Ahh.. the joys of Bulldog ownership. So there we are, me and me little pack (2 American Bulldogs and an elderly StaffXWhippet with Laser Eyes and Jedi skills) wombling free on a local common when my worst nightmare comes flumping around the corner. Its a young, stupid, floppy yellow lab called Simba (lose points for the worlds least original name for a lab puppy, do not pass Go, do not collect £200) I know this because its owner, who seems to be made entirely out of pink fleece is calling its name without pause, in a voice that could etch glass at 20 paces, like a car alarm with a Hello Kitty scarf. Simba is, quite rightly, running as fast as his bendy legs can take him away from the noise.
Bowie (lady Bulldog, 35kg, can run 100m in 8.6 seconds) levitates off the ground with joy at the arrival of a young playmate with no grip on reality and play she does, they immediately wrestle and chase in the most endearing and natural manner, Bowie true to her breed makes growly noises when she plays but tails are wagging and both are bowing in turn and rolling each other over. The Pink Lady is horrified "Why is your dog playing so rough?" she demands,"Why is your dog making that horrible noise? It sounds awful!" "Are you going to stop this?" "Are you going to call your dog off?" "Why did I get a puppy when I know nothing about dog behaviour and cant tell the difference between play and aggression?" (ok, ok, I made the last one up) I have nothing to say to this fool, but with a muttered "Your dog looks fine to me love," I prepare to walk away. And then a gift arrived.
Two skittish horses barrell down the bridleway towards us, Simba breaks off from transferring a pint of drool into Bowie's ear and barks excitedly at them, then starts to charge. Pink Lady manages to grab his collar and wrestles a flailing demented plonker of a puppy under her arm, trying to attach a lead. "I'm just going to put him on the lead!" She trills, "He's not good with horses!" (which rather begs the fundamental question- why do you bring him out on a Bridleway then?).
"Its ok," I say calmly and loudly to the horseriders, "Mine are." And they are, I have all 3- nearly 100kg of muscle- sitting waiting for the horses to pass, then give them a release command and we continue on our way. I look round at the bridleway junction, Pink (more Maroon now) Lady is staring after me, her dog still going bonkers at the horses. "I'm going this way." I call back, "Why dont you go on the other path?"
I think she got the message.
Saturday, 26 November 2011
Saturday, 19 November 2011
Scaring the Straights (again)
NB: This anecdote originally first blogged on Ironmountain Canine's FB page, but was heartlessly deleted in the revamp.
So, another day another struggle to make sense of the Surrey way of commerce- having been delighted to find out that my local pet shop stocked frozen blocks of BARF dog food some months ago, I placed a weekly order and asked if it could be delivered, because wrestling with 10kg of frozen innards seemed strangely unappealing. Inevitably, I got the Surrey Stare, the sigh and the overwhelming desire to arrange things behind the counter that heralds a flat refusal to meet my needs. Every Tuesday for the entire summer had therefore seen me driving into Smalltown in a vile mood, failing to find a free parking bay on the high st, paying to park in Waitrose and invariably after hefting the frozen, slippery mass of blocks into my boot, spending a king's ransom on organic meat and salmon pinwheels. As the days of Autumn drew in I determined something would have to change in this arrangement (although, to be fair the sociopath who runs the pet shop would now sometimes open the door for me on the way out, bless him) and scoured the net for a firm that would deliver. Perfect.
The next trip to Charlie Chuckles' Laugh-a-Minute Pet Emporium was made with a lighter tread as I prepared to take my custom elsewhere. I brought the subject up with his assistant, a rather shellshocked girl who is never entirely on top of anything. " Look I've really appreciated this weekly order you've done " I began with as much sincerity as I could muster, "But I've found a firm that will deliver, and lugging this stuff to the carpark every week is no joke, so....."
At this moment Charlie himself erupted from behind the counter, where presumably he had been crouching to avoid me, much to the alarm of myself and 'Chelle Shock who ran to the back of the shop and hid behind the squeaky toys. "Of course we can deliver," he snarled, "You only had to ask!" I tried to point out that I did ask but he was having none of it, "I dont know who told you we couldnt deliver!" he ranted as I wrote my address down, I decided that it wasnt worth arguing and left, with the assurance that my delivery would be with me that same afternoon, and a small sad squeak from the back.
