A seasick spoodle on the Norfolk Broads

Having lived within a stones throw of the Norfolk Broads for a year and not ventured down there,  we decided at the end  of the school holidays to throw caution to the wind and turn our hand to sailing. When I say ‘sailing’ I do of course mean rent a small boat and trundle along the river at 5 mph, but in our rather nautically challenged family, that’s as close to proper sailing as we’re ever likely to get.

Not wanting to leave Charlie at home alone for the day, he was duly packed into the car along with far too many sandwiches, a flask of green tea, 4 large bottles of water, a bird book, binoculars, a picnic rug, spare jumpers and several rain coats. I think subconsciously I was preparing for all possible worse case scenarios, including being swept away in a freak squall and left stranded far from civilisation on a floating polar ice cap. Surrounded by a flock of incredibly tiny unidentifiable birds.

Considering the average temperature last summer just about managed to reach ‘tepid degrees’, it was rather lucky for us that the day in question turned out to be the hottest we’d had since Spring. Perfect weather for messing about the river in fact, but rather too hot (as we soon found out) for four people dressed to keep warm with just one child-sized sun hat between them.

Arriving at the river we discovered one rather unsettling fact about sailing on the Broads: they really will hire out a boat to just about anyone who turns up and pays. Including, it appears, a family with not one ounce of river-going know-how between them. How scary for the water fowl indeed.

He looked nervous when approaching the boat, clueless when it came to mastering the controls and positively panic-stricken when untied and told we were free to go.  In fact, I believe our last words to the man in charge were “But what happens if we hit something?”  Of course he laughed.  Fool, little did he know.

Once we’d successfully navigated our way out through the waterways and onto the river we were relieved to find out that steering a boat is much like riding a bike. My son donned his full pirate outfit within minutes of setting off and both kids were in their element as they took it in turns at the wheel. The final member of our party however wasn’t quite so happy; he was clearly having difficulty finding his sea legs. Which does of course raise the question of why old sailors are often referred to as ‘Sea Dogs’.

Having been incredibly tentative about setting a paw onboard, Charlie became even less enamoured with the whole idea as we headed off down river. He whined at the passing boats, barked at every passing duck and positively howled when a swan dared flap nearby. And then, as if to really drive his point home, he pooed all over the floor. In lots of little brown, liquidity puddles. It’s amazing how fast doggy diarrhoea spreads when travelling across an uneven surface. And how much it smells when out in the fresh air. And how many wet wipes are required to mop up the mess.

Feeling rather sorry for himself (and possibly embarrassed) pooch took himself off to the back of the boat, laid on the cushion and peered rather gloomily over into the water. Every so often he looked our way with a hangdog expression that clearly said: ‘I didn’t ask to be brought along on this bloody boat you know’.

Forward onto the return journey – after a semi-successful mooring for lunch and the only sun hat somehow making its way into the water – and all seemed to be going fine. So fine in fact that my daughter was now in charge of steering the boat and both responsible adults were sat at the back, feet up, admiring the view and drinking a cup of tea.

Well when I say all was fine, I mean except for that small incident when my husbands (very expensive) sunglasses somehow took it upon themselves to leap from his face, onto the canvas awning and into the murky depths of the river. I would have been more surprised at this rather unfortunate happening, but the memory of him managing to dropping our camera (with a weeks worth of holiday snaps) into Sydney Harbour the last time we were on water is still fairly fresh in my mind.

Approaching the narrowing waterways as we came into land/park/moor up, my husband thought it wise to take control of the boat, so sent my daughter back to sit with the sea-sick dog. Suddenly Charlie’s bowels opened more, this time all over the cushion and then, as he was pushed off that, all over the floor of the boat. He then skidded around in it a bit and tried to clamber back on the cushion, trailing the mess from all 4 paws and rather matted, manky looking tail. This led to a rather rapid chain of events that involved my daughter letting out a squeal of horror and disgust, my husband turning around to see what the hell was going on, the boat banging straight into the side of the river, me flying backwards inside of the cabin and my son falling head first off the seat. It wasn’t the best 15 seconds of the trip it has to be said.

It took a fair few minutes to take stock, mop up, scrub the dog and rectify the damage – all with the few remaining wet wipes. It took quite a few minutes more before my husband managed to prise our boat off the wall … and straight into the path of another, much larger boat that was speeding towards us on our side of the river. To say it got a little bit tense would be an understatement, especially when I didn’t immediately offer to throw myself over the edge of the boat to push us off the wall. Something to do with the fact I was still up to my wrists in poo.

