Bruno, our mad 'chasseur' gundog, was lonely. I asked Him indoors whether we should think the unthinkable and get him a little friend to play with. 'Are you mad?' he said. 'We can't control Bruno as it is. How are we gonna look after two? And think of the vet's fees if they get ill?' Practical as always. But, being a woman, I persisted and so, when a nearby friend suggested we accompany her on one of her regular visits to nearby Figeac rescue centre, I dragged the reluctant Him indoors and a panting Bruno (or was it the other way round?) to the most heartbreaking place you could imagine. There are hundreds of abandoned dogs there and because it's not funded by the SPA (French RSPCA), they struggle to house and feed them. One of the dogs that my friend regularly exercises was a cute Springer spaniel, a gundog like Bruno, but black with brown freckles on the nose. The good thing here was that the dog itself had no specific 'issues' - she was there simply because the owner was an alcoholic and could no longer look after her. She was so so placid, unlike Bruno (and Him indoors) and I thought maybe she would act as a calming influence. How could I resist?
We're now back home and I'm looking out at the front garden. Him indoors is busy raking the leaves and Bruno and her new pal Tina are racing around, stirring them all up again.
I 'ordered' our new doggie Tina on the same day as my new children's book 'Tina and the Colosseum of Rome' (2nd in the Rainbow series, after 'Rose') became available on Amazon.
A happy ending after all!
Showing posts with label gundogs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gundogs. Show all posts
Bruno - extracted from 'Pensioners in Paradis'
Finale.
One sunny day Bruno and his master, or was it the other way round, went for a walk up the stony path around the back of our house to a very quite country lane which runs in front of a large densely-wooded copse. I had been used to taking Bruno off the lead, training him that I always had his favourite bits of cheese in my pocket, which he could have as long as he always returned to me instantly on command.
This particular day was the first time that this manoeuvre would be attempted by Bruno and his master. The lead was duly unfastened and the dog went haring off, as usual, into the wooded copse. In due course, his master called him to heel. No response. After several calls and whistles, his master, not known for his phlegmatic temperament, began to get rather irate.
‘Come here you little bugger.’
Nothing.
Eventually, Bruno was spotted chasing a rabbit or some such and his master edged ever nearer, the trusty Rambo lead in his hands. Just when the task was almost completed, Bruno went haring off again, this time along the shady lane towards the farm fifty yards away. In the fields which border our property, the farmer’s flock of woolly sheep and goats grazed peacefully, contentedly munching on their daily diet of grassy forage and hoary tree branches which were pulled down to their level by several intrepid goats.
‘No, no Bruno. Come here,’ in increasing velocity. In response Bruno, with a wild, wall-eyed Marty Feldman look to his eyes, ducked his head underneath the farmer’s electrified fence wire and galloped towards the grazing herds. In France, farmers are legally entitled to shoot any animal that endangers the lives of their flocks. Back at the house I had heard the commotion. I had been washing up in the kitchen which faces the distant back lane and with mounting alarm took in the scene unfolding directly in front of my horrified gaze. I dashed outside, frantically pulling on my garden shoes and chased up the lane.
By now, the farmer had rushed outside and was running towards Bruno who had by this time managed to do a rugby tackle on an unfortunate sheep, felling him heavily to the ground. By the time both men had arrived breathless on the scene, Bruno was busy biting one of the creature’s back legs. The farmer and the dog’s master between them managed to pull the now salivating dog off the poor sheep and Bruno’s trusty lead was firmly clipped to his collar again.
‘In France your dog must always have his lead on, always,’ said the irate farmer, even though we saw his own dog regularly wandering up and down the lane, clearly having to exercise himself. Anyway, at least that was what we understood of his statement. There seemed to be a few ‘merdes’ and other unfathomable words which our dictionary didn’t for some reason contain.
Sheepish faces all round.
Thank God the farmer had not used his gun, but he looked none too pleased. What a start to my dreams of making friends with our new neighbours. That evening, the offending dog and his master in disgrace in the sous-sol (cellar), I collected our windfall of sweet plums from our garden and took a carrier-bag full around to the farmer’s wife. I had noticed that in this southerly part of the world, the fruit crop is plentiful but ripens much earlier than in the UK. The farmer’s wife was busy in her garden, evidently planting and weeding. I coughed to attract her attention, whilst leaning on her garden wall. She looked up.
‘Je suis desolé pour mon mari et pour mon chien. Les deux sont maintenant dans le sous-sol.’
The farmer’s wife stared at me, incredulous. Surely I hadn’t meant that the dog and his master had been sent in disgrace into the dark dungeon that was the sous-sol? She suddenly started laughing until tears streamed down her face. Her bony, liver-spotted fingers scrabbled in her apron pocket and hastily dabbed at her face with a well-scrubbed handkerchief. Another neighbour came over, an old lady of over eighty years, whose large whitewashed stone house was just discernible from our kitchen window. The farmer’s wife gabbled something pretty incomprehensible to her, and she too laughed hysterically. Oh well. At least they hadn’t shooed me off their land. So what if we have become the amusement spectacle of the region? I handed over my peace offering, and there were smiles all around. I told them as best I could that in future there would be no more running of the dog without a lead.
