Wimperoo (Shad part 2)

"I think I'll call him Shadow," said my daughter upon our arrival
home. Well he was certainly black enough and as blurry around the edges
as his namesake so Shadow or 'Shad' he became.
The journey home had been uneventful, with Shad snoring gently away on
the back seat beside my daughter, and Red staring dolefully out of the
rear window.
We liberated Red and left him to scout the front garden for cats and
blackbirds and other dangerous foes that may be lying in ambush, while
we carried our new boarder inside. We set him down and, instantly
wide-awake, he set off at a brisk trot to explore his
surroundings.
He had about him, the same air of eager expectancy as a 'Happy Camper',
at a Holiday Camp on his first Saturday. Tirelessly, he inspected the
kitchen, the dining room, the lounge, the stairs, the bedrooms, and
then did the rounds again for luck. Along the way, he polished Reds
already shiny food bowl, vacuumed the carpets for biscuit crumbs and
rooted out the cushion covers for any tasty morsels lurking beneath. To
our shame, and Reds chagrin he found quite a few.
"He's probably hungry", observed the wife, "I'll feed them both". Two
bowls filled were prepared with the evil smelling tinned dog food and
biscuit to which Red is so partial and placed in front of the expectant
diners.
Red started to consume his in his usual well-bred manner. He savoured
the more juicy morsels and chewed properly as befits a dog of
pedigree.
Shad set about his like the streetwise animal he was. Before the dish
had touched the floor, his snout was buried in it up to his eyes, and
without drawing breath, with a noise like a Wellington boot being
wrenched from a swamp; the mess was vacuumed into the rapidly snapping
jaws. Eyes half closed in bliss, a pink prehensile tongue caressed the
dish, inside and out, and then with a small belch, he turned his gaze
upon Reds brimming bowl.
Red, awed by this display of mastication, raised his nose from his
dish. He stepped back, the better to view this trencherman. That was an
error!
Thinking that Red was finished and not liking to see good food wasted,
Shad fell upon this new dish with undiminished gusto. Before you can
say Pedigree Chum, there were two polished dog bowls and one outraged
Ridgeback...
We offered Red more food. We cajoled him, tempting him with delicate
morsels of goo, and the little grisly bits of gunge that he usually
relishes. It was to no avail. With his nose in the air, he retired to
his bed and resolved to have no further truck with this scruffy young
mugger. Shad got a third meal!!
Upon reflection, I think that we had made a bad error of judgement!
Shad was, as apparent to even the most casual observer, a trifle
undernourished. In fact, he had probably just consumed in five minutes,
as much as he could hope to find in a week of dustbin raids.
Whilst he was pleased with himself, his shocked stomach was not. It
immediately closed down all operations and began mass evacuation
procedures.
Delhi Belly or Montezuma's Revenge is supposed to be the nearest thing
to purgatory (or should that be purgative), when luckless travellers
are afflicted. I believe that it's worse when a dog gets it. Not for
the dog, I hasten to add, but for its luckless living companions. The
dog will accept it as just part of Life's Rich Pageant and redouble its
efforts to eat in order to counteract the loss. The results are best
left un-described.
It was at this point, that we discovered that his RSPCA kennel tag had
lied to us.
He was definitely not HT.
Granted, he was choosy. He generally managed to make it to the carpet
before he was overtaken by nature.
"Dear God", my poor suffering wife moaned for the umpteenth time. "Why
did we have to pick such a dark carpet with a pattern that seemed to be
designed to camouflage...."
Life progressed. Shad was put on a regime of arrowroot gruel, which he
lapped up enthusiastically, and his stomach soon slowed to a windy
norm. Proper food was slowly reintroduced, and his iron digestion
creaked back into more regular motion(s).
Shad turned out to be a very quick learner.
He learned where the food cupboards were.
He learned who was the most generous at mealtimes with the odd crust
(my daughter).
Who could be relied upon to miss his mouth with a fork full of peas and
spill them into the eager jaws below (my son).
He learned who prepared the food and was generous with the odd ball of
pastry or meat trimming (The Missus).
Who always found himself with three slices of bread when making a
sandwich and needed a home for the spare one (me).
He also, thank the Lord, quickly learned to be H.T.
Red however, is slow to forgive an insult and camped on the landing for
a fortnight, refusing to come down for anything except meal times and
the most urgent calls of nature.
He religiously avoided even the most casual contact with the new
lodger, and as Shad was banned from upstairs due to his long coat that
he rapidly began to shed, Red was mostly successful in his
self-enforced isolation.
Once, as Red was coming in from a rare foray into the garden, Shad
happened by on one of his food scavenging rounds. They passed and Shad
thrust a friendly nose up Reds posterior in the time honoured doggy
greeting. This was returned by a most unfriendly snarl and a view of
Reds impressive dentures. Not to be intimidated, he responded to the
challenge with a swift snap at the ample hindquarters so conveniently
close by. Fortunately for both of them, he missed, but it boded ill for
the future peace of the household.
"What do we do if they never get on together?", my wife said one day.