This is more like it, I thought, customer service at last! Keen to continue this arrangement I buzz the delivery van through the farm gates on the first ring and run outside to guide him through to the courtyard. And run straight into a cloud of angry wasps which decide to take up residence in my hair. So instead of the good impression I was hoping to present, I treat him to the spectacle of The First Mrs Rochester raging around in front of his van, clawing at her head and swearing like Gordon Ramsey's plumber.
It really isnt fair.
So, another day another struggle to make sense of the Surrey way of commerce- having been delighted to find out that my local pet shop stocked frozen blocks of BARF dog food some months ago, I placed a weekly order and asked if it could be delivered, because wrestling with 10kg of frozen innards seemed strangely unappealing. Inevitably, I got the Surrey Stare, the sigh and the overwhelming desire to arrange things behind the counter that heralds a flat refusal to meet my needs. Every Tuesday for the entire summer had therefore seen me driving into Smalltown in a vile mood, failing to find a free parking bay on the high st, paying to park in Waitrose and invariably after hefting the frozen, slippery mass of blocks into my boot, spending a king's ransom on organic meat and salmon pinwheels. As the days of Autumn drew in I determined something would have to change in this arrangement (although, to be fair the sociopath who runs the pet shop would now sometimes open the door for me on the way out, bless him) and scoured the net for a firm that would deliver. Perfect.
The next trip to Charlie Chuckles' Laugh-a-Minute Pet Emporium was made with a lighter tread as I prepared to take my custom elsewhere. I brought the subject up with his assistant, a rather shellshocked girl who is never entirely on top of anything. " Look I've really appreciated this weekly order you've done " I began with as much sincerity as I could muster, "But I've found a firm that will deliver, and lugging this stuff to the carpark every week is no joke, so....."
At this moment Charlie himself erupted from behind the counter, where presumably he had been crouching to avoid me, much to the alarm of myself and 'Chelle Shock who ran to the back of the shop and hid behind the squeaky toys. "Of course we can deliver," he snarled, "You only had to ask!" I tried to point out that I did ask but he was having none of it, "I dont know who told you we couldnt deliver!" he ranted as I wrote my address down, I decided that it wasnt worth arguing and left, with the assurance that my delivery would be with me that same afternoon, and a small sad squeak from the back.
This is more like it, I thought, customer service at last! Keen to continue this arrangement I buzz the delivery van through the farm gates on the first ring and run outside to guide him through to the courtyard. And run straight into a cloud of angry wasps which decide to take up residence in my hair. So instead of the good impression I was hoping to present, I treat him to the spectacle of The First Mrs Rochester raging around in front of his van, clawing at her head and swearing like Gordon Ramsey's plumber.
It really isnt fair.
Wednesday, 16 November 2011
If I've Abducted Your Grandfather, I Apologise
After yet another surreal transaction at a Country Store (see previous post for details) I am barrelling home in my Disco-Pants blue pickup truck, my faithful 45kg Bulldog grinning on the back seat, a spot of Led Zepplin on the stereo when I see a strange apparition at the roadside.
There stood an elderly gentleman with Einstein hair and festive eyebrows, smiling benignly with his thumb out at one of the desolate bustops on the country road back towards the A3 . I have never seen any activity at one of these stops in over five years of living here- although there is a bustop in Smalltown that is exclusively populated by the alien postal workers from Men in Black 2, but I digress- so as an ex-hitchiker myself, who has always been of the opinion that if someone wanted to murder me they wouldnt stand at the roadside inhaling diesel fumes and advertising their description and location to hundreds of roadusers first, I pulled over. Poor soul must have missed the bus.
"I'm going to Smalltown" I shouted through the passenger window, "Need a lift?"
"Haha, yes!" Beamed the gentleman, and in he hopped.
Bulldog promptly went bonkers, he's such a puyssycat I sometimes forget how big and scary he looks and how he genuinely believes that he was put on this earth to defend my honour (I dont like to disillusion him) so I ended up driving with my left arm restraining a bristling growling monster. In an effort to distract the poor man I resort to smalltalk.
"So, did you miss the bus then?" I enquired over the furious grumbling from the back seat.