Quel catastrophe, mais c’est la vie!
One sunny day Bruno and his master, or was it the other way round, went for a walk up the stony path around the back of our house to a very quite country lane which runs in front of a large densely-wooded copse. I had been used to taking Bruno off the lead, training him that I always had his favourite bits of cheese in my pocket, which he could have as long as he always returned to me instantly on command.
This particular day was the first time that this manoeuvre would be attempted by Bruno and his master. The lead was duly unfastened and the dog went haring off, as usual, into the wooded copse. In due course, his master called him to heel. No response. After several calls and whistles, his master, not known for his phlegmatic temperament, began to get rather irate.
‘Come here you little bugger.’
Nothing.
Eventually, Bruno was spotted chasing a rabbit or some such and his master edged ever nearer, the trusty Rambo lead in his hands. Just when the task was almost completed, Bruno went haring off again, this time along the shady lane towards the farm fifty yards away. In the fields which border our property, the farmer’s flock of woolly sheep and goats grazed peacefully, contentedly munching on their daily diet of grassy forage and hoary tree branches which were pulled down to their level by several intrepid goats.
‘No, no Bruno. Come here,’ in increasing velocity. In response Bruno, with a wild, wall-eyed Marty Feldman look to his eyes, ducked his head underneath the farmer’s electrified fence wire and galloped towards the grazing herds. In France, farmers are legally entitled to shoot any animal that endangers the lives of their flocks. Back at the house I had heard the commotion. I had been washing up in the kitchen which faces the distant back lane and with mounting alarm took in the scene unfolding directly in front of my horrified gaze. I dashed outside, frantically pulling on my garden shoes and chased up the lane.
By now, the farmer had rushed outside and was running towards Bruno who had by this time managed to do a rugby tackle on an unfortunate sheep, felling him heavily to the ground. By the time both men had arrived breathless on the scene, Bruno was busy biting one of the creature’s back legs. The farmer and the dog’s master between them managed to pull the now salivating dog off the poor sheep and Bruno’s trusty lead was firmly clipped to his collar again.
‘In France your dog must always have his lead on, always,’ said the irate farmer, even though we saw his own dog regularly wandering up and down the lane, clearly having to exercise himself. Anyway, at least that was what we understood of his statement. There seemed to be a few ‘merdes’ and other unfathomable words which our dictionary didn’t for some reason contain.
Sheepish faces all round.
Thank God the farmer had not used his gun, but he looked none too pleased. What a start to my dreams of making friends with our new neighbours. That evening, the offending dog and his master in disgrace in the sous-sol (cellar), I collected our windfall of sweet plums from our garden and took a carrier-bag full around to the farmer’s wife. I had noticed that in this southerly part of the world, the fruit crop is plentiful but ripens much earlier than in the UK. The farmer’s wife was busy in her garden, evidently planting and weeding. I coughed to attract her attention, whilst leaning on her garden wall. She looked up.
‘Je suis desolé pour mon mari et pour mon chien. Les deux sont maintenant dans le sous-sol.’
The farmer’s wife stared at me, incredulous. Surely I hadn’t meant that the dog and his master had been sent in disgrace into the dark dungeon that was the sous-sol? She suddenly started laughing until tears streamed down her face. Her bony, liver-spotted fingers scrabbled in her apron pocket and hastily dabbed at her face with a well-scrubbed handkerchief. Another neighbour came over, an old lady of over eighty years, whose large whitewashed stone house was just discernible from our kitchen window. The farmer’s wife gabbled something pretty incomprehensible to her, and she too laughed hysterically. Oh well. At least they hadn’t shooed me off their land. So what if we have become the amusement spectacle of the region? I handed over my peace offering, and there were smiles all around. I told them as best I could that in future there would be no more running of the dog without a lead.
Quel catastrophe, mais c’est la vie!
Bruno - extracted from 'Pensioners in Paradis'
Part 2.
‘Uh, je cherche un chien.’
‘Oui. Va devant, je te suis.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Not sure, so let’s go ahead and she’ll probably follow us.’
We followed the noise and soon were faced with the most heartrending sight. Dozens of small cages, each housing about six dogs of single sex, each dog jumping up and wagging frantically as we passed. It felt that each dog was saying to me: ‘Take me, take me.’ And I wanted to, desperately. But I knew that the practical side would win in the end. We could probably only cope with one. A dog is for life, not just for Xmas.
In the end we chose a handsome gun-dog with similar colouring to Brandy of old. He was a long-legged spaniel with mercifully uncut tail. Madame told us that she thought he was around two years old. The vets gave them all a check-up on arrival, making notes on their condition and deducing their likely age from their teeth. Good job they didn't look at mine then.
We had one or two questions. ‘What is his history? How did you come to get him in the first place?’
How did you come to fall in the water? I didn’t come to fall in, I came to do some fishing…
‘Shh!’