"Well, I suppose he goes back to jail", I replied. "Red was, after all,
here first and has priority, but only as a last resort..."
I decided on a plan of desensitisation, rather like allergy sufferers
go through. I planned to force Red into contact with his allergen
(Shad) a little at a time until he was no longer affected by close
proximity to the beast. Well, no more than anyone else was to the
scruffy little horror.
Collecting his leash from its hook, I climbed the stairs to the landing
where Red was stretched out, peering resentfully through the banister
rails at his foe below. I clipped on his leash and he looked up at me
in bewilderment. It was not time for a walk and Red was a creature of
habit. Still, if we were going out, that was all right by him.
Strangely enough, walks were the only time that the two dogs got on
together. Although Red would ignore Shad, he would allow him to
approach and sniff without any aggressive reaction.
We descended the stairs, Red sticking close to my heels in case of
sudden ambush. Shad was in the living room on the missus' lap, waiting
for anyone to make a move for the biscuits. I opened the door and Red
sensed betrayal. He jerked to a halt and lying down, slowly rolled onto
his back. This was his ultimate display of stubbornness and no amount
of pleading or prodding would move him from this position. Any move to
take him by the collar was always met by a vice-like grip on the wrist
from teeth that could crush the thighbones of an ox, and the sort of
growl that nightmares are made of. Domestication is a state that has
only recently been veneered onto the Rhodesian Ridgeback, and the 'wolf
beneath the skin' can be clearly sensed when he is enraged or cornered.
Red was cornered, but I was prepared.
With the leash already on his choke chain, there was no need to go near
those jaws. All one needed to do was bring the leash and the dog would
follow, albeit on his back and protesting. I entered the living room
dragging one hundred pounds of inverted, gasping hound. My wife held
onto Shad while I towed Red over to the settee. I sat down and reeled
in the leash. Red surrendered and lumbered to his feet coughing.
He looked balefully at Shad and then climbed up beside me. He sat
upright and leaning back against me, considered his situation. I put my
hand on his shoulder in what I hoped was a reassuring gesture of
solidarity and took a firm grip on the end of the leash. "OK, let him
go", I called and offered a prayer to Saint Masochisia, the Patron
Saint of dog owners.
Shad climbed nonchalantly of my wife's' lap and sauntered over towards
us. Red shrank back against me, pinning me to the chair with his bulk.
Shad, apparently oblivious to the effect he was having on his canine
cousin, closed for the sniffing ritual.
With a low moan, Red made a break for the door, but I was ready. For a
few minutes there was a flurry of legs and much writhing and growling,
and then, quite suddenly he gave up. With his eyes averted, and leaning
on me for support, he surrendered to the inevitable and allowed himself
to be greeted by his enemy. This procedure had to be repeated on a few
more occasions over the next few days, but the protests became less and
less until they ceased. Soon, it was as if they had always lived
together, they shared drinking water and blankets, waited their turn
for the thrown peanut and fought mock battles over sticks and rubber
balls, which Shad invariably won. Peace returned to the
homestead?.
Shad's ancestry is a little speculative. When wet, his coat sticks
close to his body and gives him the streamlined look of an oversized
Whippet and the odour of a doss-house mattress. However, when dry, he
has the colouring and general demeanour of a rather tatty
Lurcher.
He also has a prodigious talent for leaping effortlessly high into the
air at the slightest provocation. It became quite a familiar experience
to be sitting quietly on the settee reading, or watching TV, when
without warning, a low flying dog would whistle by your ear as he
cleared the furniture rather than walk round it.
It was reasoned thus, that a Kangaroo must have crept between the
dog-blankets of one of his less distant ancestors.
My son thought that Whippets were in fact pronounced "wimpets", thus
Shads breed was proudly declared to be a WIMPEROO!
Shad developed a quite instinctive urge to catch and shake cats. There
was no malice intended merely that to him, a cat always looked like it
could do with a good shaking.
Naturally the cats didn't share the same viewpoint. In fact they went
to great extremes to avoid his ministrations.
Whenever he was on one of his walks, towing my wife or myself
reluctantly behind him, and he spotted a cat, he changed up to
overdrive.
Claws scrabbling on concrete, he endeavoured to catch and administer to
the cat the necessary service.
Fortunately for all concerned, he hadn't weight enough to overcome the
drag factor of one reluctant owner, and the cat was able to scuttle
sneeringly on its way.
He never forgot a sighting though. Rather like a birdwatcher, he noted
every cat he saw and its last location in his mental notebook and
whenever he passed that way again; he examined it carefully in case the
cat was still around.
Once he almost had his first customer. A neighbour took into her charge
a young and mentally deficient kitten. It was let out to explore the
locality, as cats are wont. For some reason only known to this feline
imbecile, whilst ignoring the very obvious and pungent indication of
dog, it decided to explore our back garden. Shad, wandering aimlessly
out the back door, came snout to whisker with one of his prospective
customers. He stopped in his tracks, unable to believe his luck. Fate,
like the milkman, had delivered to his door.
The cat stopped in horror and one could almost hear the sound of one of
nine lives being peeled of the roll and cashed in.