By the time we limped into our mooring space the owner was already there waiting, and the next family were ready to hop on board with their picnic. I’m rather hoping they never noticed the rather suspicious looking stain on the underside of the cushion, or the multiple bags of liquid mess I was holding as I clambered off. I’m pretty sure however (based on the fact they were busy mopping out the boat) that they did notice us hanging around the car park for another 2o minutes, as Charlie continued to drip out his business from one patch of grass to the next. And then throw up all over the nice (new) leather seats when he was finally loaded into the car.

All in all it was a great day out. Slighty messy and rather smelly, but fun nevertheless. Look forward to doing the same again next year, though it obviously goes without saying we’ll be leaving Charlie at home on dry land and I’ll be in charge of the wheel when we’re coming in to dock the boat.

xgf

Run Spoodle Run

Charlie (a Spoodle) is our ever so slightly dimwitted dog that simply refuses to do things by the canine rulebook. All in all he’s a complete nutter who acts like a shadow, snaps at the air, barks at the boiler and escapes from the front door if ever the opportunity presents itself.

If he wasn’t so fluffy and cute he’d probably have been banished to a dogs home long ago and he certainly wouldn’t have been flown back at Business Class prices to join us in the UK.

The worst of his habits is definitely the bolting. I’ve lost track of the number of times panic has descended as I spot his tail disappear out of an open door at roughly 50mph. Faster than a bloody whippet, there’s no stopping him in his tracks. There are times he’s been missing for hours as he races around the neighbourhood with absolutely no regard for road safety or the neighbours privacy. He went into one woman’s house on our street in Perth, ate all the tuna from her cat’s bowl and then stretched out on her bedroom floor for a sleep while she was in the shower. Luckily she had a strong heart and a fairly forgiving nature.

The same can’t be said of others who have experienced his flighty nature. In fact I think nearly all of my family have written him off as a lost cause and pain in the backside.

Whilst friends were staying with us last year Charlie once again did a runner. He shot down the road and into a nearby church with our panicking house guest chasing down the hill after him in not very suitable running shoes. Apparently he was eventually cornered by some gravestones by a few people who came to help. I say apparently as I was upstairs recovering from my eye op at the time and was oblivious to the drama unfolding below. Needless to say Charlie, having nearly induced a heart attack in said house guest, wasn’t exactly the flavour of the day.

On another occasion when we were out enjoying our first country walk back in the UK,  he also managed to wind up a herd of cows and cause the most almighty stampede. I suppose you can’t really blame him for investigating these strange new creatures but you have to wonder why he thought it a wise move to hang around when they all turned to face him with a rather menacing look in their eye.

Had he been a cleverer dog he might have hopped it then, but he wasn’t and he didn’t. He barked up at them loudly and then looked mighty surprised when they all started to chase him – in our direction no less. Now I never realised how fast a cow could run up until that point. Let’s just say that with all of us sprinting at full pelt we only just made it to the gate in time. I pushed my daughter through in front of me, my husband literally picked my son up by the seat of his trousers and chucked him over, before vaulting over himself.

Poor Charlie, with no time to make it through behind us he had to keep running. I’ll never forget the sight of a small fluffy dog streaking around the field with 6 angry cows in hot pursuit. Luckily for him he’s damn fast. All was going well until he reached a dead-end and was eventually cornered. For a while we lost sight of him, then there was a lot of mooing and what sounded like a yelp. At this point my daughter was in floods of tears and shrieking “They’re going to kill” him. I have to admit the same thought was also going through my mind although obviously I didn’t voice it out loud.

Finally we saw him tearing back along the path towards us. We opened the gate a fraction and for once he actually came when he was called. Needless to say we didn’t go back into that field again and every time we walked past it after that he gave it a sideways glance and picked up the pace.

So having narrowly escaped death by cattle, you’d have thought Charlie would have learned to control his wanderlust and keep his head down around bigger animals. Sadly not.

Shortly after moving into our new house, and at a highly stressful time for us all, he squeezed out of the front gate and disappeared around the corner. In the time it took for me to open the gate and follow him, he was nowhere to be seen.

