Crofty Takes the P*ss

Our dog is old. He remains small, cute and loveable, but is in equal measures smelly and increasingly infirm. The vet thinks he might have Cushings disease which, dissapointingly, is nothing to do with him turning into a vampire. To start the process of confirming the diagnosis he needs a urine test - our excellent vet Ian won't do a blood test until he has ruled out some of the cheaper-to-discover other things; this is one of the things I like about our vet, he won't rip you off.

On the way out of the surgery Ian hands me a small vial and cheerily says, "Just drop it off at the surgery when you've got the sample." That is all he says. He doesn't offer handy suggestions on 'piss gathering in dogs whose little todger is barely four inches from the floor.'

So, attempt number one. First thing Saturday morning I open the patio doors. Max, always eager for that blissful morning release we all enjoy, approaches the pot containing Clematis Nelly Moser. As he cocks his leg I am there ready and poised with a plastic breakfast bowl; but Max is too good for me. As I dive beneath him with the bowl he looks back startled (sorry I forgot to mention he is deaf as a post too). He stops peeing and trots on giving me a look of bafflement. There then starts a game of 'Dad chasing Max armed with a plastic breakfast bowl' around the patio - only I tire of the game fairly rapidly saying "Bollocks to it then". Of course as soon as I have uttered the fateful words, Max releases a gusing flow that must have lasted about thirty seconds, all of the time eyeing me and the bowl with suspicion.

Still, I have a plan: Max always pees on plastic carrier bags whenever he sees one on our walk. He also has a sense of humour and pees on anything placed temporarily outside to be returned indoors later - meaning I must wash it thoroughly. He particularly likes to pee on houseplants put outside for watering.

Here is the plan: I stand a house plant on a carrier bag so the pee will run onto the bag and I can tip it in the vial. Sure enough he approaches the plant and cocks his leg peeing beautifully up the side of the pot. The piss myseriously seeps away into some sort of pissy black hole - it is nowhere to be seen, let alone poured.

I sulk and wonder whether this is the sort of amusing anecdote that vets talk about, "Do you know what I told one of our clients today...next time I'm going to tell him to tape a bag over it, that'll be worth a laugh..."

So, Saturday afternoon Mrs C and I adopt a cooperative approach. He always behaves for his mum; so Mrs C takes him on the lead to a nearby park; we take him in the car because he doesn't walk far now. She sets off walking, I lurk behind, stalking with the plastic dish. He approaches a post, lifts his little leggy and releases a stream which I catch in the plastic bowl succesfully.

We congratulate ourselves for the succesful piss collection and then look up to see anxious parents guiding their tots away from the playground apperatus nearest the fence where we were gloating over our specimin.

Anyway, by that time the vet was shut so we proudly stored our little piss-pot in the fridge next to the skimmed milk...where you could hardly tell the difference (that little aside was for anyone on a diet, like me).

So now we wait for Ian the Vet's call for the next stage.

Our Dog: Not Big and Not Clever

I've wrote about Max, our West Highland White Terrier, before; but this weekend I've been musing on the downward passage of life we must all eventually take and couldn't help but think that his age is starting to show. Not least when his instinct overcomes his ability. Take, for example his propensity for chasing aeroplanes; we live on the inbound flight path to Manchester Airport; a lot of planes fly over our house and Max takes exception to every single one of them. The sad thing is that I understand why this habit has persisted despite our every intervention. It's quite simple doggy psychology really: he sees the intruding plane; barks at it and chases it; it goes away - success that reinforces itself every time. Today though, he was awoken from his slumber by an invading plane and his head didn't come around quite as quickly as his legs so, as he chased it up the steps he tripped, banging his chin and dazing himself - not that that stopped him. It was a chink in his otherwise solid canine armour.

I know how he feels - not long ago I saw an officer of the law chasing a young rapscallion and pulled over in the car to help. Instinctively I sprinted after the thieving urchin only to be pulled up breathless and clutching my strained groin 100 yards on - the urchin glanced back, slowed and strolled on insouciantly - a chink in my already creaking armour.

I think that Max and I should stick to our strengths - as I'm writing I'm about to prod him with my toe to see if I can wake him to go to bed. I bet I struggle to wake him and I bet neither of us stop trying to do things that we really ought not.

Are Pets Really Like Their Owners?

Browsing previous blog posts I realised that there is a member of our clan I have written little about. Our dog Max is very much a member of the Crofty team and indeed contributed greatly to our week away in the Lake District. It's perhaps relevant to my not mentioning him that, as I write, I wonder whether you will reflect with a wry smile - those of you that know me- that Max is rather like me. I am not so sure - he is Mrs C's dog, without a doubt. She is the one he adores and bends over backwards to please; I, on the other hand, am sometimes useful for walks, food and entertainment when all other options have first been exhausted.

All that said, he is an endearing little chap - a West Highland White Terrier, or Westie, as they are popularly known; but I do rather tire of people pointing out to me how cute he is. I am often stopped in the street by old ladies or primary school age girls to point out this fact. Max grins up at me as they pet and fuss him; the look he gives me tells me that he is laughing up his sleeve as I ponder on the fact that people really can not see the obvious factors in his breeding that belie the truth. It's there in the name: terrier; the same name that when attached to the words 'Staffordshire Bull' strike fear into those same cute loving folk - but the dogs are essentially from the same mould.

This explains why I am always pulling him out of situations that he throws himself into with careless abandon: flying, teeth bared, at much larger dogs for instance. It also explains why he is so stubborn and wilful - dog obedience for Max consists of doing only approximately what is asked, unless it is Mrs C doing the asking of course when he becomes pathetically eager to please. I on the other hand, must repeat my request five times in an increasingly loud voice. Similarly - and I do hope my neighbours read this, Max's breeding might explain some of my odder moments to them - if on setting out for a walk I stride out in the wrong direction, he simply sits down and waits for me to change direction to the one in which he wants to go. I, of course, refuse to be cowed by the dog (if you know what I mean) and will stand there arms folded until he loses patience and comes with me, this also, sometimes, involves a conversation between us. To date, in the eleven years we have had him, I have won on a very small number of times by dragging him after me up the street, claws scraping on the tarmac of the footpath. It isn't worth it - he still wins in the end.

A final breed feature worth mentioning is that, without being unkind, he is not very bright. An example of this was when in a popular outdoor shop in Keswick last week, shoppers turned and stared to see him square up to a much larger dog sat in the store. They were nose-to-nose, motionless waiting for the first move upon which fur would fly. What Max was not alive to was that, as he growled intently, people were laughing at him. Why? Because the dog he was squared up to was simply a life size stuffed toy placed there to encourage donations to the local Mountain Rescue Team. Bless.

Here is a five second video clip of him on my knee, on a boat trip on Lake Derwent. It is only five seconds long because he tried to leap from my knee over the side of the boat to catch drops of water thrown by the bow wave and was most put out when I stopped him.

He is cute though.