In the wars

The daddies say that I am accident prone.  It is true that I seem to get myself into scrapes and brother Brahms does not, but this is because we have different talents and skills.  You need to understand that in the Pack, we all have specific roles.  I would like to think that if I was employed in the Pack, I would be a Rootler, like my father Berlioz.  The nearest equivalent in the human Army I think, is the Paras.   There are three qualifications for becoming a Rootler: an outstanding sense of smell, speed and fearlessness.  This is because it is the duty of a Rootler to pick up a scent as quickly as possible so that the Chase can begin in earnest; after all, no scent: no dinner.

The Rootlers work at the front of the Pack, sniffing for all they are worth and travelling at great speed, to detect the scent of a rabbit or hare.  Once we have achieved that, our role is done and the Runners then lead the Chase.  Brahms (like Uncle Brukner on Mother's side) would be one of these, with his superb speed and agility.  I am not so good at agility.  Auntie Gill gets irritated with me (especially when I'm wet and muddy) when, unlike Brahms, I won't jump into the boot of her car.  I'd like to see her do it after a two hour walk - she can barely stand up, which is because she only has two legs and has to work twice as hard to keep pace.

Although I'm not a professional in a Pack, I do like to keep my skills honed and so I use every opportunity on walkies to practice.  Last week, we were on one of my favourite trails along the Nidd Gorge and we met up with our friend Rocco (he is part retriever), who wants to train to be a beagle.  So, I set off rootling and Brahms and Rocco were ready to Run as soon as I gave them the signal.  (Unfortunately, both Brahms and I agree that Rocco will never make it to Pack standard, but there's no harm in him trying.  We don't like to mention that he is too tall and clumsy.)

Now, you will realise that effective, efficient Rootlers do not have time to look where we are going.  I had my nose welded to the ground, my floppy ears were dangling forward to channel the smells into my nasal cavities and I'm sniffing away like fury, when suddenly half the world turns black.  What to do?  I rushed back to Auntie Gill who recoiled in horror, because my left eye had turned green and she thought I had become demonic.  She and Rocco's mum studied my eye and decided upon the vets, because a huge piece of plant was wedged over my eye like a contact lens.  This is where two eyelids are not such a good idea, because the green stuff was stuck between them.


We set off back to the car, but even with only one eye I continued to rootle and enjoy myself.  Rocco lost interest and he and Brahms practised running and chasing. Auntie Gill lifted me into the car without even trying to make me jump in and we dashed to the vets.  I was not best pleased with the outcome.  I had to stay at the vets and have a procedure.  They drugged me - the vet called it sedation - I call it poisoning - took the plant stuff out and left me with a dilated pupil and a hangover.  But the worst thing was the cone, which I stubbornly refused to tolerate, until the nurse tied it on with string.


Two hours later, Auntie Gill collected me and brought me home.  She was very nice and gave me treats, pats and let me sit next to her on the sofa.  I'm sorry to say that Brahms was horrid.  He laughed at the cone, said I looked like a satellite dish and as soon as he realised that I couldn't nip him for his rudeness subjected me to indignities.  He stole all my bones and tried to hump me a great deal.  Auntie Gill was very cross with him for being so vulgar and unkind.

I was the victim of these torments for three days.  It was even worse when Auntie Gill's back was turned.  On top of that I had to stay on the lead when we went for walks.  Brahms was even mean then.  He would run off taunting, 'You can't catch me for a pocket full of treats!' And then run back and crash into my cone.  I won't forget.