revealed behind the tallboy; boxes of unsorted rubble under the bed dating from the last time the Furniture Was Rearranged. Out comes the vacuum cleaner, the mop and the broom. On goes the washing machine. In next to no time the complete house – in my case a mere 42 square metres – is a ruin of rumpled bedding, upended lamps, teetering stacks of drawers and trailing electrical cords. Nothing is nowhere except in the wrong place.
The problem then becomes how to shift Furniture A to Position B, and move Furniture B to Position C, without disturbing all the piled detritus. It’s a bit like that riddle about the boatman who has to transport a duck, a fox and a pumpkin safely across the river taking only one passenger at a time. If the boatman takes the pumpkin, the fox will eat the duck. If he takes the fox, the duck will eat the pumpkin. If riddles like this don’t bother you, neither will a bit of furniture shuffling. However, it makes me feel like checking into a nice motel for the rest of my life or perhaps joining a monastery.
During the most recent bout of Furniture Rearrangement, another solution occurred to me: I could simply raze the house and run away with the insurance money. It was only the dog’s dignified demonstration of sang froid that halted my search for an incendiary device and brought me to my senses.
She was sitting very still, atop a pile of cushions behind a barricade built of chairs, filing cabinet and coffee table with one calm, dark eye focused on me, and the other on the refrigerator door.
The results suggested that I’d be happiest with a Fox Terrier, a breed known for being “intelligent, outgoing, active, inquisitive and quite stylish (when groomed properly)” That sounded like me. And so it came to pass that I lived very happily with my Fox Terrier, Pete, until liver cancer and the ministrations of a compassionate vet delivered him to the Great Bone Yard in the Sky.
For my next dog I chose a Jack Russell for her “fearless personality, boundless energy, entertaining antics and portable size.” I must have missed the question which asked Does fur bother you much? (I'm oblivious to it/I don't mind a little shedding/I love living in knee-deep drifts of dog fur). And the one about food preferences.
That’s why I now live with a dog with an avid interest in things culinary, and why I need snow-shoes to negotiate the lounge carpet. Out on a walk, Rosie the Jack Russell in question, blithely insinuates herself into every riverside picnic. She can vanish into an unprepossessing bush and emerge triumphant with a McDonald’s wrapper or a slice of pizza. At home, she’s adept at sorting the contents of an unguarded supermarket bag, neatly separating the edible groceries from the inedible, and the animal from the vegetable and mineral.
The good thing about her enthusiasm for food is that she doesn’t expect the kind of artisanal dog food that comes in gold-plated cans with hand-printed labels. She’ll eat anything, including apples, carrots, avocado and pumpkin. She attempted a packet of chewing gum once. The only thing between her and a nasty gum-chewing habit is the foil wrapper.
But food and fur are the least of it. Potentially more hazardous is the fact that both the dog and I are inclined to random bursts of high excitement - often involving chasing one’s own tail. The risk of course is that we might be plunged into a maelstrom of simultaneous tail-chasing.
My own recent tailspin - AKA Rearranging the Furniture - would have ended very badly indeed if the dog had not resisted the impulse to join in.
I always find Rearranging the Furniture a challenge: dust-mice and dog fur discovered in the wardrobe; torn patches of wall paper revealed behind the tallboy; boxes of unsorted rubble under the bed dating from the last time the Furniture Was Rearranged. Out comes the vacuum cleaner, the mop and the broom. On goes the washing machine. In next to no time the complete house – in my case a mere 42 square metres – is a ruin of rumpled bedding, upended lamps, teetering stacks of drawers and trailing electrical cords. Nothing is nowhere except in the wrong place.
The problem then becomes how to shift Furniture A to Position B, and move Furniture B to Position C, without disturbing all the piled detritus. It’s a bit like that riddle about the boatman who has to transport a duck, a fox and a pumpkin safely across the river taking only one passenger at a time. If the boatman takes the pumpkin, the fox will eat the duck. If he takes the fox, the duck will eat the pumpkin. If riddles like this don’t bother you, neither will a bit of furniture shuffling. However, it makes me feel like checking into a nice motel for the rest of my life or perhaps joining a monastery.
During the most recent bout of Furniture Rearrangement, another solution occurred to me: I could simply raze the house and run away with the insurance money. It was only the dog’s dignified demonstration of sang froid that halted my search for an incendiary device and brought me to my senses.
She was sitting very still, atop a pile of cushions behind a barricade built of chairs, filing cabinet and coffee table with one calm, dark eye focused on me, and the other on the refrigerator door.
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