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.

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.

Battle of the baby sexes

Recently I was asked one of those questions that few people dare ask and even fewer wish to answer. A mother (of boys) asked me if it is true that parents of girls look down their noses at noisy little boys and believe them all to be badly behaved and completely undisciplined.

Why ask me? Having learnt that I had one of each, she obviously felt that I would be able to give an unbiased answer. Whether or not she expected an honest one I don’t know, but seeing as she was quite happy to ask a question that put me well and truly on the spot,  I thought she in turn turn deserved the truth.

And the truth is yes, for the most part they probably do.

This unspoken snobbery amongst parents of girls, whilst rarely admitted out loud has always been there. An assumption that their head to toe clad pink princess simply has to be cleaner, smarter, better behaved and without a shadow of a doubt a far nicer child than that unkempt little testosterone fueled terror on the other side of the playground. The one wearing his breakfast and trying to bury his head in the sand.

Deny it if you want all you mothers of Eve, but this is true. I know because up until the arrival of my own son, I also believed that many boys were the root of all undisciplined evil. I admit I could never understand why their parents didn’t just rein them in, shut them up and get them under some sort of control.

And then I had Sam. He learnt to walk, discovered his independence and only looked back when he was laughing at me. Finally it all became clear why girls and boys are so different, and surprisingly it had nothing to do with one being born with a halo and the other with a forked tail.

Little boys are like the Duracell Bunny, they are known for their unlimited energy and their love of running. Always in the opposite direction to an exhausted parent and often at breakneck speed towards a busy road. They tend to get dirtier faster and are often capable of ruining a complete outfit in 15 seconds flat, with nothing more than a piece of toast and a wet wipe in reaching distance.

They find sticking their hand into the toilet bowl and feeding the loo roll to the dog unbelievably funny. They have a strangely magnetic pull to the contents of every cupboard and drawer, particularly those containing knives, lighters and all deadly and poisonous cleaning fluids. They can take apart and lose the back of any TV remote in less time than it takes to cross the room and can scale any furniture like a seasoned mountaineer. They can increase their body weight to that of a baby elephant when they don’t want to be picked up and contort their limbs into a rigid banana when they don’t want to be pinned into their pram.

Girls on the other hand are often considered to be the quieter of the 2 sexes. Known to sit quietly on your hip and happily play with their toys. Known to help pick out their own clothes and even make an effort to keep them clean and tidy. Known to hold your hand when going out for a walk and if entrusted with a hand held whisk, regard it as a tool for mixing food with Mummy, not as a weapon with which to chase the cat and give it a perm.

Yes indeed, girls are known to be easier to deal with, easier on the ear drums, the energy levels and the nerves. But are they really all things sweetness and light? Does a pound of bacon really fly? Of course they aren’t.

Whether dealing with babies, toddlers or a child old enough to know better, girls and boys can be as bad as each other. Both can screech and scream just for the sake of making noise. Both can single handily depreciate the value of your home in 30 seconds and ruin the upholstery of your car inside of 5 minutes. Both can have such horrific tantrums in the middle of a crowded mall that you could quite easily stuff them head first in the nearest rubbish bin and walk away.

A child regardless of their sex is a complex individual, sometimes believed to be put there purely to test a parent’s sanity and to stretch all boundaries of socially acceptable behaviour. Some are sweet, loving and caring, some are bolshy, stubborn and incredibly sulky. All are a blank canvass, ready to be shaped into the person they will become and to be defined by what they are taught, what they observe and what they experience in the environment in which they grow.

So if all little babies are created and born equal, why are boys so quickly labelled as the nightmare sex and why is society so very quick to to re-enforce these misguided preconceptions?

You only have to look at any range of baby clothes to see that these stereotypes are ingrained into the minds of parents, and no doubt the child as well, from the moment they wear their first outfit.

Buying clothes for little girls is easy. There are always plenty to choose from and they’re always pretty, pink and covered in fairies, flowers and butterflies. Every top, t-shirt or babygro is labelled ‘Princess’, ‘Angel’, ‘Cutie Pie’ or ‘Fairy’.

Now move over to the boys section. Keep going, right to the back of the store, that’s it, those last few rails over there in the corner. The clothes here range from the ever so attractive sludge green to the ever so practical dirty brown. All tops, t-shirt or babygros here are covered in tyre tracks and muddy footprints and are inevitably labelled ‘Rascal’, ‘Trouble’, ‘Little Monkey’ or ‘Monster’.

Now aside from the obvious fact that most little girls I know could easily be described as Rascal, Trouble, Monkey or Monster, does it not seem slightly unfair to encourage and enforce this type of gender pigeon holing at such a young age?

Granted my son is generally always a little bit grubby, usually looking for mischief and always a tad on the destructive side, but it might be nice to occasionally be able to put him in a top that read ‘Well mannered and loves a good book’ or ‘Enjoys vegetables and always kind to animals’.

Babies are babies and children are children and they can all be a royal pain in the backside at some time or other (generally in my experience between 4-6pm). This labelling system seems to me to be an unrealistic and unfair generalisation, After all, very few little girls remain angels by the time their hormones kick in and most little boys have decided to cut worms from their diet and stop rolling in mud by the time they buy their first razor.

If babies are to be branded, then perhaps it’s time that the clothing companies came up with some more more realistic future personality and character traits.

I’ve come up with a few to get the ball rolling…

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