Burying Bones

I received the following email recently, and I thought I’d post here in case anyone else has been wondering about this:

Hi Lily,

Can you tell me why you dogs bury your bones in the ground? My Labrador Charlie often does this. Trouble is he’s always digging up my flower garden.

Many thanks

Caroline (Charlie’s Mum).


Hello Charlie’s Mum

For me it’s an inherent instinct thing; it’s just something I’ve always done and always knew should be done, like peeing when I meet someone new for the first time or barking at my reflection.

When I’m done with a juicy bone I bury it somewhere safe in case of an emergency. Dad’s Mum and my namesake, Lillian, does exactly the same thing with tinned food every time there’s a severe weather warning (although rather than bury them in the ground she stock piles the kitchen cupboards; but it’s the same principle).

My favourite place to bury bones is the middle of the vegetable patch at the bottom of the garden. Dad whinges about this but he’s missing the point, it makes perfect sense; if emergency ensues I have ready access to meat and two veg.

Fortunately there has been no incident to date that has evoked the Bone Recovery Procedure. Currently I have 14 bones safely stored amongst various fruit and veg.

Hope this answers your question. Thanks for emailing.

Love to Charlie

Lily xx

If you have any questions please drop me a line. I’m not a Dog Expert, but I am a dog.

Mr Pickle

The credits roll on another entertaining episode of Friday Night with Jonathon Ross. I know what comes next.

“Ahh, is Lily upset that Mr Pickle was not on tonight?”

I’m disappointed, it’s true.

“You like Mr Pickle, don’t you Lily?”

I do like Mr Pickle. I think he has a cute face in a ran-into-a-tree-whilst-chasing-a-stick kind of way. It’s a look that works well for him.

He has a good name. Adding the ‘Mr’ transforms it from something that should accompany a pork pie into a classy, distinguished title. I considered doing the same with mine; but Miss Lily sounds more Working Girl than Working Dog. Besides Dad says it fails the Calling for Your Dog in a Public Place Test. He has a point.

“I don’t think he’s going to be too interested in a ruff ‘un like you though darling; he’s famous and very posh” Dad teases.

Raising an eyebrow I glance towards him, over to Mum and then back to Dad, I deliberate but refrain from making obvious comment.

Closing my eyes I drift into a little fantasy day dream: It’s a warm summer day. Mr Pickle and I scamper happily through woodland together, occasionally stopping for an affectionate sniff before sharing a juicy bone next to a trickling stream secluded by tall oak trees.

It’s then I notice for the first time his attire; sparkly electric blue jacket with matching tie and booties. I retreat to reality.

I just can’t help but think that dog coats are for softies. What next, wet suits for fish?

Sadly, I face the facts; Mr Pickle and I are unlikely to have a future. Not without a serious reconsideration of his current wardrobe. It seems that even fame and fortune does not buy you style.

Just take a look at his Dad.

I head out for my night-time run, and ponder what might have been….

Throws & Tows

I drop the ball at Dad’s feet and wait patiently for the game to commence.

Fetch. My favourite game. The basic principle behind this popular, traditional doggy pastime is throw ball, retrieve ball.

But it’s the manner in how the ball is retrieved which makes this all so enjoyable, and separates the proletarians from the pros. It’s a game of skill, fitness, agility and intelligence. I excel at Fetch.

I don’t mean to sound bigheaded. But it’s difficult not to when your head resembles your biological dad’s and he is a Bull Terrier.

I practice Fetch every single day, rain or shine. And I eat a strict diet of rabbit, chicken, turkey, beef, game, gravy and biscuits.

And let’s not forget that Fetch is a team sport. I only partner with the best: Mum; skilful in the Short Throw and master of The Bounce, Dad; a talented Long Thrower with a powerful right arm. Together with my speed and dexterity, we make a fantastic team.

But this cold, frosty morning Dad ignores the stick. He has other plans for us both; his favourite game: Towing.

“Lily Sit”.

I obediently oblige. One end of a leash is attached to my collar. Dad grips the other end tightly. I wait for his signal.

“Walkies”.

I bolt, and pulling the leash taut, set off at a fast rate. Dad follows.

The route we take is my responsibility and I keep it varied and interesting.

I lead us through long undergrowth. With delusions of a dog sledding musher, Dad lets out gleeful cries of “hey!” and “Whoa!”

At least he’s happy.

He’s strong too, and I struggle just to keep ahead of him. I try a different tactic and head into a wooded area, weaving in and around the trees. If the leash was any longer he’d be scuppered for sure, but bravely he keeps up.

