The lurcher is not a marine animal. It rarely dives into the sea for herring, or migrates across leagues of trackless ocean. It does, however, like a paddle now and then – and may, very occasionally, go full swim. We confess that none of ours have ever been of the total-immersion persuasion. Top of the legs is usually quite enough, and anything oceanic which looks as if it’s going to involve a serious bath is avoided. But being at the seaside in general – oh yes.
Today’s Training your Human subject is a delicate one for all lurchers. We have already pointed out that human beings are quite incompetent as a species. They can’t catch cats or squirrels, don’t run very well and so forth. Their methods of communication are primitive, and they can’t smell a fox from two feet away. Tragic, really. Nowhere is this incompetence more obvious than in the area of mating, so read on and learn what YOU need to know…
Every dog has his day, and every lurcher has her or his bottom, whether a lean, wiry one like Chilli, or a great muscular kangaroo-rump like Django. And make no mistake, a good lurcher bottom is a blessing indeed. It’s somewhere to attach that whippy, waggy tail, for starters. But it has its dark side, and that’s where we must travel today. Where the sun does not shine, there is mischief. And there is poo…
Come back with us in time, dear listener, to a very special moment. Picture, if you will, two attractive, light-hearted people, very much in love and determined to do good in the world. Now forget that. Burn the picture. Replace it with an eccentric Yorkshire drunk who works in a pub and a tough Sarf London girl who has just finished university. Add the fact that they aren’t exactly going out, and are constantly arguing, and you have today’s True Story…
the author’s pantry, circa 1979. every cask contains the same essential food group.
Note: This may be seen as a cautionary tale of two inexperienced people doing it wrong, or a heart-warming story. We do NOT recommend it as a set of dog rescue guidelines.
So, it is 1979 (probably). She who is now our editor-in-chief finds this dog wandering the streets. It is a sad dog, a Staffordshire bull terrier who looks very lost. It has a name and a phone number on its tag. It is called Rocko. Obviously, after consultation, we call the number. Again and again. There is never any reply. The police can get no further than we can, and we’re pretty much pre-chip or database times here. Days later, no Rocko or similar Staffy has been reported missing, and no-one we ask can think of anything helpful.
We are stuck. We have never rescued a dog before. We don’t know where Rocko came from, and we don’t want the dog to be put down. We’ve been told the dog pounds may go down that road. Thirty plus years into the future, of course, we will have lots of options – shelters and rescue organisations we can trust. But we are young, so we try to look after the poor soul.
Rocko is soft. This is the sort of dog who looks at you apologetically if you tread on its paw by accident. The aggressive urges of a lump of plasticine. And Rocko is a she. We call her Rufus, because we do not like the name Rocko. Then we find that our editor cannot have dogs in her bedsit, due to an arsy landlord. Fortunately, the rest of the team (your not-as-drunk-as-he-used to-be author) is temporarily living in a disused room at the university when not assisting Tetleys Brewery in their life=beer mission. As we are not really supposed to be there, Rufus might as well not be there at the same time.
not rufus, but the nearest we could find
Rufus is delighted to have a new home (single room piled high with books and old crates). She is walked, well-fed and cuddled. She has teeth which can bite through a tin of dog-food – and do – but never gives so much as a nip to people. She is lovely. Dogs need company, so we don’t want her on her own too often. So one day, because of work shifts, sunspots or something else we completely forget now, Rufus is sent to stay with a mutual friend who has some spare time and access to a bit of grassy wasteland. During this time she wanders off, causing panic, but soon toddles back, and is overjoyed to be re-united with us.
We realise that she needs a proper home. So we take her to some parents far away from where we live, parents who do not know that they have always wanted a dog. They certainly don’t know that they have always wanted a large hungry Staffordshire bull terrier with a boy’s name and a girl’s parts.
After a certain amount of sarcasm, Rufus is housed by the sea with people who are there all the time. A perfect ending. Except for the fact that Rufus turns out to be not only pregnant (thanks to that grassy wasteland expedition) but very heavily pregnant. Parental sarcasm gets close to boiling point, but is survived.
Rocko who is Rufus is now Rusty, as a certain mother refuses to call a pregnant Staffordshire Rufus. A large litter of confusing pups is born. Some look Staffie-ish, some look more like golden retrievers. Amazingly, these are all farmed out to various other sarcastic relatives, and at last Rusty is comfy at home. She becomes a basking seal who occupies the sofa every day and is doted over by that certain mother. Rusty is always delighted to see us when we head coast-wards, and lives to a ripe old age. Actual perfect ending – in the end.
So what’s this got to do with lurchers and longdogs? Hang in there. Many years later, with another old dog at home but a bit worn out, editor-in-chief goes to Battersea Dogs’ Home and struggles back up north with a young, utterly bonkers dog found roaming the streets of London.
It has clearly been damaged by some horrible experience(s), and is rather hostile to anyone except the immediate family. By hostile, we mean a tendency to bite people’s calf muscles when alarmed, by the way, not merely bad-tempered. To the family, this little bundle of legs is loyalty exemplified, and like Rocko/Rufus/Rusty, is hugely affectionate, with never even the hint of a nip to our young son.
the late and adored lunatic jade, our very first lurcher
It is, yes, a lurcher. It is also definitely a she, and she is Jade. Spayed this time, thank goodness. Although she’s gone now, again at an advanced age, we loved her very much and she is one of the reasons why this site is called greydogtales. And she began our deep affection for lurchers. So there.
Next time: The obvious feature to follow this one – an interview with the owner of Swan River Press, Ireland’s only publisher of Gothic, fantastic and supernatural fiction…
