Читать книгу A Dog’s Best Friend - Jan Fennell - Страница 11

Like everything else nowadays, people have a tendency to overcomplicate their relationship with their dogs. Too often, I think, we forget that ours is a simple partnership that dates back tens of thousands of years, to the time when our ancestors first domesticated the wolf, Canis lupus, to create the dog, Canis familiaris. Back then, man and dog were bound by a deep and instinctive understanding of each other’s needs and nature. Man provided security, sanctuary, food and warmth; the dog provided its superior senses and hunting abilities. They shared a form of language and understood each other perfectly. They were a team, working intuitively together – and very successfully.

During the course of the millennia since then, man and dog have drifted apart. In the main, we have become strangers – rather than the best friends we like to call ourselves.

It has only been in recent years that I have begun to understand man’s special relationship with the dog, to unravel fully the nature of the language the two species once shared instinctively. That such special relationships existed, however, was something I’d learnt to appreciate a lot earlier.

Two chance meetings during my childhood loom large in the memory in this respect. The owners were very different, but both sowed significant seeds.

Sometimes the most influential encounters are also the briefest. So it proved during a summer’s camping holiday in Exmoor and Lorna Doone country back in the 1960s. I was with my parents and the first dog I’d ever been able to call my own, Shane – a beautiful tricoloured collie my father had bought at a kennels near Heathrow.

My father loved discovering country pubs and one lunchtime went to a beautiful one near the village of Oar – a picturesque spot, with views over the moor. It was a gorgeous day and we sat outside on benches. Shane found himself a comfortable spot under a tree, where he was soon quietly snoozing.

The pub was a magnet for locals and tourists alike. The local sheep market had been on that morning, so that afternoon the place was crammed with farmers and shepherds. Their Land Rovers and trailers filled the car park. It was a very friendly place. People would say hello as they went in and one or two of the farmers stopped to admire Shane. ‘That’s a lovely dog,’ one of them said, giving Shane’s neck a friendly ruffle.

Most of the farmers arrived alone, but one turned up with a lovely looking Border collie. I don’t remember the farmer’s name, but I do recall the dog’s – she was called Tina.

There was something about their relationship that struck me straight away. Tina looked at her owner with a focus and intensity that seemed unusual. I remember noticing that he barely needed to give her an instruction before she did exactly what he wanted. As he headed into the pub, for instance, he just said ‘stay’ and she was down on all fours, sitting passively on the grass.

The pair seemed to have a great understanding of each other. When he emerged again, he had a pint of beer and a clean ashtray, which he placed on the grass next to Tina. He then poured a small splash of beer into the tray. Tina was soon slurping happily away. What a perfect pair they made, I thought to myself.

With people arriving all the time, the tables were filling up fast. Soon the table next to ours was taken by a group of half a dozen or so farmers, including Tina’s owner. The air was soon heavy with farming talk – everything from lamb prices at that morning’s market to the quality of that year’s crops and the weather. They were soon engaging us in conversation as well.

‘So where did you get this handsome boy?’ one of them asked me.

I explained that we had got him from a kennels in West London.

The farmer told me he too had a Border collie.

‘So where’s he today then?’ I asked, surprised at his absence.

‘Oh, he’s a working dog. He stays on the farm where he belongs,’ he replied.

Tina’s owner was sitting opposite this man. I looked at him and said: ‘You’ve got your dog with you. You don’t agree, do you?’

‘No, I don’t, young lady,’ he said with a wink.

His friends were soon rolling their eyes heavenward. ‘Oh, here we go,’ said one.

Almost immediately, the other five farmers were taking it in turns to explain their difference of opinion over Tina. Each of them had collies, but each of them had left them back in their kennels on their respective farms. They simply didn’t believe that a working dog should be included in a farmer’s social life.

‘He’s made that dog too soft,’ one said, pointing at Tina.

‘She even goes in the house with him,’ said another.

Tina’s owner didn’t seem perturbed by this. He’d clearly heard it all before. But when everyone had had their say, he turned to me and explained his side of the argument.

‘The way I see it, Tina works hard for me every day. She does everything I ask of her and there’s nothing wrong with her switching off and enjoying herself with me every now and again,’ he said.

As the sun shone and the beer flowed, the conversation continued. It wasn’t aggressive – there were lots of smiles and winks – but there was no doubting that everyone was absolutely serious about their positions within the argument. It was one of those situations where no one was going to give ground. Tina’s owner was quite calm and relaxed about it all. The other five farmers were more agitated, but they weren’t yielding an inch, either. Everyone agreed to disagree.

At one point, as the argument continued, someone mentioned the fact that Tina competed very successfully in the local sheepdog trials. When I asked the other farmers whether their dogs competed, they all answered ‘yes’. ‘Tina’s got a knack for it though, and she usually wins,’ one of them grudgingly admitted.

‘So what about your dog then, young lady?’ one of the farmers asked, trying to deflect the subject for a while. ‘Do you work him at all?’

‘Oh no, he’s a pet,’ I said.

‘I hope you don’t mind me saying, but I don’t think collies should be pets,’ one of the farmers said. ‘Their instinct is to herd and work, not sit around in a house all day.’

Until now my father had sat there, quietly chatting to my mother, but this comment clearly annoyed him and he couldn’t let it pass. By now both Shane and Tina were sprawled out under the shade of the trees, relishing the afternoon sun and oblivious to the fuss. My father pointed at them and said, ‘Look at those two. Does either of them look like they’re being mistreated?’

Although it was a good line and got a good laugh, it brought the conversation to a close. The farmers had soon set off on their way back to their farms, but the memory of that argument lingered for a long time afterwards.

