Handbags and Poobags: Tales of a Soho Boxer Dog (5 page)

Chapter 9: THE TROUBLE WITH TALKING

Being out with a dog can sometimes turn you into public property, it’s very similar to how an obviously pregnant woman feels. Everyone either looks at you, has a comment to make, makes a noise, wants to touch or engage you in some kind of conversation. It can range from the sublime “
your dog just made me smile
” to the ridiculous “
if I had your dog I would call it Gucci”.

I remember once a very small Basil and I were standing alone in the big Homebase car-park just off the Finchley Road, a smart looking man passed by and nodded and waved, indicating that he too was probably a dog lover and wanted to acknowledge the tiny pup, a calm encounter of mutual understanding. I was holding Basil in my arms as he was still too small to be put on the ground and hadn’t had his jabs yet. But I thought he might appreciate some fresh air so we kept standing under a tree breathing in the summer, he wrinkled his nose appreciatively and we cuddled happily. I was enjoying the quiet and warm feel of Basil’s still velvety fur against my cheek when our peace was suddenly shattered by the sound of two women shrieking. Turning round I saw two middle-aged ladies running out of the large store, scarves flying out behind them, their heels clattering on the tarmac and they were heading straight for us.

“
That man, that man
” they squealed “
he said you had a freshly baked pup out here”.
It was an ambush. That smart man had gone into Homebase and obviously couldn’t help himself from expressing what he had just seen in the car park to two complete strangers! We were surrounded. There was nothing for it but to play along and Basil was kissed and cooed over for a long while as I waited desperately for Patrick to hurry up buying his plywood. I’m not good at making small talk with strangers but having a dog has meant I’ve had to have an upgrade in my social skills for sure. Maybe they should have included a session for us owners at Puppy Class?

But the fact that a lot of people want to comment on your dog or talk to you about it can lead you down a sinister path… Many want to talk about their own deceased dogs, so be warned! They suck you in with an innocent comment about your dog or dogs in general and then hit you with it: “
Yes our Sandy died last year, hit by a car”
or “
Maggie, she lasted until she was 10, but we couldn’t let her suffer anymore. Cancer
”. They fix you with a moist gaze and with a wobbly voice go on to describe the worst aspects of an illness, how they died and how the family felt afterwards. Some even start reaching for tatty photos still carried in wallets. It’s terrible. It can come from any quarter and usually while you are a trapped, captive audience: cab drivers, people in lifts, guys working in shops - the bereaved dog owner can appear anywhere.

While I feel their pain I just hate it. I find myself flinching as soon as someone opens a dog conversation with me just waiting for that killer line. I know it’s because I dread the day it’s me telling the same tale to a hopeful new young owner with a tear in my eye.

Owning the same breed of dog allows you to open up a conversation with just about anyone. A wary dog-owner will tolerate your comments and attention, but if you open up with
‘we’ve got a Boxer at home too, a boy Basil’
they will actually look at you, smile and gladly chat away about all things Boxer - which usually involves discussing how good they are with kids, how bouncy they are and how they act like puppies for most of their lives. You’re in the special ‘My Breed Too’ club and worthy of a conversation. You’re also allowed to give their dog a good stroke, a cuddle and a kiss and remark on the size of their chops without reproach. I will always approach a Boxer owner in the street and give my time to other owners who approach me. I know this is the same for all other breeds.

We talk to Basil all of the time. But not with any kind of purpose. If we’re alone in the house together I will chat away to him, ask him his thoughts on a particular outfit or song. We soon forgot the one-word commands he was meant to learn and ended up just talking to him as if he was human. To this day he still only really understands the following English:
“Where’s Mummy?”, “Where’s Daddy?”
and
“Walkies to the park with a ball”. 

We definitely have a tendency to anthropomorphise Basil, often attributing him with outlandish personalities and corresponding phrases and accents, rather like Johnny Morris used to do. Our favourite persona for him is a kind of flamboyant Quentin Crisp type character, complete with withering one-liners and a very correct English accent. You certainly don’t want to get on the wrong side of Basil!

And worryingly, as time has gone on, Patrick and I now use Basil to talk to each other, both pretending to be the dog (complete with arch voice) to try and persuade the other to get something from the kitchen or turn the TV over.  “
Mummy says will you bring her wine in please Daddy, while you’re up”.

Chapter 10: THE TROUBLE WITH WALKING

As soon as Basil had had his final jabs and we could start walking him properly outside I believed that life would get immediately easier. It meant we could start going out again, we weren’t chained to the car, he could go to the loo outside and of course we would have a gorgeous attention-grabbing pup to parade around Soho.

Poor Basil just didn’t take to it straight away; despite his socialisation classes he found everything and everyone bewildering. The streets of Soho and Camden, where he took his first faltering steps outside, aren’t known for being calm and reassuring and I did feel sorry for him as each car, bike, wheelchair or group of screaming hen-do goers seemed to roar past him.  Every couple of steps he would resolutely sit down and look up at us as if to say ‘
Carry Me Daddy’
– he couldn’t understand why he had to now make his own way on his own four feet.