I pick up a scent of something fowl and follow my nose. Ahead there is a clearing in the woods. I am beginning to get tired but move towards it as fast as I can, keeping up the pace. I glance behind; Dad is still there leash in hand, holding on tight; a less of a man would have conceded by now. I’m very proud.

I reach the clearing. There is a small ridge. The scent I have been following ends just beyond it. I pause momentarily. Dad gasps for breath, but I take off again over the ridge and down the other side. The source of the scent becomes obvious: a duck pond. I hesitate. Do I continue, or do I stop? I consider Mum’s reaction should we both return wet through, dripping smelly pond water across the kitchen floor. I’m tempted, but sensibly, and equally as abruptly, I stop. Dad however throws caution to the wind, drops the leash, falls to his knees and skids right past me into the pond.

I quietly lie down as the ducks flee the area.


His enthusiasm is to be commended, but what is he going to tell Mum?

Beware of The Dog!

It’s Friday. Unusually I find myself alone for a few hours. I retreat to the kitchen and assume the role of guard dog. My bed, close to the front door, provides me with a clear line of sight right up the driveway. I turn my head and the back door is covered.

The house is secure.

A vehicle approaches. I glance up and instantly recognise the familiar red coloured van. At ease; it’s the letter box man. He visits most days and feeds paper gifts though the hole in the door, which Dad subsequently sticks into a machine, muttering something about ‘protection against identity theft’. Today, protection is my job. I note the machine on the kitchen work top. Dam: I wish I’d paid more attention to how it works. Jumping up I give it a good sniff; nothing. I lick it. Still none the wiser. I take a swipe at it with my paw and the machine crashes to the ground, contents spewing across the kitchen floor: shredded paper gifts!

Shredded I can do.

Making short work of today’s paper gifts, and with Dad’s identity still protected against theft, I settle back into position.

My home is situated within a country park, amidst farm land. There is a public bridleway which runs directly through the front garden. A large group of two legged walkers hike past the front door. They need to know that I live here. I run to the door and spin wildly around in circles whilst wagging my tail from side to side. It’s a difficult feat; like patting your head and rubbing your tummy at the same time, but I go a step even further and pee on the floor. It has the desired effect; heeding the warning, the ramblers ramble on, giving the house a wide berth.

Back in bed, I catch up on some sleep. After what seems like just a minute, I’m awoken by a disturbing sound; I know that sound. It’s not a good sound. It means trouble. I run again to the front door and my worse fears are realised: a tractor. Somehow I have just always inherently known that tractors are evil and I have long suspected that they are the preferred mode of transport of hardened criminals. Dad on the other hand has never concurred, in fact often mocks and patronises whenever I raise the alarm, but now is no time to be scoring points over him. Our property needs protecting. I view the pool of pee already at the front door and consider my next move; it’s going to take more than just urine and spinning in circles to scare this guy off.

I pull back my give-away cute Labrador ears, flex my muscles, put on my best Staffy Bull Terrier face and bark aggressively at the top of my voice. The tractor passes by the front of the house and out of sight. I run through to the utility room; the side window is obscured by a large basket of laundry, but it takes little effort to displace the obstruction landing the contents conveniently into the nearby sink. I spot the tractor and continue with the barking.

There is a standoff. Me: Family Protector. Him: Evil Tractor. I hear a taunting splutter of diesel and I let out a low growl in return. A tense few seconds follow, before the tractor makes a left turn and scurries off across the nearby field.

Lily: 1. Tractor: 0. I suspect this is not our last confrontation.

Dad returns to the now relatively calm home, unaware of the earlier potentially volatile incidents. Standing at the front door he surveys the kitchen; important documents safely torn to strips, the now redundant shredding machine consigned to the floor and the laundry in the kitchen sink.

Head in hands, he lets out a screech: “Oh my God!”

I’d prefer to keep the earlier, unfortunate incidents from him, but it’s obvious he’s now aware of what has previously ensued.

He steps towards me but slips on my pee, landing flat on his back. Even now my job as Protector is not over. I run over and lick his face.

“Lily, no!”. He cries.

I understand. His house, our house, our home was under threat, close to being burgled, robbed, violated; it’s traumatic.

I continue with the reassuring licks.

He’s upset. But he’s safe.

Crufts

It’s that time of year again. Crufts.

And as Crufts ends, my day begins in apprehension. It’s the same every year; four days stuck in front of the telly, and Dad emerges with newfound enthusiasm for four-legged parenting.

