Animal = Hospital

When I dragged you into my personal hell with the tale of the two cats, some of your (very welcome, as ever) comments mentioned dogs, and the very kind Pixie Mum mindful of my welfare, asked if my tetanus jabs were up to date, which all reminded me of another animal story. This is both dog and neighbour related.

Regular readers may recall that relations with one of my neighbours in France, Herman the German, have been soured, and I’m pleased to report that here in Nowhere-on-Thames, we have neighbours with whom we enjoy quite a happy relationship.

If you’re sensing a “but” at this point, you’re quite right to do so. Let me tell you about Horace the hellhound.

Horace is not a Rottweiler, nor indeed a Pit Bull or any other supposedly dangerous or evil brand of dog. Horace is a small white Westie. To all intents and purposes, Horace is supposed to fall into the category of “cute”.  When our neighbours first moved in next door, I was prepared to believe that he was exactly that. However, Horace did not take long to demonstrate that he was about as cute as a sack of vipers.

                                                   Cute? It's a matter of opinion and experience

It all started off fairly innocuously. Whenever we were outside in our garden, Horace would run up and down the fence on the other side, barking and growling. This left our own Labrador, who was still with us at the time, singularly unimpressed. He would just look at us balefully, as if to say “What’s his problem?” before dropping to the ground and going to sleep in the sun.

After some months, it became apparent that Horace did not feel the barking was enough. He began to attempt to eat his way into our garden through the wooden fence, so he could have it out with us face to face. The neighbours’ half-hearted attempts to control him were having no effect, and they called some sort of dog-whisperer in to help. As part of this, we were asked if we’d mind walking up and down our own garden whilst Horace demonstrated his disgust from his own side of the fence, so that the dog-whisperer could witness his behaviour first hand. The dog-whisperer came, did some stuff and left, and for a week or so Horace was disciplined for his behaviour and we could enjoy the liberty of wandering about our garden without the accompaniment of Horace’s vocal displeasure.

Shortly after this, the neighbours decided to re-landscape their garden. As part of this, they added an extra layer of fencing on their side of the existing fence between our gardens, apparently so that Horace would not be so easily able to see or sense us wandering about our own garden. Whatever improvement had been made in his behaviour by the dog-whisperer was already a thing of the past, largely, I think, because the neighbours weren’t really putting much effort into the discipline stuff.

It was at about this time that I opined to TH that if Horace was mine, I would have a serious think about my priorities. Having to go to this kind of expense to placate a highly-strung small dog seemed to me to be a big ask.

Then it was Christmas. I should say that, up to this point, we had been relatively frequent visitors to the neighbours’ house, and they to ours. No problems. Confronted with our actual presence, Horace seemed to be able to behave quite normally and just like any other dog. Then they invited us to join them for a party on New Year’s Eve. 

At the appointed time, we walked out of our front door, strode the few steps across to the neighbours’ door and rang the bell. It was answered and, amid the cheerful “Hello’s” and welcomes, I became aware that TH had suddenly doubled over and said quite a rude word. It’s not like him to do that in company, so to say I was surprised is an understatement. It was then that I noticed that he had a small white Westie hanging from his upper thigh by its teeth. Cue much embarrassment all round, multiple apologies, offers of assistance, and OH, trying to make light of the situation, popping back home to examine his wounds and apply dressings. He returned shortly thereafter and we both enjoyed a pleasant, if subdued,  evening. The dog didn’t try for a repeat performance and the neighbours were, of course, mortified.

Months went by. Many months. No further Horace-related incidents occurred and the memory had more or less faded. Then, one summer afternoon, my neighbour knocked on the door and asked to borrow the garden shredder. TH had hidden it somewhere so I offered to phone him for details of its whereabouts and then pop back to her with it. Having done as I promised, I popped next door and rang the bell. No answer. She’d gone out. However, a friend of theirs was working in their garden, so I called to him over the fence and he came to the gate to talk to me. He opened the gate, and I was relaying my message when all of a sudden a searing pain shot up my leg. You’ve guessed it. Horace was hanging from the top of my leg. No warning, no reason, no provocation.

It HURT! A LOT! And it swelled up and it bled and I swore and drove myself to the NHS walk-in centre, where they were particularly impressed to learn that a wound at the very top of my thigh had been inflicted by such a small dog. It was here that I got the tetanus jab. And a course of antibiotics, and a big dressing. They don’t stitch dog bites in case they get infected, apparently, which is why I still bear a small scar.

Not long after my return, the neighbour appeared, in tears, clutching a bouquet. I think she feared the worst. Believe me, both TH and I have (and still do, for reasons which will soon become clear) agonised over what to say and do. If it wasn’t the neighbours, I’d report it without question, and happily. But it IS our immediate neighbour, and we have a normally good relationship, it seems the only solution is to leave the decision as to what to do to their good sense. They have chosen the ostrich approach.

In June, during the Jubilee celebrations, I went to France. TH stayed behind, and took up the invitation to the neighbours’ garden barbecue. They now have two dogs, of whom Horrible Horace is one. Given TH’s acceptance of their kind invitation, they were taking the dogs to be looked after by a dog-minder for the afternoon. 

Some time before the party, TH was outside tinkering with son#2’s car. He was lying under the vehicle, with only his legs sticking out, as the neighbour came out of the house with both dogs on leads. At this point, Horace slipped his collar, did two laps of son#2’s car before sinking his teeth in TH’s calf.  I gather from son#2 that TH let his feelings be known in no uncertain terms.

                                                         More like the real Horace.....?

Apparently, Horace is showing signs of old age and ill health. I cannot bring myself to feel sorry about these developments, despite my general fondness for animals.