"Haha, yes!" .
"You live in Mundane Lane?"
"Haha, yes!" he replied, bouncing up and down in the seat and peering delightedly at the road ahead.
"Going shopping in Smalltown?"
"Haha, yes!"
A sneaking suspicion overtook me, "Do you think we'll have a sandstorm later?"
"Haha, yes!"
"Or a plague of frogs?"
"Haha, yes!"
Oh shit.
We continued in silence, punctuated only by Dog Swearing from behind my headrest. My mind's eye travelled to a tasteful and well-appointed Care Home (of which there are many in this part of the world), a scrubbed and smiling young lady with a tray of tea things is knocking at a door."George, George, here you go smiling boy, tea and biscuits."
The room is empty, the window lock broken and a rope of knotted sheets swings down to the ground outside.
"Shit, he's got out again! Madge - have you seen George?"
"Oh he'll be at the bus stop as usual, he's got no money on him dont worry, I'll go and find him in a minute."
It occured to me if I had looked in my rear view mirror as I picked up my hitcher I would have seen a woman in a nurse's uniform sprinting up the road with a comedy syringe in her hand, a small fountain of sedative springing from its tip.
We swung into town. "Pub!" The man squealed, grabbing my arm delightedly (at which point Bulldog started chewing through his car harness in fury) "Haha, yes! The Provincial Club!"
This is a building of spectacular ugliness in an otherwise delightful town, from the 70's school of Fuck You All architecture, "You want to be dropped there?" I asked incredulously, I have yet to meet anyone who has ever been inside, I think it may be where the Bus Stop Mutants live.
"Haha, yes!"
I pulled into the carpark, "Its been nice meeting you, will you be ok getting the bus home?"
"Haha, yes!" He started to clamber out of the truck.
"Bye then, take care!"
He stepped down onto the pavement and regarded me for a moment- was that mischief or madness in his eyes? "Goodbye young man!"
Oh lor- if you've never met me I'm a tiny middle-aged woman with a large chest and long hair. About as butch as a tutu. So if anyone is missing an elderly relative in Surrey I'm deeply sorry, I was only trying to help an old man out, if its any consolation he positively skipped into the Provincial Club's door, he's probably still there confusing the staff.
There stood an elderly gentleman with Einstein hair and festive eyebrows, smiling benignly with his thumb out at one of the desolate bustops on the country road back towards the A3 . I have never seen any activity at one of these stops in over five years of living here- although there is a bustop in Smalltown that is exclusively populated by the alien postal workers from Men in Black 2, but I digress- so as an ex-hitchiker myself, who has always been of the opinion that if someone wanted to murder me they wouldnt stand at the roadside inhaling diesel fumes and advertising their description and location to hundreds of roadusers first, I pulled over. Poor soul must have missed the bus.
"I'm going to Smalltown" I shouted through the passenger window, "Need a lift?"
"Haha, yes!" Beamed the gentleman, and in he hopped.
Bulldog promptly went bonkers, he's such a puyssycat I sometimes forget how big and scary he looks and how he genuinely believes that he was put on this earth to defend my honour (I dont like to disillusion him) so I ended up driving with my left arm restraining a bristling growling monster. In an effort to distract the poor man I resort to smalltalk.
"So, did you miss the bus then?" I enquired over the furious grumbling from the back seat.
"Haha, yes!" .
"You live in Mundane Lane?"
"Haha, yes!" he replied, bouncing up and down in the seat and peering delightedly at the road ahead.
"Going shopping in Smalltown?"
"Haha, yes!"
A sneaking suspicion overtook me, "Do you think we'll have a sandstorm later?"
"Haha, yes!"
"Or a plague of frogs?"
"Haha, yes!"
Oh shit.
We continued in silence, punctuated only by Dog Swearing from behind my headrest. My mind's eye travelled to a tasteful and well-appointed Care Home (of which there are many in this part of the world), a scrubbed and smiling young lady with a tray of tea things is knocking at a door."George, George, here you go smiling boy, tea and biscuits."
The room is empty, the window lock broken and a rope of knotted sheets swings down to the ground outside.
"Shit, he's got out again! Madge - have you seen George?"
