DOG TAILS 1. A DOG IS FOR LIFE, NOT JUST CHRISTMAS

These random stories are about Mac, a Welsh Border collie born in1976. His master for the first seven years of his life was my best friend. And I was Mac’s best friend, the nice man that drove him out for long walkies in the Peak District every weekend, rain or shine (All right, mainly shine).
When circumstances changed and there was no longer anyone at home during the day, it made sense for Mac to come and live with me and my unemployed father. For Mac it was a seamless transition as he was already familiar with his new surroundings.

When he was five Mac fell eighty feet over the lip of a quarry on Stanton Moor. One second he was there and then with a yelp he was gone. The edge was so well concealed by bushes I also nearly tumbled over as I rushed forward. I looked down in horror at the jagged rocks below. At first I could see nothing, but then movement in the undergrowth. I worked my way outward along the rim and eventually reached the quarry floor. Looking up, I could see that he’d gone over at the one place where a tree grew right up against the cliff. The branches had broken his fall. He was badly shaken but miraculously intact. I carried him out and back to the car. I called at the nearest pub, phoned the operator, told her what had happened and said I didn’t have any money on me. She kindly put me through to a veterinary surgery in nearby Bakewell, which luckily was open on a Saturday afternoon. I carried him into the surgery and was ushered straight through to see the vet. She examined every inch of him and said nothing was broken, gave him an injection to counteract shock and let us go, free of charge. I was dreading dropping him off (this was before he lived with me), but they took it stoically, relieved he had survived.
I saw him again a fortnight later and he appeared to be fully fit. However, over a period of time, a hard bony callous developed on his front right knee, as seen in the photo. It gave him a slight limp but otherwise was no impediment to his life, and what an enriching life it turned out to be, not only for me and his original owners, but for everyone who knew him. It was only when he reached twelve and arthritis began to affect his back legs did it begin to slow him down.

Mac and I once got invited to a family Christmas dinner. ‘Don’t bring any dog food, there’s plenty of turkey to go round,’ I was told.
Mac was served a full Christmas dinner identical to all the rest, but instead of wolfing it down as expected he just stared at the plate with a look of distaste. People noticed and passed comment, and despite a lot of encouragement he refused to eat.
After a while we noticed he was nosing the Brussels sprouts off the plate. Even when he’d removed them all he still wouldn’t eat. He then flicked them across the kitchen with his nose and paws until they were out of scent range. Mission accomplished, the food disappeared in seconds. A later experiment to try and recreate this behaviour by adding sprouts to a normal dinner failed miserably. No way was he going to all that trouble over a bowl of Chum.

I went to a Christmas party at Mac’s house once and got very drunk. Every time I visited, whether it was to take him walkies or not, he fussed me to begin with and then would never leave my side, on the off chance that I would change my mind and take him out. Consequently, he was by my side all evening, even though I was mainly ignoring him and having a good time. He was still faithfully by my side when I could no longer stand and was laid on my back, grinning inanely at the ceiling. I was so drunk I didn’t feel it coming on, and before I could move I was sick. It sort of bubbled out of my mouth like lava from a volcano and flowed down the sides. Mac was in like a shot to save me, licking away the vomit and preventing me from ending up like Jimi Hendrix. Apparently, several guests left soon afterwards and most of the vol-au-vents were left untouched. Mummy was furious, but Mac pointed out to her that providing him with a warm meal was the least I could have done for not taking him out.

The dog my friend owned before Mac was a mongrel named Dillon (or Dylan, I’m not sure which), who I also took for long walks in the country. Dillon was one those dogs with a hormone imbalance that would shag anything that moved or didn’t. Switch the light off and close the door on the way to bed, wait one second, open the door and switch the light on again, and Dillon would be on the sofa humping a cushion.
One Christmas time we were out in the countryside and got caught up in the middle of the seasonal Barlow Hunt. I was sat on a log eating a sandwich, when without warning we were completely surrounded by foxhounds, which just appeared from nowhere, hundreds of them. Dillon couldn’t believe his luck. He attached himself to the bitch of his choice and went at it like a steam hammer, eyes rolling and tongue lolling in ecstasy.
The hounds milled around, noses to the ground, frantically searching for the scent of the fox. Of me and Dillon they took not a blind bit of notice. After only a few seconds, a horn blew and the entire pack raced off as one. I nearly choked with laughter at the sight of the entwined lovers disappearing down the hill, Dillon clinging desperately with his front legs wrapped round her back and his back legs pedalling frantically to keep up. I honestly don’t think the foxhound was even aware he was there. He survived the experience, but sadly his life was cut short by the dreaded parvovirus.