Retrospectively I feel terrible that I used to get so exasperated with him for being so nervous.  Thinking about it - the things he saw and had to go through would put off even the most eager human tourist in central London. 

It was Soho in Summer and everyone had taken to the streets, it’s great fun and I love the fact that Old Compton Street suddenly fills up with every type of character you can think of as soon as the sun comes out. But it’s not so fun when you have a tiny, vulnerable pup to take care of. The kind of life that I found exciting and interesting was totally petrifying to the young, uninitiated Basil.

The world was full of loud drag queens, groups of huddled pimps and dealers, confused tourists, myriad-legged stag dos, happy revellers and plenty of drunken dropouts, all of whom would take an interest in him. It was mainly comments, ranging from the dramatic
‘I’m just going to stand over here and quietly cry over your pup’
and ‘
Oh My God will you look at that little angel’
to the rather more worrying: ‘
can I walk your dog?’, ‘why won’t you let us touch your dog’
and
‘I’m going to have that dog’.

But the reaction was mainly positive and I found my life suddenly punctuated with squeals of delight as we walked the streets (it took me a while to realise that it wasn’t me attracting the admiring glances).  Many times I had to pause as Basil had his picture taken on yet another camera phone. Who knows where all the pictures in the world of Basil are but it makes me laugh to think of the amount of tourists who got home to find that their holiday snaps include a shot of a tiny Boxer puppy whose name they don’t even know.

For me there was a bit of a downside to all this attention, as soon as we took to the streets I found that suddenly everybody wanted to touch him. Now, I am not normally squeamish but I worried that he could get contaminated by the slightest thing and when you have such a young, gorgeous looking pup everyone feels that they can just reach out and physically interact with him in some way. Poor Bas would constantly find hands thrust into his mouth or onto his head, it was so much for one so young. I became obsessed with keeping him clean and took to carrying him around again through the busiest streets and wouldn’t make eye contact with eager, would-be dog polluters who seemed to approach from every street corner and mucky doorway.

I found that most people didn’t even register me, just him. That is still true to this day. He always gets a lot of attention. I remember one occasion when I felt particularly left out: walking through Soho a big group of European tourists descended upon us and literally, without even acknowledging me, grabbed the young Basil and swung him up for a cuddle and a photo. One man in particular took a delight in him and while all of them were chatting to each other about Boxer dogs they had known, this ringleader made many jokes to his gang about stealing him! There was not one word to me apart from to ask his name, and as one of them was actually from Basle, it caused more hearty gales of laughter and more entreaties between themselves to have him away. Eventually they put him down and went on their way casting many looks back at the confused Basil.

Or there was the time we nearly caused a car crash. On crossing the road near our home we heard the squealing of brakes and honking of car horns. Turning we saw a man jumping out of a white van that had screeched to a halt next to us right in the middle of the traffic flow. He just had to leap out to let us know that he had a Boxer dog at home in his native Italy and they really were the best dogs. While we were pleased to hear it we weren’t sure it was worth nearly getting into a crash for and after a little cuddle with Basil he ended up having an argument with the drivers of the two cars that had nearly driven into him as we walked on.

Soon the faltering, little pup grew up and gained a bit of strength, which meant walks took on a whole new meaning. Patrick never has trouble with Basil pulling, but sometimes I do. It’s not that he pulls me so much as he is usually quite eager to get to where he is going. I totter along behind him wailing ‘
but you don’t even know where we are going’
- which isn’t strictly true if we are taking our well-worn path to the park. Basil gets so frantic to get there even quicker that his little paws turn into crampons and literally claw their way along the road. I sometimes think he gets worried that the park might disappear before we get there.

Regents Park, North West London was our local park, and how lucky we were to have it so close to us and for it to be the place where Basil learnt about the world. This famous, beautiful, central city space was where Basil really defined himself as a dog. He adored the place, he would know when he was anywhere near it and nearly kill himself trying to get there. We learnt a lot about our dog and the canine world from spending so much time there, such as:

• Basil loves a ball. In fact he loves a ball so much a walk without one is almost wasted. He will run and run after one, he will throw his leg out with cramp and still run and run after one. Footballs are best. We had to steer clear of the regular football games that take place in the park as Basil would happily sail off into the middle of play and claim the ball for his own to the cries of ‘
  Get that bloody dog off the pitch’
  and causing us much embarrassment. Every ball that comes into our house belongs to Basil, no question, the same goes for balloons.
  

• Dog owners fall into various groups, usually defined by your age or chosen breed. Rarely do we speak to groups outside of our accepted allies.  Poodle owners will never speak to Bulldog owners as a blunt example. Older owners of larger hounds and gun dogs are the hardest group to crack. One suspicious chap in a flat cap and with a fine pair of
  Weimaraner
  s
  came up behind us to inspect Basil’s nether regions once, and on muttering ‘
  good, good he’s been done’
  allowed his hounds to walk near us. The cheek! Patrick got into trouble once for declaring loudly near a Weimaraner owner that these gorgeous silver hounds were merely ‘
  show off dogs’
  , she rounded on him spitting ‘
  how dare you, my dog is a working dog thank you very much’
  . Which told him.
  