I eventually heard some distant barking and tracked him down (through someone’s garden) to a nearby field. And there he was, racing around in circles and barking at 4 horses, who were  in turn, racing around after him. To make matters even worse 2 farmers (who I later realised also happened to be our neighbours) were also chasing Charlie, screaming the most offensive of all profanities at him and throwing rocks at his head. Like that was going to help the situation.

Of course Charlie didn’t come when I called him, but by this stage he was being attacked on all sides and didn’t know which way was up. I was stressed out and intimidated by those missile-wielding men, so it’s no surprise that he just kept on  running in circles and barking at everything that came near him. One strangled howl later and the horse clocked him on the head with its hoof. Charlie went down like a ball of blood covered fur and lay shaking on the ground. “Well that will probably have killed him” the ever so friendly farmer said. I grabbed the dog, turned and ran in the direction of home.

My husband was searching for us and nowhere to be seen when I got there, so I grabbed the car keys and drove off to find him. His anger at the disappearing dog did diminish slightly when he spotted the quivering pooch laid across my lap,  sneezing blood all over the steering wheel.

A trip in an ambulance, an x-ray, 2 nights in hospital and a load of medication later and Charlie returned home with his large plastic collar on and a rather sheepish look in his one good eye. The other one, in which he very nearly lost the sight, was so black and blue he could hardly open it.

Charlie after 10 rounds with a horse

Once again I’d like to say that Charlie has finally learned his lesson about the perils of bolting, but I’d be lying. And kidding myself.

Alas I fear it’s in his nature to run,  so instead of focusing on how we can teach him to stay put, we’ve simply designed the house so he can’t leave. This may not be the right approach but what to do. Putting in new fences and a complicated system of gates sure beats having to scrape the family pet off the road at some point in the future. Or more worrying still, him causing an almighty pile up, or worse.

Of course if anyone out there can let me know a way to stop dogs bolting like this, then please do. And if Cesar Millan happens upon this tale of woe and fancies a bit of a challenge, he’s all yours.

And one more thing, if you’re getting a dog and can’t decide whether to splash out on pet insurance every month, then take it from me, it’s worth it and you’ll probably get back every penny you spend – and then some.

When a spoodle meets snow

Charlie has had quite a few life adjustments to make this year, what with having to pack up with bed and his bone and move house, country and hemisphere.

Poor little Aussie pooch. Over the course of the last 6 months he has been poked, prodded and vaccinated to within an inch of his life. He has flown around the world in a tiny box and spent time behind bars.

He’s been chased by  cows and discovered sheep, got into a bit of a tussle with a swan and had a something of a run in with a donkey. He’s met relatives he never knew he had and encountered dogs he probably wished he hadn’t. He’s taken his first walk on a pebble beach, dipped his toes in the freezing sea and enjoyed the delights of Fleet service station.

And on top of all that, he’s had to get to grips with the rather strange Norfolk accent. Because, let’s be honest, some of the humans speak a little bit odd around here, so I can only imagine how the canines bark.

So this morning we woke up to snow and Charlie, who could cross his legs no longer, went on out into the garden on rather tentative tippy claws.

I have to say that for a dog born, raised and walked in a far sunnier climate, he did, for the most part, seem to enjoy the whole wintry experience. Though it must have been something of a shock for him to have to do his first wee of the day against something so cold it ran the risk of sticking to his doghood.

We’ve got l

We’ve got l

And for those of you who may be wondering ‘What is a Spoodle?’ here’s the answer!

 

We’ve got l

Demon children and saintly spoodles

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Taking your child away on holiday can sometimes be a very dangerous thing to do. In only a few short weeks they can morph into a human being barely recognisable from the one you once knew. As routine, balanced diet and consistency goes out the window, everything you ever taught them seems to follow, including good manners, eating habits and general all round intelligence.

In the case of my 3 year-old, this certainly seemed to be the case. He left Perth a mild-mannered, book loving, happy eater, and arrived in England a screeching, uncontrollable terror. Who wouldn’t eat a single vegetable. Including beans. Coated in tomato sauce. Made by Heinz. Heavens above, what child refuses those?

What the hell happened up there at 33,000 feet you might ask? I’m still pondering the very same question myself – but looking back it’s easy to see where it all went so wrong.

A stranger to sugar and capable of sleeping for up to 4 hours in his afternoon nap, my son found his world being tipped upside down as he was dragged from his bed and shoe horned into the car on the way to the airport. There we were, in the middle of the night, singing to try to keep him awake. Dragging him behind us at speed, force feeding him cookies (albeit low-fat ones) to coax him on a plane he didn’t want to go on, and then telling him he must then lie down and go back to sleep, with bright lights and dinner trays clattering all around him.

