Leading a Blonde Astray

Tarna

I took my dog for a walk this morn­ing. I snuck out the back way, through the bush and along the fire track. I was rather hop­ing to avoid Slater. Slater is the neigh­bour­hood vagabond. We live in a pic­turesque lit­tle enclave where most prop­er­ties ram­ble into each other with­out the con­cern of fences. This is not sen­si­ble sub­ur­bia, neatly fenced and gated where the neigh­bour­hood dogs are restricted to their allot­ted area. In spite of the gen­eral lack of con­fines, how­ever, most local dogs stay on their own turf and have no inter­est in roam­ing fur­ther than the post­box at the end of a rather long dri­ve­way. Slater has changed all that. He has marked the entire neigh­bour­hood as his own. Slater lifts his leg on every­thing within a ten mile radius of home. He has lifted his leg on my wash­ing, on the bar­beque and on my pot plants — even my husband’s undies on a dry­ing rack out the back have been ter­ri­to­ri­ally marked. He has chewed three pairs of children’s shoes and one of my own. He has been ban­ished sev­eral times — his own­ers have tied him up and severely admon­ished him, replaced chewed shoes and tied him up for good mea­sure. Slater, I’m afraid sim­ply chomps through the rope and with an ‘up yours’ atti­tude con­tin­ues his pur­suits unabated. This dog has no shame. He returns to the scene of past mis­de­meanours with­out a smidgen of guilt.

Slater, were he human, would hang his head in shame at the abuse that is hurled at him from far and wide. He would not dare show his face lest he be chased, ordered home again and told in no uncer­tain terms he was unwel­come.
But Slater is a love­able rogue. He appears to have decided that if looks alone are not going to get him places in life, char­ac­ter surely will.

Slater

Part wolf-hound, part bull terrier—he was blessed with the unfor­tu­nate albino genes of the bull-terrier rather than the more hand­some char­ac­ter­is­tics of the wolfhound. There is vague evi­dence of wolfhound in his lanky physique and the pro­nounced whiskers on his snout, but it ends there. His face has a per­ma­nent grin and he has one pink-rimmed eye on the albino side of his face. There is one redeem­ing fea­ture – a mot­ley brown patch over one eye that while appeal­ing in an Nguni cow sort of way, sim­ply adds to the gen­eral feel­ing he’s up to no good.
He has no man­ners at all. When he drinks from my dog’s water bowl he puts his entire snout in, rather like a pig, splash­ing water all over my freshly mopped veranda.
While I know there is no good in him at all, I can’t help lik­ing him. There’s some­thing appealing—enviable even, in the way he gal­lops through life. He doesn’t just embrace it, he chews on it.
All this would be good and well if he stayed home. But, I fear he is lead­ing my lady golden retriever Tarna astray.
In the early days, before Slater’s arrival, Tarna was beyond reproach. Our prop­erty isn’t fenced but Tarna kept watch at the front door, occa­sion­ally wan­der­ing into the bush or up the drive way to bark, in a lady-like fash­ion, at the post­man, plumber or who­ever turned up in our cul-de-sac. I prided myself on the fact that my beloved pooch knew her place—home was where her heart was. She was so well behaved and mature.
We went for scenic lit­tle walks—just the two of us—me like a smug mother of one who scorns other way­ward chil­dren.
And then along came Slater and with him, a whiff of scan­dal.
‘I saw your dog with Slater at the dam the other day,’ com­mented my neigh­bour one fine day.
I was aghast, surely not, must have been another dog.
‘No, it was def­i­nitely her—having a right old time, they were,’ she said.
Now the dam is not exactly around the cor­ner, it is, quite lit­er­ally, over the hill and far away. Far too far away for com­fort.
I made excuses, as dog own­ers in denial some­times do. I’d been away, the chil­dren were at school, she cer­tainly wouldn’t do it again. It was so out of char­ac­ter.
And this is where the story took a dark turn. Other com­ments from other neigh­bours con­firmed my worst fears. Tarna had been led astray by a mutt less than half her age. It was a dis­grace and she seemed to be enjoy­ing every deceit­ful moment.
She became like a puppy again – all pant­ing and play­ful when he was around. And worse, she appeared to be chas­ing him!
Some­times, she wasn’t even at home when I returned. She wasn’t faith­fully wait­ing at the front door like the lady she once was. She was with him!
We have tried coun­selling. Just this week my daugh­ter sat her down and had a frank dis­cus­sion. ‘Tarna,’ she said, ‘this is not going to end well, ‘he really is far too young – no more cavort­ing near the dam with dogs less than half your age, Ok?’
It’s hard to know if she listened—she sim­ply fixed her liq­uid brown eyes on my daughter’s face and lifted her paw. Was that ‘let’s shake on it’ or ‘I’m sorry, I just can’t give him up?’
I’m afraid I’m at my wit’s end. Where is it all head­ing? There is one small glim­mer of hope: That Slater will grow tired of his blonde, ador­ing neigh­bour and seek greener pas­tures.
I’m hop­ing those greener pas­tures will lead to Rosie. Rosie is a friend’s fox ter­rier who is soon mov­ing up the hill. Like all dogs of his ilk, per­haps Slater will charm some other sweet young thing. Until then, I have to attempt avoid­ance. I am a dis­mal fail­ure at it. I sneak through the long grass and Slater stalks after us. He endures my half-hearted attempt at throw­ing stones at him, order­ing him home, all the while skulk­ing closer until he knows all my resolve has gone and I’ve given up com­pletely. Tarna doesn’t help; she’s all pant­ing flirtatiousness—without an ounce of coy­ness, her blonde mane blow­ing in the breeze.
This morn­ing, He came with us on our walk—again. Or should I say, we went with him. He led the way as though he’d lived on this earth all his life. He lifted his leg on every dirt bin, tele­phone pole and gate post he came across. He chased a brush turkey and sized up a horse, stand­ing far too close to its back leg to have a good old sniff.
‘He’s not my dog,’ I explained to a dis­dain­ful passer-by.
She gave a tight lit­tle smile that said, ‘yeah right’ as the offender sidled up to me like a dot­ing, well loved pet.
I fear our rep­u­ta­tion is in tat­ters. Come soon, Rosie, come soon!

Copy­right © 2009 by Lois Nicholls