Last year was fairly typical. After watching the Heelwork to Music finals, he decided that we were both likely to be naturals, and enthusiastically set about devising a program consisting of dance, colour, sound and light fantastic; he even invented a name for us: The Doogie Boogies. I am a Lab/Staffy Cross; dancing is quite simply not in my blood. And as it turned out, neither was it in his. Forty five minutes into practice and thankfully he accepted that we both in fact have two left feet.

At least I have two right feet as well.

But this year begins a little more promising: the Agility has grabbed his attention and as a bit of a Tom Dog, I am a little more enthused about the task ahead: running, jumping - if we can just throw in a little stick chasing and we might be onto a winner.

I'm led to the start of the course he has fashioned in the back garden and I view the array of obstacles and equipment set out in front of me with some trepidation: a broomstick spanning two chairs, the dining room table which he refers to inexplicably as the ‘pause table’ and six traffic cones arranged in a line, about a foot each apart (I have a suspicion that there are some road works nearby to here that are no longer clearly marked). It’s a good start.

I decide to put my all into this. A quick ten-yard sprint and we tackle the first obstacle: the slightly tricky stick-across-the-chair. Easy. My short but muscular legs ensure no difficulties in running straight under it. Impressed, Dad brings me round for another five attempts and I again clear it every time.

Next the so called dining room Pause Table. I inspect the table top on hind legs: nothing; no food and no toys – no point in dispelling excessive energy jumping onto the table, but acknowledging the obstacle I circle the table at high speed numerous times.

On to the cones. I weave round the first two before picking up the scent of a cat on the third. This is The One. My strong Staffy jaws effortlessly grab the cone and it’s just mere seconds before it and me are safely on the other side of the garden under my favourite tree, cone in small bite-sized pieces.

Mission Accomplished. Task Completed. Crack open the Chump.

I glance across at Dad. He gazes proudly back at me, hands on hips, silent and dumfounded. I share his thoughts:

Crufts, Agility 2009. Bring it on.

The Rescue Home. My Current Home.

8.30 AM. The dawn chorus begins signalling the arrival of the Kind Lady and breakfast. I’ve not been here as long as some but I’ve worked out that there is an order to the proceedings, so I lay and wait patiently. Nobby, my room mate, a middle-aged, overweight boxer with a slobbering problem which surely requires urgent medical attention, paces the front of the kennel.

Our breakfast arrives. I munch as fast as I can; gulping down the offering, choking on un-chewed morsels. But my adversary is a seasoned pro; Nobby makes short work of his meal before shoving me aside and finishing mine. I retreat to my corner and curl up into a protective ball.

A couple of hours pass. Elvis, a lanky Lurcher, his kennel closest to the yard gate, alerts us to the arrival of a Visitor. A possible Adoptee. I watch intensely as the Visitor peruses past each kennel one by one, each occupier doing their best to impress; Elvis howling at the top of voice, Rex, the German Shepherd, standing erect demonstrating his guard dog capabilities and Sez, the pure bred Staffy opting for rolling around on her back, legs akimbo in an outrageous flirtatious manner.

Competition is tough.

He reaches our Kennel. I start towards the front but am flattened by 6 stone of slobbering fur.

The Visitor peers through the wired front.

“I want a puppy” He declares.

That’s Nobby out of contention. I’m not exactly a buddle of newborn fluff and joy, but at 5 months I can still look pretty cute. I crawl out from underneath Nobby and stare longingly into the Visitors eyes. Under my spell now, unable to resist; pay the woman, sign the paperwork and let’s gets back to your house.

Nobby sneezes and follows with a vigorous head shake, sending snot and slobber flying in all directions, spraying the kennel wall, the Visitor and me. I try to maintain the Visitors gaze with puppy-dog eyes, but with dog spittle dripping from my brow, it’s a futile attempt and less than effective.

“A PEDIGREE puppy” He snarls.

Yea? Well I want a warm home, a large bone and small head; but we learn to roll with the punches. Deal with it.

He moves on. 20 minutes later he leaves with one of the Doberman Pup Quadruples. He’s the third this week. I just hope he realises that she’s going to grow up to be a lot bigger than even his ego.

It’s getting dark. It’s early February and there is a chill every night. I hate this time of day. I awake each morning with hope and aspiration. Optimistic that I will be able eat all my food before Nobby muscles in, that one day I will actually catch my tail whilst chasing it and that maybe someone will give me a home. But now as the night draws in, and nothing has changed, it’s hard.

Don’t get me wrong; it’s not bad here. I’m well looked after; I’m fed and receive all the medical attention that I need. Even Nobby has his good points. I’m just homesick.

Homesick for a home I have yet to find.