It was a recipe for disaster from the start, and the rest of the holiday carried on in much the same vein. Erratic bed times, long stretches in the car, sporadic mealtimes containing all the wrong foods and a difference set of people every time he woke up. To say he was a fish out of water was an understatement. More like a little boy in a parallel universe.

As a direct result of this holiday madness, and so not really his fault at all, his behaviour often veered on the side of manic. Energy levels went through the roof, ears sealed off to reasoning and his mouth went into screeching overdrive. And all in a country where you are no longer allowed to ‘discipline’ your child in public … tricky.

He now saw eating – unless the food in question came under the food group ‘treat’ – as an unncessary inconvenience, and as mentioned before, anything that had once grown up from, across or dropped to the ground was now met with a pursed mouth and muffled cries of “Don’t like it”. A tad frustrating, especially as the week before he’d happily opened up for aubergine and olives.

The ‘highlight’ of this out-of-control behaviour came however, at perhaps the very worst time possible of our entire holiday. I’d go as far as to say, that in the collective 12 years my offspring have been alive, never have I wanted to hang my head so low in shame.

While visiting a potential school for my daughter, my son reached deep into his inner demon and pulled out quite possibly the worst behaviour that the inside of the headmasters office has ever seen. He spread crumbs far and wide (from a biscuit off the tea-tray he’d launched himself at), squeezed his juice box across the polished table and pulled himself back and forwards across the floor like the member of a crack commando team. He climbed on the window seats, threw cushions on the floor and very nearly pulled down the curtains – 4 times. He struggled when I picked him up, pulled at me when I put him down and slithered to the ground when I put him back in his seat. The entire time he screeched and shrieked and laughed like a nutter possessed.

It was pretty toe-curling stuff, as any parent could well imagine.

There we were, talking about school reports and untapped potential and trying to give a good impression. And there was  my little monster – who would also be eligible to go there in a years time – bouncing off the walls like Tiger on a mixture of crack cocaine and speed.

The only saving grace in this whole embarrassing ordeal was that the headmaster knew better than to judge the entire family based off of the actions of its smallest member. As well as being a parent,  he was also my old English teacher – the teacher who had in fact inspired me to start writing in the first place, many light years ago.

Should this worrying tale of holiday woe begin to put off any parent thinking of taking a break, then fear not, it does have a happy ending.

After the episode at the school, sugar was abruptly cut out of his diet (which was unfortunate for him as this happened before Christmas). Within days he started to ease off his high and calm down again – apparently it takes at least 2 weeks for somebody to go cold turkey where the sweet stuff is involved. Now back in Perth, my son is already back to his old self, and get this, better than before. His manners are perfect, he’s calm and controllable and best of all, he’s eating vegetables faster than I can get them on his plate.

Not that I’d ever recommend killing your child’s routine and dragging them round the world to help knock them into shape, but on this occasion, it seems to have done the job.

Incidentally, the same also seems to be true of Charlie. He went into the kennels as a naughty, barking, escape artist, and come out a changed dog. He is now well-behaved, quiet and far more obedient than the 2 year-old Spoodle that went in. He didn’t even make a run for it the other day, when I accidently opened the garage door without shutting him inside first.

Now, if my daughter had gone in the same direction as my son and the dog, I could have said I had a hat trick on my hands. Unfortunately the excellent behaviour she showed when away (which was enough to get her offered a place at the school) has worn off some, and been replaced with the somewhat emotional and pouting little girl of before.

Still, can’t win them all, and 2 out of 3 ain’t bad.

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A spot of colonic – doggy style

Now no one ever said being a dog owner was a glamorous affair, but even I didn’t envisage the day I would find myself out in the garden at night, giving Charlie a colonic.

It started with my daughter detecting a faint whiff of poo, which was quickly, and without too much investigation, traced back to Charlie. He was promptly directed through the dog flap and into the garage, to await some cleaning and de-clumping by my husband.

Said husband soon returned home, and was pointed in the direction of the dog. Wet wipes were brought out and the tail was lifted, but nothing was going to budge. After about 60 seconds of struggling to remove what obviously didn’t want to be removed, my husband declared that Charlie would have to stay outside that night. Now granted he irritates me on an hourly basis when he trips me up and empties my bin across the floor, but given how cold it’s become, I just didn’t have the heart to banish him from the fire and the fluffy rug – the dog that is, not my husband.

