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Photo by Geoff Walker

Dear Readers,

I can hardly believe it, but I’m having to backtrack on a bold declaration made in a previous column. Early this year I declared full of certainty that while Jas the puppy could bark and jump and beg, she would never, ever make me play. I backed up this emphatic statement by saying that I’m 13 years old, which puts me in my 70s in dog years, well past the time of playing just for fun.

Obviously I jump up and down with excitement when it’s food time, when my boss gets home, when my boss takes me for a walk or when I find her in the garden. But these situations don’t qualify as playing.

Playing is what Jas the puppy does. It involves jumping, spinning and dancing for no reason whatsoever. Why, I used to wonder, does Jas think dropping into what you humans call the ‘soliciting play’ position will make me play? Just in case you’re not clear, soliciting play when done by dogs involves poking the front legs forward, dropping the chest on the ground (which happens when the front legs are thrust forward) and poking one’s backside in the air

This ingratiating position also involves vigorous tail wagging, although this barely rates a mention as vigorous tail wagging is automatic for dogs when we’re pleased. On the odd occasion I’ve felt pleased and have tried not to wag my tail, it’s been an epic fail. That tail of mine has a mind of its own.

Anyway, on the fated day when I played for no reason whatsoever, I’d followed my boss Rae into the paddock when she went to give the horse a snack. Already, I was acting strangely because I often only follow her part way to the horse.

You can’t kid me that this counts as a walk. A walk is when she devotes her attention to me and I follow her. Walks are mostly along the beach and moving bulls. They used to include paddocks, but I’m now suspicious when she goes into the big paddock by the house because she might just be going to visit or catch the horse. Last week, I was suspicious as usual, then I realised my boss was off to gather mushrooms. I had to run to catch up.

Anyway, on this day she’d fed the horse and was walking home when this unearthly desire to play overcame me. It was as if I’d been taken over by the character of Jas the puppy who was standing nearby. I jumped, I lunged, I spun around and I dropped into that ingratiating solicit play position and begged my boss to play. She grinned and I thought she was going to laugh at me but she jumped and frisked and lunged and ruffled by furry neck and together we played in the paddock. Golly, it was fun.

For once Jas didn’t play at all. This silly and thrilling moment was just for me and my boss. Then the feeling passed and even though my boss patted me on the head and told me she loved me, it hasn’t happened since.

It was, I’ve decided, a moment that may never be repeated. Note my use of the word ‘may’. Once I’d have said never but now I’ve learned never to say never. Oh, perhaps I’ll amend that because I know myself too well – I’ve learned almost never to say never.

Your friend, Floss.

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I tried to ignore my boss’s skirt.

A Blog by my Dog.

Dear Readers,

My boss recently went on a cattle moving mission dressed like a real girlie girl – and being a female, I’m qualified to comment. Oh, the shame!

I was, of course, wildly excited when cattle broke through a fence and got onto the beach. Not only is this illegal, but they hardly ever get onto the beach these days because the farmer’s done miles of coastal fencing. Pity, because dealing with cattle kicking up sand is fantastic fun. They’re excited and a good stiff ocean breeze gets them even more worked up.

We were in the ute on the way to sorting out the bulls when my boss spotted the place where they’d broken out – although there was a clue: one bull with its foot caught in the wire was bucking and jumping.

The farmer dropped my boss Rae and me then drove on down the beach to get the rest of the cattle – and that’s when I noticed the boss’s skirt. I kid you not, she wore a flimsy, pretty wrap-around skirt. Full length. It was flapping all over the place. Cattle, as you know, only like people in jeans. I took off after the ute, figuring if I ran really fast I’d catch up and . . .

“Floss, come back here,” called the boss in the voice she uses when she knows I’m not inclined to listen. Damnation!

Turns out it’s also the voice I can’t help obeying. Why is that? If there’s a question in the universe I’d like answered, it’s that one. I slunk back, sat beside her and thought, ‘Why did you have to wear that dumb skirt?’

Pretty soon, the farmer was herding the cattle towards the boss who was holding a stick with one hand and the flapping skirt with the other. This wasn’t going to go well.

But the clever farmer urged the bulls off the beach and up the bank to the break-out spot – where they gathered in a muddled huddle. No way would they jump the single low wire into the paddock. Bulls are odd like that – happy to jump over a wire to get out, won’t do the reverse.

Meanwhile, the farmer moved quietly around the bulls which were all gaping at my boss and her skirt. I knew their attention was making her nervous.

“Stay there, bullies,” she called before yelling at the farmer, “I’m going to get the ute,” and took off at a gallop – or as much as a gallop as she could manage, what with the flying skirt and wearing gumboots. I followed. Couldn’t help myself.

After she got back and delivered a hammer and nails to the farmer, he lowered the troublesome wire and the bulls ambled into their paddock.