I had admired the way the farmer had stuck to his guns. He had been doing what he felt was right and no amount of criticism or ribbing from his colleagues was going to change that opinion. But what stuck in my mind more, was the natural way he and Tina had had with each other. When I saw people out walking their pets, struggling to get along, I would wonder why it was that the farmer and his dog had such a perfect partnership in comparison.

Now, of course, I can see that theirs was a relationship deep-rooted in shared instincts and mutual understanding that dates back millennia. They represented a tradition and dependency that barely survives. I now understand that it was no coincidence that Tina’s owner was more successful in sheepdog trials than the other shepherds. The bond between the two was so strong, they must have been a formidable pair to watch at work.

Evidence of this natural, intuitive bond between man and dog was thin on the ground in the London of my youth. People tended to take their dogs for granted. They got on with their lives and the dogs got on with theirs. On the street where I lived, several dogs were allowed to roam freely. Provided they didn’t misbehave, life went on. If they did step out of line, the punishment meted out could be harsh.

In the wake of my encounter with the farmer, I occasionally came across owners with similarly unusual attitudes. It was one such person who provided me with another insight to store away for later in my life.

One morning I was walking Shane in a local park with my father. At the far corner of the park, we saw a collection of lorries and caravans. It was early autumn and the first fair of the season had arrived in our neck of the woods.

As we got closer to the mini-village that had sprung up there, we were suddenly aware of a rather large, black German shepherd. In those days – as now – German shepherds had an undeserved reputation for being aggressive and occasionally violent. As this one came out and looked at us, my father instinctively drew Shane back and put him back on the lead. But it was soon obvious he had no cause for concern. It was as if there was an invisible barrier there – the German shepherd took two steps towards us then stopped. I was confused as to why it had done this, but soon it was clear it had responded to its owner, a rather scruffy looking figure who was soon walking towards us.

‘Morning, lovely day, isn’t it?’ he said.

‘Morning, yes, smashing,’ my father replied. ‘I was just looking at your dog. Have you got him on an invisible line or something?’ he joked. ‘I’ve never seen one of them so well behaved.’

The man turned round to look at his dog, still standing perfectly still.

‘Oh, he just knows his boundaries – all my dogs do,’ he smiled.

My father had a keen interest in dogs too and got chatting to the man. It turned out he had half a dozen or so dogs, mainly for guarding the valuables that he and his family took with them as they travelled the country with the fair.

He talked about how he trained them, then got each of them to specialise in different tasks around the fair. ‘You want them to frighten the right people,’ he said, at one point, gesturing to me. ‘They’re no use to me if they scare little girls away from my rides.’

It was clear that this was someone who knew a lot about dogs. ‘Do you mind if I ask you a question?’ I said nervously.

‘Not at all, young lady, fire away,’ he said, smiling.

In recent weeks, one problem had been obsessing me above all others. It had all begun with a prank played by a kid called Ronnie in Rowallan Road in Fulham, where I lived at the time.

The most popular toy of the day was a thing called a ‘cracker’ – a triangular piece of cardboard with a piece of paper folded inside it. It looked innocuous enough, but when you flicked this thing it made a really sharp cracking noise.

I was walking down Rowallan Road with Shane one day when Ronnie jumped out and let out this huge crack. It made me jump, but it sent Shane into the most terrible spin. It was the beginning of a nervous streak that had grown progressively worse. It was now so bad that he even became agitated at the sound of rain rapping on the windows outside. Bonfire night was still some way off, but it had already become a date to dread as far as I was concerned.

I had tried all sorts of things, but mainly reassuring Shane with a cuddle. It had somehow made matters worse rather than better. Here was someone who clearly understood dogs more deeply than I did. What was there to lose in asking?

‘How do the dogs cope with the noise? What with all the squeals and whoops coming from the rides, it must be frightening for them?’

‘No, love, none of my dogs are afraid of noises,’ he said. ‘I just leave them to it.’

‘What do you mean?’ I said, a bit confused.

‘Well, there’s nothing to fear, is there? We all know that. So if we behave as if there’s nothing to fear, they’ll get the message eventually.’

I thought perhaps he had a point, so I decided I’d try his advice out the next time it rained. I didn’t have to wait long. A few nights later, there was a particularly heavy downpour. Shane went into a funk as usual – but this time I tried to resist the urge to cuddle him. I carried on reading and playing records in my room as if nothing was happening, trying desperately to relay the message that there was nothing to fear.

At the age of fifteen, you expect everything to happen in an instant. As far as I could see my behaviour was having next to no effect on Shane, who was now cowering under my bed. I loved Shane so much, I couldn’t bear the sight of him distressed. Soon he was cuddled up alongside me on top of the bed, shivering as the winds drove the rain against the window pane with even greater intensity.

Hindsight is, of course, a marvellous thing. Now I know I was doing the complete opposite of what I should have been doing. More than anything else Shane needed to be assured there was nothing wrong. And he needed to be assured by a figure in whom he had absolute trust and confidence. Instead, I had made two cardinal errors. First, I had been inconsistent, changing my mind about how to deal with the situation and giving poor Shane mixed signals in the process. Then, when I came to cuddle him, I had confirmed his worst fears – the rain was something to feel threatened by and to hide from after all. My intentions had been good, but in the end I had only added to his anxiety.

Eventually I would see the wisdom of the words of the man from the fair. The ideas he implanted in my mind would grow into one of the fundamental building blocks of my method. But if only I’d been old – and wise – enough to have understood them at the time, Shane’s life might have been a slightly happier one.