So back outside I went out, cornered Charlie, took him to the grass and proceeded to wipe him along behind me. A bit like you’d wipe your shoes to get the mud off.  He looked at me as if to ask ‘What the hell are you doing to me’, and my husband, who was of course watching me through the window, was shaking his head.

Of course, as any woman worth her weight in manipulation knows, the best way to get someone to help you with something they have already said they wont, is to attempt it yourself, make a complete pigs ear of it, then stand back as they can’t help themselves but to step in and show you how it’s done. Works every time.

As expected, my husband reluctantly reappeared outside to tell me that dragging Charlie backwards and forwards over the grass wasn’t going to shift anything, not even that large lump of poo that was still stuck half way up his backside, and clinging onto his tail fur for grim life.

So out came the hose. Poor Charlie, he didn’t look best pleased. Can’t say I really blame him, it was dark after all and far too nippy for an al fresco shower. I was told to hold him down while my booted and business suited husband squirted him. Every time the high pressure jet came in contact with his bottom he, understandably enough, tried to make a bolt for freedom. After 3 failed attempts and a couple of “you’ll have to hold him tighter than that”, my hubby resigned himself to my uselessness in the dog grappling department and realised he’d have to get down and dirty with the dog on the grass.

I took the hose, gave it a long hard squirt with the jet and then realised it was pointing in the wrong direction. Now that Charlie and I were both soaking wet, I had even more sympathy for him.

Poor thing, he lay there on the grass, with his back legs lifted a good foot off the ground and his tail held up high. By the 5th or 6th squirt he didn’t even flinch. I don’t know if by this stage he was enjoying the experience, or he was just numb to the cold water.

The whole event was very undignified for him, made even worse by me then whipping out a large pair of kitchen scissors to give him a Brazilian around his bottom. I’m sure it’s a memory he will want to block for a long time to come.

dfs

Other Spoodle related posts:

What is a Spoodle – Exactly that..
Bad Fur Day - What happens when a Spoodle isn’t happy with his fur cut
Charlie turns 2 – Why Spoodles make excellent baby training pets

If it’s not broken, don’t fix it

Why is it that some companies just can’t help themselves. First they give you too much choice, flooding your brain impossible decisions. Then they fiddle around with something that already works perfectly fine – and has done for many, many years.

Take the humble deodorant bottle. It’s simple, straightforward and stops you smelling like a tramp on a hot and humid day. It’s not one of those products that really needs to be fancy. You aren’t likely to ever display it next to the cut glass or amongst the family photos. Far from it, when the deodorant bottle does makes it out of the bathroom and into public view, it is normally being whipped out of a bag and up under a jumper in a quick, trying to be inconspicuous kind of way.

And as for the design. Well it’s small, flat bottomed and rounded on the top. It’s been like this for as long as I can remember and always seemed to do it’s job to me.

So given this, why do the packaging, marketing and design gurus out there have to brainstorm themselves into a corner and come up with a new design. Surely that’s a bit like reinventing the wheel, just for the sake of making it that little bit rounder.

I’m talking, in case your wondering, about the new ‘upside down’ deodorant bottle that seem to be springing up all over the place. The adverts are of course very catchy, implying how much easier and better life would be if you lived it upside down. Would it? Really?  I can think of a number of times right of the top of my head when it wouldn’t be so great. Maybe I’m just a fan of gravity.

Of course being a sucker for new packaging, I went out and brought one. I’m a double sucker really, if you consider my line of work and insider knowledge of how to sell a gimmick to the blissfully unaware.  Still, like my other fellow magpies and lemmings, I like bright, shiny things and am always happy to jump off a cliff at least once. Who knows, maybe I thought life in an upside down world might be more fun, it would certainly put more volume in your hair when you’re drying it…

Oh fool that I am, for listening to heart over head and letting my curious fingers do the buying. The bloody thing is useless. Yes, it dispenses a pleasant white lotion onto my skin, that does, granted, make me smell good. But it also dispenses a pleasant white lotion all over my hands, down the outside of the bottle and onto the floor.

Surely it has been tested by small men in white coats for it’s capacity to spill? So how could this be? Hmmmm. Let’s think for a second.

