Agony Aunt – Part 3

Dear Judith

With the exception of the Autumn Leaves moment it’s been a trying week for a young Labrador puppy.

Previously I told you about the arrival of Lucifer.  Things aren’t going too well on that front.  I decided a charm offensive would be the best approach and what better way to do it than by inviting him to play? After all, what cat could resist the Tigger-like approach of 56 lbs of bouncing Labrador?  Apparently the answer is ANY cat.  Every time I bounce up and then adopt the play stance, he does that hissy, archy-back, slash, SLASH, KILL thing, and I have to retreat sharpish.

But I am not downhearted, I shall persevere until he does play. Although, Dad’s advice is:

“Angus, forget it.  The best reaction you can hope for from a cat is “utter disdain” and that may be overstating it.  In the view of cats, dogs come further down the order of species than single cell organisms…………. and doormats”

But, after another incident, I am now completely traumatised.

I tried my playing tactic again yesterday.  He was sitting under the little table between the sofa and chair in the sitting room.  So I dashed around and around trying to get him to play…. when it happened.

CAT ATTACK! CAT ATTACK! CAT ATTACK!

He launched himself at me in a ball of fury.  I thought I was about to die! I yelped and ran for my life, but not before he had slashed me round the face which hurt.  A lot.  I mean a lot.

I put a much room as I could between him and me.  Clearly he is a force to be reckoned with.  It was embarrassing enough as it was but M&D alternated between laughing at me and saying “We did warn you, you great big klutz.”  Nothing could have prepared me for such an experience.  I must treat him with new repect.

And that’s not all, I had another little incident last Monday – not cat related – although his malign influence is ever present.

And it all started so normally. I was lying peacefully in the sitting room, tired out after another day of being me, when it began, a little more benignly this time.

Dad disappeared off into the kitchen and returned a little later with a cuppa and a snack for everyone.  Well not quite everyone.  That’s charming isn’t it? Don’t mind me, you just get on with your snacks.  I’ll go off in a huff.

So they finish their snack and the cups and plates get taken back out into the kitchen.  And then they did it again – just like last time – dashing around and having snatched conversations about me.  “Excuse me, I’m sitting right here you know?”

Things took a turn for the better when Dad put my lead on me and took me out the door.  “Well, this is a bit of alright,” I thought as he loaded me into the car, “we’re off for a late night walkies. Cool!  First time we’ve done this!”

But we didn’t go for a walk. Instead we went to see a nice lady in this sort of surgery type place.  I didn’t have Dad down as a gambling man but I vaguely recall him saying something about bets?  “Vets Angus, Vets!”

“When did he eat them?” asked the nice lady. “About half an hour ago? And how many?”  “Three?”  “And he stole them from the box they were in at back of the worktop.”  “Hmmmm” 

“Again, excuse me, I’m sitting right here you know?”

I’m starting to go off this lady a bit and then she sticks a needle in the scruff of my neck.

“Is that it?  Can we GO for our walk now please? Ooh…. hang on….. I’m not feeling so good…. ooh I think I’m going to ….. puke …”

[Ed: let’s just say that the next 20 minutes were not a bundle of laughs, as the vet and I careered around the surgery after a galloping, vomiting dog, wiping up after him until not an inch of floor was left unadorned.  Still, at least we saw that all the mince pies had been regurgitated. 

Quite when he snuck out into the kitchen to get them, and  how  he got the box off the worktop and opened it without leaving a mark are questions for another day but mince pies contain dried fruit which can be very toxic to dogs.]

After a while I felt better and we went home.  My estimation of the vet had improved when she said I could be fed when I got home and she gave Dad a couple of bottles of special stuff to mix in with it.  Ooh good, a treat! [No Angus, Activated Charcoal] but I recoiled in horror when I saw what was in my bowl – a lot like Mum does when I present with a slug (yes, I’m still doing that).

“I’m supposed to eat THAT?   I don’t think so.  I may be a Labrador but, purlease, even WE have limits.”

So that was the end of the Mince Pie Incident or, as Dad lamely called it, “the Mincident.”  [It’s pathetic really.]

Or so I thought.  But two days later we’re back at the freshly scrubbed surgery  where, to add injury to insult, the vet announces I need to have a blood test.  Dad said “Good luck with that.  If you think you can get a blood test out of Tigger here go right ahead but he stamped on my recently-operated-on big toe three times the other night, so I’ll just leave you to it.”  And, true to his word, he left.

So, a question.  How many trained veterinary staff does it require to get a blood sample from Tigger?  Answer: Three. One nurse to grab him, one nurse to hand feed him a constant supply of treats, and a vet to draw the blood.  Easy-peasy. And it kept the people in the waiting room on the edge of their seats as they listened to the noises from the surgery. [Ed: Actually all we could hear was the rapid sound of a waggy tail thumping against the door.

We had hoped this incident might cure him of his insatiable kleptomania.  Oh how wrong we were.  Next day he started to eat a fake coal out of the gas fire – but discovered that wasn’t nearly as palatable as a mince pie.  Still, we thought that might cure him.  No such luck, today he ate a pad of post-it notes. (You’ll come to a sticky end my boy).  And he continued to snack on the coals until we outwitted him with a fire guard.