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.

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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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.

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