Oh yes, that would be the incredibly stupid nature of the design. Something perhaps to do with the whole ‘let’s push everything to sit in the bottom of the bottle and then remove the lid’ frighteningly good idea. Now how many marketing monkeys, dressed in skinny jeans and Che Guevara t-shirts did it take to come up with this innovative new crap design?

Did they perhaps think a more aerodynamic shape would help the gloop to leave the rolling ball at a greater speed and velocity? It’s a deodorant not a cruise missile for crying out loud. It doesn’t need to break speed barriers or have more bleeding thrust than a Lamborghini.

But then I though, hang on a minute, maybe it’s just me. Maybe it’s the way I’m holding the bottle. Perhaps after all these years I’ll find out I’ve been doing this, apparently idiot proof task all wrong. Then I noticed my husbands deodorant. Sat there, just like mine, all upside down on the shelf and caked in dried up gloop.

Haaa! It’s not me after all.

I know that products, especially those of the hygiene and beautifying sort do need to shout ‘I’m young, hip and trendy’ as they jostle for your attention on the shelf. They need to have sexy shaped bottles, bright shiny colours and lids that open in 10 captivating new ways. They need to make attention grabbing promise, ones that blind you with science and conjure up images of molecules, test tubes and miracles.

Of course all they really need to say is   ‘Use me today, and you too can have smooth, glowing, wrinkle free skin…. just like this pretty little pre-pubescent model in the poster’. Or even  ‘ Use me today, and you too can have hair that bounces and shines, never fades with age or splits when you brush it… just like this airbrushed, Botox injected, aging actress in the poster’.

That’s right. We did all notice that anti-aging creams are sold by toddlers, shampoos are sold by wind machines and foundations are sold by Photoshop. We may well be gullible enough to part with our cash, but we’re not stupid enough to believe in perfection.

So really packaging, marketing and advertising guys, here’s a revolutionary idea. Instead of spending 100′s of 1000′s messing around with the tried, tested and perfectly acceptable shapes of our bottles, jars and pots of potion, or trying to sneak a fuel injected turbo engine inside the lid, for a slightly faster roll, why not just lower the price instead?

Yes, yes, it’s a radical thought I know. But remember, the average buyer is of a terribly fickle breed. We hunt out discounts. We study the sales, promotions and BOGOFs like the Pope studies the bible. We want value for money and preferably change from a $10 note.  So make your product half the price of that snazzy shaped bottle sat beside it, and then sit back and watch us buy it right off the shelf.

Charlie turns 2

Charlie turned 2 on Saturday. He celebrated his big day with a chicken thigh and a bone shaped biscuit. The first didn’t have enough time to touch the bottom of his bowl before it hoovered up. The second was, of course, carried across to the shaggy rug and crunched into a 1000 tiny pieces. Many of which are no doubt still trapped amongst the fibers, invisible to the human eye and completely untouchable by the vacuum cleaner.

To mark his special day, my daughter was insistent that we bought him a present. She was taken along to the pet shop and came home with a teddy for him. The same teddy (a small furry dog with an immensely annoying slow squeak when bitten) that he had had as a puppy, and then somehow lost along the way.  The whereabouts of this first toy were always something of mystery to me. Perhaps it was dog-napped by next doors cat, and is still being held hostage in their garage. Perhaps it is buried out in the garden somewhere. More than likely it is wedged under one of the sofas, entombed in 4 inches of dust.

Being 8, my daughter was of course incredibly anxious that Charlie shouldn’t see his present before it was wrapped up and ready for the grand presentation. I tried to explain that he really wouldn’t care or even have a clue, but of course that didn’t cut it. I found her trying to sneak a new roll of wrapping paper into her bedroom. Needless to say that was taken off her and cheap art paper was substituted in it’s place. An hour, and a good roll of tape later, we all had to gather around Charlie so that the present and homemade card could be opened.

I’d like to say that he appreciated all the effort she had gone to, but I don’t think he really noticed how pretty it was, as he ripped into the present with his teeth and nearly choked on a ball of soggy paper and sellotape.

His new friend hasn’t been let out of his sight since. He has accompanied Charlie outside to bark at next doors cat, been dragged backwards and forwards through the dog flap, been taken to the bowl at dinner time and carried through to bed at night – where they both go to sleep next to the other teddy that he was given by Father Christmas.

I’m rather hoping that having all of these furry friends will keep him entertained, and perhaps get him out from under my feet for at least a few hours a day. For while I do love the company, and the warmth of his fur laid across my toes under the desk, it would be nice to get up from my  chair without repeatedly running over his tail.