"Oh he'll be at the bus stop as usual, he's got no money on him dont worry, I'll go and find him in a minute."
It occured to me if I had looked in my rear view mirror as I picked up my hitcher I would have seen a woman in a nurse's uniform sprinting up the road with a comedy syringe in her hand, a small fountain of sedative springing from its tip.
We swung into town. "Pub!" The man squealed, grabbing my arm delightedly (at which point Bulldog started chewing through his car harness in fury) "Haha, yes! The Provincial Club!"
This is a building of spectacular ugliness in an otherwise delightful town, from the 70's school of Fuck You All architecture, "You want to be dropped there?" I asked incredulously, I have yet to meet anyone who has ever been inside, I think it may be where the Bus Stop Mutants live.
"Haha, yes!"
I pulled into the carpark, "Its been nice meeting you, will you be ok getting the bus home?"
"Haha, yes!" He started to clamber out of the truck.
"Bye then, take care!"
He stepped down onto the pavement and regarded me for a moment- was that mischief or madness in his eyes? "Goodbye young man!"
Oh lor- if you've never met me I'm a tiny middle-aged woman with a large chest and long hair. About as butch as a tutu. So if anyone is missing an elderly relative in Surrey I'm deeply sorry, I was only trying to help an old man out, if its any consolation he positively skipped into the Provincial Club's door, he's probably still there confusing the staff.
The Surrey Stare
Having now lived in these here parts for nearly 6 years (yikes) there are many things a London Girl born and bred can get used to - no decent Japanese food, a dearth of wine bars, and the weather being the crucial consideration for your entire day- but there is one fundamental difference out here in the Sticks that drives me to drink on pretty much a daily basis. Its the attitude to commerce and is manifested in the Surrey Stare. Picture if you will the scene........
[A locally-owned family-staffed small business in a local town. It sells rural supplies such as chicken feed, horse supplements, and chainsaw oil. Also stout boots and outdoor clothing that frankly I would have to burn if any of my City friends went through my wardrobe]
Me: Good morning Honest Merchant, I'd like a pair of the wellies on the top shelf there but in lilac... can you help at all?
Shopkeeper: (sigh) ..................(arranges invisible things behind counter to avoid eye contact)
Me: Hello? It's not my turn to talk..
Shopkeeper: (with great reluctance, as if he is being charged by the word)We only have them in green and blue.
Me: But they do come in lilac dont they? There's even a picture of them in lilac on the price tag, look.
Shopkeeper: (stares at me as though I have announced my intention of having sex with his dog at his mother's funeral) .................
Me: Any chance you could, I dont know, order some in for me next time you deal with that supplier?
Shopkeeper: (rolls eyes at such an outrageous suggestion) .............
Me: (losing it slightly) So should I just go and buy them off the internet then?
Shopkeeper: (narrows eyes like Lee Van Cleef ) ...................
Me: Well thank you for your time and indeed your charming repartee (leaves shop banging door with unneccessary force)
And thats why I'll never be considered a local.
[A locally-owned family-staffed small business in a local town. It sells rural supplies such as chicken feed, horse supplements, and chainsaw oil. Also stout boots and outdoor clothing that frankly I would have to burn if any of my City friends went through my wardrobe]
Me: Good morning Honest Merchant, I'd like a pair of the wellies on the top shelf there but in lilac... can you help at all?
Shopkeeper: (sigh) ..................(arranges invisible things behind counter to avoid eye contact)
Me: Hello? It's not my turn to talk..
Shopkeeper: (with great reluctance, as if he is being charged by the word)We only have them in green and blue.
Me: But they do come in lilac dont they? There's even a picture of them in lilac on the price tag, look.
Shopkeeper: (stares at me as though I have announced my intention of having sex with his dog at his mother's funeral) .................
Me: Any chance you could, I dont know, order some in for me next time you deal with that supplier?
Shopkeeper: (rolls eyes at such an outrageous suggestion) .............
Me: (losing it slightly) So should I just go and buy them off the internet then?
Shopkeeper: (narrows eyes like Lee Van Cleef ) ...................
Me: Well thank you for your time and indeed your charming repartee (leaves shop banging door with unneccessary force)
And thats why I'll never be considered a local.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)