On the way home my boss’s words whistled past my super-sensitive ears: “Did the tangled bull free himself or did you do it?”

“I did,” said the farmer whose face had been twitching with amusement for some time (there was a lot to laugh at – my boss, her skirt, her nervy attitude, her ungainly gumbooted canter). “I wrestled it to the ground and unwrapped the wire. The judges gave me 9.5.”

I knew this was nonsense, but I don’t think my boss did because she just grinned and said nothing.

Yours truly, Floss

(Hope you enjoyed this – I do enjoy Floss’s point of view. I’d love it if you’d share this or comment here or on my Facebook page. Thanks.)

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Floss at Batley point, a favourite spot for fishing from the beach

It’s commonly thought dogs are banned from beaches because they frighten some people, fight amongst themselves and leave smelly poos.

But that’s not true – it’s because dogs are incompatible with fishing. They’re such greedy gutses they will nick your bait, hook, line but probably not your sinker and gobble down entire fish – including smelly old heads and bones.

When our fencer Tony was away it fell on me to walk his young dog, King, who adored fish including aged skeletons.  He was so cunning, he’d grab a disgusting, stinking fish then nimbly sidle away when I pursued him.

Once he even nicked a mullet out of someone’s bait bin when we were at the point where several people were fishing.  His audacity earned him instant forgiveness because he delighted everyone by lunging around proudly waving his catch in the air all the while munching away until the entire fish disappeared.

Another day he wasn’t quite so lucky.  He attempted to gobble some bait on a hook that had been carelessly left on the beach.  The hook caught in his lip and Murphy’s Law meant the Vet Centre was due to close any second. Luckily, I extracted the hook, but Rex wasn’t so lucky a few weeks later.  By the time he’d reached his dog Mo, she’d demolished bait on a hook that had been left lying around.

It was a Friday evening and Rex, figuring it was too late to do much, cut off the nylon line that dangled from Mo’s mouth and hoped for the best.  (He didn’t tell me this until after the happy ending because I’d have wanted to rush Mo to the vet which would have cost an even bigger fortune than it eventually did.)

First thing Monday Rex whisked Mo to the vet.  Two x-rays later, he learned the hook had proceeded on its merry way and was shortly due to be expelled. If he’d waited just one more hour, Mo would have done the crucial poo that carried the fish hook to safety.

Hot Dog Tip: When I thought my dog Floss had eaten paper staples, the vet advised me to feed her cottonwool balls dipped in wet dog or cat food, the concept being the staples would catch in the cottonwool and sail safely through her gut.

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Bulls stepping over a wire in the intensive grazing system

Farmers use special language to speak to dogs even though they – the dogs – can work things out themselves and understand conversational English. ‘The farmer’ appears to think dogs understand expletives and he uses terms like “Git away back” and “Git in behind” which I suspect are the farming equivalent of legalese which we all know is designed to make us feel out of the loop.

Rex’s dog Kate recently proved that she knows more than she lets on.

This year’s yearling bulls are in a grazing system that relies on hot wires – electrified tapes. To reach fresh grass, the cattle step over a wire which we drop onto the ground and lift up afterwards.

When young bulls are still figuring out the grazing system, mobs sometimes get mixed up and have to be returned to their mobs. All it takes is a power cut, a stray bull or, on one occasion, low-flying ducks.

While the farmer separates and sorts the bulls, I stand in the make-shift ‘gateway’, i.e. a gap in the fence, stepping aside at crucial moments to let bulls through.

During the last reshuffle I was in a mellow frame of mind and everything went so smoothly, the farmer said afterwards, “Well done. We’ll make a cattle handler of you yet.”

Soon afterwards, while he was way down the paddock, I had to coax some inexperienced bulls to make the daring step over the wire. Kate marked me like a rugby defender, moving as I walked forward, trotting ahead if a bull looked reluctant or threatened to head in the wrong direction.

She hadn’t been asked to do this – I don’t know how to ask a dog to do anything as smart as what Kate was doing – and only when she had overseen the last bull safely into its paddock did she gallop off.

Soon afterwards the farmer asked me to go and open a gate so he could move some sheep and that’s when my dog Floss and I found Kate a few hundred yards away chasing birds (a favourite pastime). She was supposed to be helping her boss.

Armed with the thrilling knowledge that I have potential as a cattle handler, I figured I’d try advanced dog handling. Flapping an arm in the direction of Rex, I said, “Kate, get back there and help Rex with some sheep.”

Kate’s bat ears perked up and, after a second’s indecision, she took off at a gallop. I’d take the credit, but you already know Kate’s the one with the brains.

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Dogs must get so exasperated with humans – we expect them to be obedient, but don’t take nearly enough notice of their instructions.

I’ve recently attended four human obedience classes and now know that when a dog acts in an unusual fashion I need to respond.