It has to be said that a Spoodle is, without a doubt, the most emotionally needy of all dogs. I know that ours is anyway. If you move 2 foot across the room – he’s there. If you get up to make a tea – he’s there. If you go to the loo – he’s there.  And while it is very flattering to be so loved, it can also sometimes make you feel like you’re being stalked.

So if you’re choosing a dog and can’t decide on the breed, take into account the following. If you want a furry shadow and constant companionship, then a Spoodle is perfect for you. But if you don’t like being followed everywhere you go, you get easily agitated from overcrowding or you are prone to feeling somewhat claustrophobic when pinned into a chair by 4 feet and a wet nose, then perhaps a Spoodle is not the right dog for you.

If however you’re thinking of having a baby, and you’re not sure if the whole parent thing is for you, then fear not and look no further. Spoodles thrive on attention and love to be held, cuddled and stroked. They don’t like to be left alone, and can instantly guilt you out with sad puppy eyes. They have boundless energy and will let you know when they want to play. They can be both highly strung and as dopey and soft as they come.

A Spoodle is the human equivalent of a newborn baby. They are the perfect baby test run.

Barking mad

Now I like to think I’m not a particularly aggressive person by nature, I rarely bark and have never been known to bite, well not hard enough to break the skin at any rate. My husband isn’t an aggressive person either (except when massacring our dinner), but yesterday we both found ourselves catapulted head first into a full throttle screaming match with a complete stranger, right in the middle of the park.

What brought out our ‘inner lout’ and fired up our dormant fighting spirit? That would be the canine companion of the said stranger, the canine with his jaws clamped firmly around the quaking bones of our poor Spoodle.

Now it’s not often that dogs gets attacked around here, but when it happens it brings out the same feelings and emotions that you would experience had it been your child on the receiving end. An overwhelming anger and a strong desire to flatten the culprit to the ground. Of course when the culprit has a tail, a sharp set of teeth and a killer instinct, it’s easier and generally more advisable to turn your attention to the person on the other end of the leash.

And here in lay the problem. The dog, lets call him ‘Jaws’, wasn’t even on the lead. He was ambling along the path at the edge of the park, a few metres away from where we stood in the playground. On seeing ‘Jaws’, our Spoodle (Charlie) did what all young and nosey dogs do given the same situation. He ran across to have a good sniff and say hello.

When Charlie was a couple of feet from ‘Jaws’ the owner suddenly started to panic and yelled out at me “Quick, get your dog away“.

Too late. The great hulking beast snarled, sprung forward and bit Charlie on the leg. There was a great deal of growling from ‘Jaws’ and some high pitched squealing from Charlie, before he limped back to us as fast as his other 3 paws could bring him.

Now had this woman apologised for the attack, we probably wouldn’t have thought much more about it. But there was no apology, far from it. Instead she blamed us, told us it was all our fault because we couldn’t control our dog and get him to return to us the second she yelled out. Bloody nerve of the woman.

I believe that it was at this point that we saw red and the public airwaves became filled with raised voices. We pointed out that if her dog was prone to attacking any dog that came near, and he obviously was as she knew to warn me, then ‘Jaws’ should be kept muzzled and firmly on his lead.

Of course she was having none of this and continued to claim that it was all down to Charlie, a dog so friendly he wouldn’t bite a flea if it landed on his nose and tugged on his eyebrows. While he is admittedly not the best trained dog in the park, he’s a Spoodle for heavens sake. A walking rug with a permanent wag and ‘Feed me now’ eyes.

Being the responsible dog owner that this woman so obviously was, once she had stood up and removed her head from her backside, she continued off down the path. 5 metres on and she once again proceeded to take the dog back off the lead she had finally put him on, so that he could once again roam free.

Now had it been a toddler at the playground who had gone up to say hello, what would have happened then? Would the dog’s owner have claimed it was the all the parent’s fault, for letting their badly trained child fall into the jaws of her uncontrolled animal?

Some people shouldn’t be allowed to own dogs and some dogs definitely need to take their owners off for some serious training.

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What is a Spoodle?

In response to all those who have asked me this question, I thought I would clear up any possible confusion over what exactly a Spoodle is.

A Spoodle, also known as a Cockapoo (not so widely used for obvious reasons ) is quite simply a Poodle mixed with a Cocker Spaniel.