Shad moved in eagerly and the kitten backed off, spitting feline oaths,
every hair at attention.
My wife, in the kitchen, heard the commotion and peering out the
window, saw the situation. Not wanting to have to explain to irate
neighbours about lunatic cats and fatally over affectionate dogs, she
rushed out shouting, "NO SHAD!".
Shad, distracted, took his eye of the moggie, which, recovering its
sense of survival, rushed for the fence, gaining it seconds before his
enraged pursuer.
After food, there seemed to be only one thing that Shad counted as of
any importance in life, and that was a walk. He was too young then to
have any ambitions in other directions, so from the moment he was
liberated from his sleeping quarters his day was one long wait for
feeding or leading.
The feeding interludes came round far too seldom for his liking, so he
developed a few techniques to increase their frequency as much as
possible.
First there was the dribbling on your shoes technique while you are
eating a slice of breakfast toast. This at least made you aware of his
presence as the moisture penetrated your slippers.
Then there was the cold nose on your knee technique as you sat at the
table. This worked best with women and Scotsmen. Usually he managed to
time this so that a fork-full of potato was half way to your mouth at
the moment of contact. The shock was generally such that you inflicted
a nasty wound to your nostrils, and if his luck was in, the forkful was
shaken free to drop into the eagerly waiting jaws below.
Then there was his favourite. The, 'I'm only a starving pooch, but
don't let that influence you technique'. He first spotted a sandwich
eater. It was then enacted by lying down as close to the subjects feet
as possible, but taking care to remain in the subjects field of vision
at all times.
Should the subject move position to avoid the sight of the starving
pooch then it was important to move also. This would be enacted with
much dragging of weary paws followed by a collapse in the chosen place
with a great sigh of exhaustion.
If no crust was quickly forthcoming, then a low moan was in order. If,
heaven forbid, the sandwich looked like being consumed without due
share, then, as a last resort, a death rattle would be tried.
If there was no immediate likelihood of feeding, such as directly after
a bowlful of Doggy-dins, then it became time to ask for a walk. This
was accomplished by, 'dogging the footsteps'. Everywhere one turned
there was Shad.
Somehow he managed to be both under my feet in the front room, while my
wife was simultaneously falling over him in the kitchen.
You were walking down stairs when one of the steps got up and preceded
you. You had nearly trodden on Shad.
You went to sit in an unoccupied armchair and as your backside
descended, the seat miraculously became occupied by a shaggy black
caterpillar wearing an insane leer.
It became usual to examine the toilet bowl very carefully before use,
as you never knew where he might pop up!
Eventually, nerves frayed, we gave up and declared a walk.
Then came the 'getting ready ritual'.
We got up and opening the hall cupboard, collected the coats and
Wellington boots. These were carried into the kitchen ready to be
donned.
You put on your coat while the revolting tongue of a grateful hound
washed your face.
You removed your slippers and your toes were ground into the floor by
four flailing paws.
Then your wellies were kicked around the kitchen just as your feet
descended towards their sanctuary. Eventually, you struggled into your
walking kit and attempted to attach a lead to a dog. Not easy when the
said dog was performing cartwheels around the walls and backward flips
along the work surfaces.
At last you left the house on, 'A WALK.'
Twice a day the dogs were taken for their walk on the local patch of
rough ground, known flatteringly as The Fen. Here, nature is left to
herself, and therefore all is efficient chaos.
Narrow paths snake through gorse and thistle and dog owners leave them
at their peril. Not so their charges!
Both our dogs loved the undergrowth, especially the waist high grasses.
They disappeared into the murky depths and were only located by the
swaying of the seed heads as they progressed.
Red was happy to meander around sniffing and idly chewing the
occasional grass stem, but not so Shad. He had to know from minute to
minute, the precise location of all his party, Canine and Human
alike.
As the grass grew taller, this presented an ever more demanding
problem. Then the Kangaroo in his ancestry solved his problem. He
"Wimperood"!
Wimperooing is the technique of the occasional leap high into the air
from a standing position and whilst hovering at the required height,
performing a 360 degree scan of ones surroundings.
Soon, the sight of Shad Wimperooing was commonplace on the Fen.
There would be a rustle of foliage, and then a black shaggy form would
rise gracefully from the sea of grasses. Ears flapping to maintain
altitude, the scrawny neck swivelled from side to side, searching the
horizon.
Then, like a sounding whale, the apparition would sink slowly back into
the sea of green.
Sadly, those days have long gone, when, with a young family, my wife
and I shared our home and lives with two demanding but infinitely
rewarding canine lodgers. Red lived to be 11 years old. He was treated
for a heart problem for a while before one evening, wandering into the
hallway, he lay down and without any fuss, set out for the 'big kennel
in the sky'.
He left a hole in out lives even bigger than his ample frame.
Shad died a couple of years ago aged about fourteen. Unlike Red, he
fought an illness determinably for quite a few days before it became
apparent that he was not likely to recover. He left on his 'Vet
Assisted' trip to join his old sparring partner, without undue
fuss.
He also is much missed.