Lesson One happened when Kate, a smarter-than-average dog, rushed inside, circled the coffee table, danced about and raced outside.

I idly thought, “How odd.” I’d heard my father-in-law’s vehicle skid as he navigated our steep, rutted drive, but that was no surprise; it presents a challenge to all comers.

I peered down the drive but could see no problems. Boy, was I ever wrong.

A few minutes later said father-in-law arrives at the door. After planting his foot on the accelerator instead of the brake he’d rocketed off course, collected the front fence, narrowly missed a concrete strainer, and flown over the small seawall onto the beach. Luckily he only suffered a bruised hand and minor whiplash.

But I’d learned. The next night I was trimming the grapevine after dinner when Floss trotted across the garden to watch the pet lambs.

Leads, weeds: both posed problems for Mary Kate.

As she usually shows little interest in the pair, I idly thought, “How odd” – and followed her. Boy, was I ever right to do that.

Mary Kate had got tangled in her lead. She was suffocating and on the verge of expiration. I flew through the gate and quickly whipped off her lead.

The gasping lamb huffed and puffed for ages before she could stand up. Even though her paddock was quickly sheep-proofed, she became most suspicious of me.

Then, a few evenings later, Floss barked. Nothing unusual about that, except it wasn’t her, ‘humans are approaching’ bark nor was it her ‘pay me some attention’ yap.

I investigated. Yikes! Turns out it was her ‘forty or so escapee bulls are lunging around on the beach’ bark coupled with her ‘a nervous camper’s cowering in the doorway of the public toilet’ bark. We swung into action.

Then came fourth time lucky: We were on the beach when Kate stopped dead and assumed the transfixed stare that usually indicates an irritating seabird blithely floating just out of reach.

As there were no birds around, I looked harder. A pod of dolphins several hundred metres off shore was delivering a spectacular performance complete with leaps, flips and stylish dives.

It was high time a human obedience lesson yielded something good.

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If car chasing’s your game, allow me to recommend Batley. It’s car chasing heaven or so close to it, you won’t know the difference.

No more standing for hours by your garden gate only to have cars zoom by and leave you in the dust. Batley’s a dead end so your victims start slowly and you get a head start. Plus lots of them tow boats so they’re really slow off the mark.

I especially enjoy jumping round in front of cars and you can only do this if you pounce early. When she’s silly enough to let me off the lead at home in the hope I won’t run away, I duck down the drive when I hear a vehicle start. If she sees me leave I ignore her shrieks and go for it.

And man, can she shriek. One day the farmer, who I only follow when he’s on the quad, stopped dead and said: “That shrieking sound you make. Is it really necessary?

“Yes,” she said. “Sometimes it’s the only way to get Floss to listen.”

Listen! Has she not noticed that I curl up on the ground with my paws over my ears? We dogs have highly sensitive hearing.

I even ignore her when we’re walking on the road. Boy, does that send her into panic mode. The instant she hears a car she’ll call me like she’s some kind of sergeant major and, if I get close, she makes a wild lunge for my collar. Then she gives me the sit down command and holds onto me like I’ll explode. Sometimes she even puts that horrible choke chain on me for a while.

The fact is it’s a drag when she’s around. I can tell she’s annoyed when I chase cars because she yells and yells, “Come here, Floss” like a cracked record.

But here’s the kicker – when I finally run back to her she’s pleased with me cos I’ve just done what I’m told. Geddit? Man, have I got her sussed.

The post van is great to chase because it comes every day. Last year she put a note in the box for the post man warning him about Houdini lambs with no road sense (in my view they’ve got no sense of any kind) and this year she apologised for me even though I heard the mail guy say he likes dogs and doesn’t mind if I chase his truck. But still she gets her knickers in a knot. And she says I don’t listen!

Two weeks later:

You won’t believe this, but cars have started throwing out electric shocks. At least they’re not as bad as the ones I’ve got off fences. Man, have I had some doozies off fences. I guess all up only about half a dozen cars threw off shocks. They hit me on the neck and, frankly, they’ve made me reconsider the car chasing game.

At first I wondered if it was her, but when I’d run back to her after getting a shock she’d pat my head near this great big collar she puts on me sometimes and say, “Good dog”. Nope. Wasn’t her.

Now every time we’re on the road and I hear a car coming I sit down immediately. I get the feeling she’d prefer it if I didn’t sit in the middle of the road, but I’m still a bit fuzzy on that. So, yeah, I’ve given up chasing cars and, if you don’t mind, I’ll retract my earlier invitation. It’s just not worth the hassle.

Signed: Floss

PS: We get on better now I don’t chase cars even though I still go nutso over cars with dogs in them and she still bangs on at me for licking fresh cowpats. The farmer who I only follow etc also yells at me over that. What’s their problem? It’s processed grass . . . just like milk. One little lick and they’d be addicted.

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