DOG TAILS 2. FOOD FOR THOUGHT

Out in the countryside Mac never begged for food. He wasn’t interested in eating. As long as he had a stick to chew, as in the picture, he was happy. The only three exceptions I can remember ended in disaster. The first was a winter walk, during which it began to snow. Instead of making a sandwich, I took the remaining half of a Lyons chocolate sponge cake for lunch, mainly because it was past its sell-by date and wanted eating. To get out of the snow I crawled into a narrow space beneath a rhododendron bush and sat with my back to a church wall. I held the large slab of cake in both hands and was about to take the first bite when I saw snapping jaws approaching at great speed. Before I could speak or do anything he hit. The cake was thrust into my mouth, nearly choking me. Mac took another bite. The middle part of the cake disintegrated into crumbs and fell into my lap. Face to face, mouths full of cake, we stared at one another. Once I’d managed to swallow, the only thing I could think of to say was, ‘I suppose you think that’s funny?’ Mac’s reply was to lick the chocolate cream off my cheeks and then hoover up the crumbs from my lap.

On the second occasion the weather was the complete opposite. We were at the Monsal Head car park on a sweltering summer day. I’m not a big fan, but I couldn’t resist the temptation of an ice cream. I placed my pack in one of the castellated slots in the wall, made Mac sit in the next niche and told him that if he stayed put and didn’t move I would buy him an ice cream. I didn’t mean it, of course.
The queue at the van was long and I kept an eye on Mac throughout. Unbelievably, he sat there like a good little soldier and never budged. Before I knew it I had ordered two cornets and was sitting in the niche beside him holding his in my left hand whilst he licked contentedly.
I suddenly became aware that someone was addressing me. I looked up to see a Japanese couple, holding cameras, pointing and smiling. I guess it did look a bit odd. I smiled back and nodded. By now Mac was thrusting his tongue inside the cornet to lick out the last of the ice cream and getting pretty miffed that he couldn’t reach the bottom. ‘Eat the wafer,’ I commanded. ‘It’s only like biscuit.’ He refused. I pulled my hand away and bit off the bottom of his cornet to show him it wasn’t poisonous. More Japanese tourists had left their coach and were lining up to take photos.
Mac licked the ice cream exuding from the base of the cornet but still wouldn’t eat the wafer. He then returned to the other end and tried again from there, but only succeeded in forcing more out the hole. Back and forth he went until the wafer became so soggy it crumbled in my hand. I was left being photographed by a bus load of Japanese whilst Mac licked the rest of the ice cream from my hand.

The final incident also occurred in the depths of winter, way up on the hostile Bleaklow Moors. At the time, we shared our weekend walks with my former boss, Bert, an experienced hill walker who knew the wild heights of Kinder and Bleaklow well. A friend of his, Alf, joined us occasionally.
We descended into a snow-filled peat grough out of the wind for lunch and whilst we ate Mac mithered us continually with a stick. The poor mite was soaking wet and shivering and was only trying to keep warm. On the occasions we went walking with other people, Mac very kindly gave me the day off and pestered whoever was with us. He was therefore laying the twig of heather at the feet of Bert and Alf in turn. Both carried these long walking sticks made of hazel and with a thumb notch at the top. They simply flicked the stick up into the air for Mac to catch. But being so cold, he wouldn’t give them a minute’s peace. He needed to be constantly on the move.
Both eventually lost patience and told Mac in no uncertain terms to go away. He kept on pestering. Bert slammed his stick down into the snow inches from his muzzle and yelled at him to stop. Mac didn’t flinch. He tossed the stick even closer.
I felt it was time to step in. ‘Mac,’ I said, calmly. ‘If you don’t give over you’re going straight in the bath.’
Mac whined miserably and sank instantly into the snow, ears pressed flat and tail tucked between his legs.
Water he loved, but when it was warm and involved soap, he was petrified. I don’t know if his fear was due to a bad experience as a pup, but getting Mac into a bath tub could only be achieved through subterfuge. Any sign or word of preparation and he would lodge himself firmly under the settee, from where it would have taken the fire brigade to extract him. Picking him up and attempting to carry him up the stairs was too dangerous because of his size, strength and violent struggles. The only way was to run the bath and make all the preparations in advance, then con him into believing he was going out for a walk, clip on his lead, go outside, turn back and drag up the stairs and into the bathroom, keeping him on the leash until the door was locked. Once in the water, he would stand rigid and shaking until the ordeal was over. After lifting him out he would shake before you could wrap him in a towel, and as soon as the door opened he would dash downstairs and roll on the lounge carpet. Needless to say, I never had any problem preventing Mac from trespassing. Upstairs meant one thing and one thing only.
Anyway, Mac’s sudden reaction to the word “bath” made both Bert and Alf gost with laughter. Unfortunately for Alf, he was at that precise moment swallowing a mouthful of cheese and onion, which promptly went down the wrong hole. He coughed and choked and banged his chest, which made me and Bert laugh even harder. He then went red, then puce and then blue. Then he collapsed.
Bert and Alf had been friends from the time they worked together down the pit as boys. Bert had got out, passed his exams and made a comfortable life for himself as a scientist. Alf had worked in the mines all his life and his lungs were crippled as a result. Bert knew how serious this fit could be, and put his medical training into immediate effect to remove the blockage and open his airways. He revived him just in time, but it was twenty minutes before he could even sit up, never mind walk.

The nearest Mac ever came to injuring me was near the end of his walking days when he was putting on weight, crippled with arthritis and could no longer negotiate stiles. This one was a squeezer, commonplace in the limestone country of the White Peak. It was too narrow to squeeze through and he didn’t fancy leaping over, so he sat in front of it and waited for me to arrive. I stood astride him and reached down, but at that moment he decided to go for it and launched himself upwards. His head smashed into the bridge of my nose. I rocked back and he sailed over. I said a few bad words and was about to give chase when my plastic framed glasses split completely at the bridge and fell off. They were beyond repair. Finishing the walk wasn’t a problem, but the ten mile drive home without glasses was a nightmare for someone as short sighted as me.
Sorry to end this story on a downer, but Alf never walked with us again and died within a year. Macky had his pocket money stopped until he’d paid for my new specs.