• Basil has a real sense of his own place in the animal world’s pecking order. On walking past London Zoo he would go crazy for the smells of the nearby goats and sheep and try to bark through the wire at them. But the second we’d hear the roar of a lion or the honk of a llama he would immediately, submissively fall to the floor. (It was the same on a country walk through some open land populated by a few massive cows, our usually bullish dog turned decidedly sheepish when he saw the huge animals. If a dog could tip-toe he was doing it).
  

• A dog’s sense of smell really is sensational. Basil can sniff out a muddy puddle a mile off, he will lose all sense of ownership and hare off into the distance in order just to take roll in the gorgeous stuff.  He’s usually rock hard by the time we get home, his bottom half completely set stiff in mud.
  

• Dogs have emotions. I am not sure how anyone who has seen one let loose to run free through the grass could disagree. It is the very definition of happiness.
  

We often say that when Basil passes away, no matter where we live in the country, Patrick will take his ashes to Regent’s Park and leave them there with a football so he can carry on playing.

We were concerned about him pulling on the lead so much and possibly choking so we bought him a little head collar to replace the one that went around his neck. But this was swiftly replaced by a full body harness as walks were ruined by Basil spending more time trying to free the facial straps from round his squashed, snub nose – these things aren’t made for Boxer dogs. The body harness is great fun, it looks like he is wearing a parachute from the front as the two black straps cross over on his white chest, and when he pulls forward his two front legs come up. Anyway he soon got used to it and now knows that when the harness comes out it’s ‘
walkies
’ time. 

He doesn’t yank me around so much anymore and thankfully he has only pulled me to the floor once, and that wasn’t really Basil’s fault as I was a bit tipsy on Chablis, talking on the mobile, wearing high heels and trying to hold his lead all at the same time! It wasn’t just the dog learning lessons the hard way.

He can usually go without a lead for most of his walks now, unless we are near a main road, he’d never run away from us. He’s quite single minded and if he has his own ball to play with then he’ll not usually bother anyone else. But I’ll never forget the time we were once walking across Primrose Hill, Basil was darting here, there and everywhere having a fine time. He had his small ball with him that day. We came across a family having a picnic; their children were playing with a football. Oh no! Football trumps small ball. Basil decided it was to be his and casting his little plaything to one side he made a beeline right for them.  I started running after him shouting his name causing the family to look around startled at what was heading right towards them. But it was too late, a flying Basil was already committed to the air…

Of course he landed with a bump right in the middle of their picnic-rug sending the sandwiches and beakers of Pimms flying, before nosing off their football. It took an age to get hold of him so pleased was he with his new acquisition he’d decided to parade it around the whole of the hill for everyone to see. Eventually I managed to get hold of him, put him on the lead and with a grim face handed the deflated gooey ball back to the crying children. I apologised for the ruined food to the disgusted family and hurried him home. On turning a corner I started laughing and laughing as I remembered their horrified faces on seeing Basil flying through the air above them. I gave him a hug. Yes it was terrible behaviour but there is no point in crying over spilt Pimms right?

If you own a hound then walking is just a fact of life, you have to get used to it. Tired, hungover, no matter, you just need to get out there. Patrick always says that ‘
dogs need to pick up their messages
’ – which just means sniffing other dogs wee, I’ve even heard of the term ‘weemails’ but I wouldn’t use that myself. Now I have a lot of experience I can tell you twelve things that will definitely happen on a dog walk with Basil:

• Basil will chase after a discarded carrier bag in the road or something equally stupid that will make both of you look silly
  
• Basil will have a poo just as I have put the bags away or run out of them
  
• Basil will try to chase or catch someone else’s ball despite having his own
  
• If I’ve had a big night out, look rough or haven’t washed my hair I’ll bump into someone I know, usually when Basil is having a poo
  
• Basil’s fantastic football skills will prompt a passer-by to comment on the fact he is just what the England team needs right now
  
• Another dog will attempt to sniff or play with Basil, but will be ignored in favour of his ball
  
• You don’t want to but can’t help but look as the bum sniffing goes on
  
• Someone will attempt to catch Basil’s attention by clucking or whistling, but will be ignored in favour of his ball
  
• A cheesewire will occur – this is where Basil walks behind you causing the lead to cut you across the back of the legs – if not dealt with promptly it can bring you to the floor
  
• Someone will back away from us warily and act as if I’ve got a ferocious lion on the end of the lead, not a dog
  
• I’ll say hello to the same dog walkers I see every day, I know their dogs name but not theirs
  
• If I’ve got a hangover it will be gone by the time I’ve finished a good circuit of the park (honestly a dog walk is the best cure and you usually pass a café selling coffee and bacon sandwiches too)