Madame replied that, as with many of their dogs, his history was unknown. With gun dogs it is sometimes the case that, for one reason or another, a dog fails to obey the master’s commands or fails to do a good enough job in the field. She told us that it is quite common for people to abandon their dogs for a variety of reasons. She said that around one hundred thousand dogs are abandoned by their owners in France every year, many after the hunting season is over or at the start of the long summer holidays. She and her staff were always kept busy rounding up stray dogs, bringing them to the pound and ensuring they get checked over and tattooed in the ear. It is a requirement that all dogs in France must be tattooed with an identity number inside one of their ears (tatouage). This enables owners to quickly find their lost pets and it also prevents a vaccination certificate or similar from being used for more than one dog. She told us that our dog’s identity number would be kept in a central computer, so that if we should subsequently lose our pet, we can contact her.
Looking around Madame’s office we spotted several items that we would need immediately, so purchased from her a sturdy ‘Rambo’ lead – our dog looked pretty strong to me – plus two metal dishes for his food and water. After completing all the formalities, including our personal details which she immediately inputted onto the computer, I paid her the required seventy-five euros and led my companion to the car. The husband followed.
The dog stood on the pavement and despite several ‘Hups’ from us, refused to jump into the back of the car.
‘Maybe he’s bilingual?’
‘Yes. Il n’ecoute ni en anglais ni en français!’
It was true. He didn’t listen to us in either language. In the end we managed to hump him up and over the sill, nearly giving us both hernias into the bargain. The dog stood resolute and dignified in the back as we slammed the rear door down firmly, returned to our seats and accelerated away. Behind us retreated the upsetting whines of the unfortunate dogs we had to leave behind.
Back at home, the dog’s new master took him on a tour of the premises, walking round and round in the hope that he (the dog) would perform. What we didn’t realise, though, was that ever after, the dog would think that this would be his new job: parading round and round the house, like some sort of resident caretaker.
We named him Bruno.
Over the next few months we discovered that Bruno only liked to be outside. He remains intensely nervous of coming indoors, leading us to think that a previous owner might have enticed him inside and then slammed the door on him, imprisoning him for hours or days on end.
Little did we know the sort of adventures that were to follow.......
..........Continued next Sunday
‘Uh, je cherche un chien.’
‘Oui. Va devant, je te suis.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Not sure, so let’s go ahead and she’ll probably follow us.’
We followed the noise and soon were faced with the most heartrending sight. Dozens of small cages, each housing about six dogs of single sex, each dog jumping up and wagging frantically as we passed. It felt that each dog was saying to me: ‘Take me, take me.’ And I wanted to, desperately. But I knew that the practical side would win in the end. We could probably only cope with one. A dog is for life, not just for Xmas.
In the end we chose a handsome gun-dog with similar colouring to Brandy of old. He was a long-legged spaniel with mercifully uncut tail. Madame told us that she thought he was around two years old. The vets gave them all a check-up on arrival, making notes on their condition and deducing their likely age from their teeth. Good job they didn't look at mine then.
We had one or two questions. ‘What is his history? How did you come to get him in the first place?’
How did you come to fall in the water? I didn’t come to fall in, I came to do some fishing…
‘Shh!’
Madame replied that, as with many of their dogs, his history was unknown. With gun dogs it is sometimes the case that, for one reason or another, a dog fails to obey the master’s commands or fails to do a good enough job in the field. She told us that it is quite common for people to abandon their dogs for a variety of reasons. She said that around one hundred thousand dogs are abandoned by their owners in France every year, many after the hunting season is over or at the start of the long summer holidays. She and her staff were always kept busy rounding up stray dogs, bringing them to the pound and ensuring they get checked over and tattooed in the ear. It is a requirement that all dogs in France must be tattooed with an identity number inside one of their ears (tatouage). This enables owners to quickly find their lost pets and it also prevents a vaccination certificate or similar from being used for more than one dog. She told us that our dog’s identity number would be kept in a central computer, so that if we should subsequently lose our pet, we can contact her.
Looking around Madame’s office we spotted several items that we would need immediately, so purchased from her a sturdy ‘Rambo’ lead – our dog looked pretty strong to me – plus two metal dishes for his food and water. After completing all the formalities, including our personal details which she immediately inputted onto the computer, I paid her the required seventy-five euros and led my companion to the car. The husband followed.
The dog stood on the pavement and despite several ‘Hups’ from us, refused to jump into the back of the car.
‘Maybe he’s bilingual?’
‘Yes. Il n’ecoute ni en anglais ni en français!’
It was true. He didn’t listen to us in either language. In the end we managed to hump him up and over the sill, nearly giving us both hernias into the bargain. The dog stood resolute and dignified in the back as we slammed the rear door down firmly, returned to our seats and accelerated away. Behind us retreated the upsetting whines of the unfortunate dogs we had to leave behind.
Back at home, the dog’s new master took him on a tour of the premises, walking round and round in the hope that he (the dog) would perform. What we didn’t realise, though, was that ever after, the dog would think that this would be his new job: parading round and round the house, like some sort of resident caretaker.
We named him Bruno.
Over the next few months we discovered that Bruno only liked to be outside. He remains intensely nervous of coming indoors, leading us to think that a previous owner might have enticed him inside and then slammed the door on him, imprisoning him for hours or days on end.
Little did we know the sort of adventures that were to follow.......
..........Continued next Sunday
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