Cross breeds aren’t actually recognised as a breed at all and in the snobby world of dog breeding there are those who think that if you can’t track your pooches lineage back to Charles 1st, then the dog is nothing more than a designer mutt and simply not worth it’s weight in biscuit.

Personally I don’t think that all this pedigree breeding between dogs can be all it’s cracked up to be, something already proved by those family loving 11 fingered hillbillies in the Southern states of the US. A vet actually told me that mixing breeds helps to accentuate the good characteristics of both breeds and eradicate the negative. Hence an ‘Oodle’ is meant to be a highly intelligent dog and some come with a non shedding coat, so great for dog allergy sufferers.

Personally I’m not a great fan of vacuuming. It’s time consuming, back breaking and one of those chores that you wouldn’t even notice you’ve done after a couple of hours. So I have to say that a non shedding dog is the perfect pet if you should happen to have dark coloured chairs or carpets. Or really any floor space that you don’t want looking like a barbers shop. Even when Charlie is brushed, which isn’t as often as he probably should be, hardly any fur comes out onto the brush. I reckon if I collected all of the fur from his brush over the course of a year, I might just about have enough to stuff a pin cushion.

If you’ve ever had a hairy dog, or have walked away from a friends house with half their dog still stuck to your best cream trousers, then you will appreciate just what a benefit this is.

Of course as with so many things in life what you want in a dog all comes down to personal taste and preference. I would rather have a cute crossed mutt than a pedigree poodle that looks like it got a stick stuck up it’s backside, but then that’s just me. I have no canine class and no life long ambition to conquer Crufts.

The ‘Oodle’ clan are very popular over here in Australia. Go to any park and you are bound to see one or other of them warming their fur in the sun. Here’s a list of the Poo’s you can cross, even I never realised there were so many.

Name	Mixed with
Bichon-Poo, Bicha-Poo	Bichon Frise
Cavadoodle, Cavoodle	Cavalier King Charles Spaniel
Cockapoo, Spoodle	Cocker Spaniel
English Boodle	English Bulldog
Goldendoodle	Golden Retriever
Labradoodle	Labrador Retriever
Lhasa-Poo	Lhasa Apso
Maltipoo	Maltese
Pekapoo	Pekingese
Pomapoo	Pomeranian
Puffapoo	Chinese Crested Powder Puff
Schnoodle	Miniature or Standard Schnauzer
La Schnoodle	Labrador Retriever with Schnoodle
Scottiepoo	Scottish Terrier
Shepardoodles	German Shepherd Dog
Shih-poo	Shih Tzu
Terripoo	Terrier
Westiepoo	West Highland White Terrier
Whoodle	Soft Coated Wheaten Terrier
Yorkiepoo	Yorkshire Terrier

This is a our Spoodle…

If you can’t quite make him out, he is the slightly fluffier part of the rug with the black eyes, nose and paw pads.

His name is Charlie. Also known as Get Off, Get Down, Leave It, Be Quiet, Come Here or Spit. He’s a 15 month old bundle of energy, love and fluff.

After his initial puppy training he is fairly well trained and has thankfully now come through the chewing anything and peeing anywhere stage. While he does have many of his doggy manners mastered he still has a migraine inducing bark set off by next doors cat and is highly likely to bolt for freedom if the dog flap isn’t shut quick enough as the garage door opens.

He has the energy of a toddler (my dog and son are fairly evenly matched on that count) and will come back from a marathon sprint through the park and then still look at you expectantly as if to imply he has been shut up in a box for weeks on end.

He is incredibly picky with his food and considers dog food to be far to unappetising for his educated palate. He tends to loiter under the high chair at meal times and hoovers anything that falls before it has even hit the floor.

He makes a very good lap warmer in the cold Perth winter and is at his happiest when stretched out in front of the fire watching CSI.

ghjg

Other Spoodle related posts:

Bad Fur Day- What happens when a Spoodle isn’t happy with his fur cut
Charlie turns 2 – Why Spoodles make excellent baby training pets
Barking Mad – What happens when dogs (and their owners) attack
A Spot of Colonic – Doggy style – How (and why you would want to) give a Spoodle a colonic
When a Spoodle meets snow  - Moving country with a Spoodle in tow
Raining Cats,Dog and Maltesers – Why Spoodles and hail don’t mix
Demon Children and Saintly Spoodles – Why kennels can be a good thing
Run Spoodle Run – The disastrous consequences of a bolting dog