SUNDAY IN MEMORY LANE (Episode 36)

Rasta - the working dog

Communications between Rasta and I had developed from words and physical signals to mind reading. Interestingly, it seemed to work both ways!

Anyone who has worked with a dog will understand what I mean. I used to carry Rasta’s lead draped around my shoulders most of the time and only used it in very busy places like town centres, festivals and gigs. The lead was, to Rasta, a way of keeping me close to him, where he could guard me properly. It was not something to control him. From his point of view, I was the one under his control. As soon as I understood this, we became a terrific team and our body language communications were enhanced until one raised eye-brow between us was enough for us to link thoughts…. reliably.

That is the best way I can find to explain some of the things that Rasta and I pulled off together. Like the time he point blank refused to get into Matty’s car.

Matty, my lodger was the sweetest, yet most eccentric young man I have ever known. He was an insular character until you got to know him and then, as he opened up, it was apparent that there was no malice in that shining heart of gold. He had one massive fault. He was one of those guys (we all know at least one!) who thought life was a Grand Prix race and, unfortunately, his driving reflected his beliefs. After one very brief journey with Matty, Rasta drew the line. He was NOT going to be getting in any vehicle if Matty was driving. Absolutely resolute, Rasta was happy to play-fight with Matty in the garden, delighted to share our home with him, but would only ride shotgun if I was driving.

Upon noting Rasta’s opinion I asked to read Matty’s palm. This is not something I offer to do ever. It is an unwritten but strict taboo to offer such spiritual services. To be asked for a reading is quite another matter. Anyway, the first thing I saw on Matty’s hand was a life line cut to an abrupt end in the 25th year of life. It shook me. I froze. Do I tell him?

At the time Matty’s life was full to the brim. He was very busy at work, constantly on the road, driving from one customer to the next. In his spare time he was always in Harwich, working on his new house. He was very happy, planning to get married and he was not spending much time at our home. I decided to break the taboo and tell him what I saw on his palm. I tried to warn him, repeatedly, that his driving was too fast, too jerky. Rasta had already made his opinion abundantly clear.

Then it happened.

Matty was never seen again. He had collided with a very slow moving construction or farm vehicle at the crack of dawn on a fast stretch of a country road between Harwich and Clacton. He was decapitated.

The impact of this loss was immeasurable on all his friends. His poor parents bid farewell to their precious only child and his girlfriend inherited the Harwich house, totally paid for by Matty’s mortgage insurance policies. She was devastated and inconsolable. She had no experience in home restoration and Matty’s half finished projects were evident in every corner of the place. She couldn’t bear to be there. So it lay quiet and unloved for years after that. Clearing out his room was such a sad job for me, I gave her everything valuable and Matty’s parents collected a few mementos.

Rasta and I would visit Matty’s lovely grave whenever there was a Dog Warden job in the tiny Essex village of Great Bentley. Matty’s parents had buried him in the old churchyard alongside his ancestors there. It took me years to stop missing him.

The Dog Warden job was, for the most part, a breeze with Rasta. At the start of each working day, we would call into the office, where he would cuddle all the girlies and get fed goodies, while I processed any paperwork attached to the cases I was handling.

All lost dog reports that were received by the local council were passed to me either as a hand-written note, a text or a call to my mobile phone. Any other calls, such as reports of dogs wandering about alone or complaints about street-fouling came to me too. I also had to install dog-waste bins in areas where there was a persistent problem and nail up signs explaining which beaches were restricted during the summer months.

Fielding calls from panic stricken holiday-makers who had lost their dog was an exercise in the application of soothing psycho-therapy! I would explain that Rasta would find their precious dog very quickly. I would assure them that there was always a happy ending. I admit I loved that part of the job most. Giving a tired lost dog back to their distraught owners was invariably the moment that made all the hard work tolerable and Rasta would wag his tail and grin approvingly. He never failed to find them. It was so easy for him, once he got the scent.

In June of our first year of service as Dog Wardens we were celebrating Rasta’s third birthday. On his second birthday I had a special silver necklace made for him and he wore that for special occasions. I couldn’t think what to buy him for his third birthday. It so happened that we were putting posters up in all the pet shop windows, advertising dogs who needed to be re-homed. In one particular shop, I was chatting to the owner while Rasta wandered around sniffing all the merchandise. He disappeared out of my sight and I went to see what he was doing.

I found him laid flat on the ground with his nose very close to a cage containing two tiny kittens. The ginger tom kitten was squashing itself against the back of the cage, trying to be as far away from Rasta as he could get. The other kitten, a tortoiseshell female, was on her hind legs swiping, spitting and hissing at Rasta. Rasta was completely fascinated and smitten! He could not stop smiling and his tail thrashed about.

With Rasta bouncing at my heel, I went back to the checkout desk and the shopkeeper burst out laughing when Rasta jumped up to nose my purse. “He wants that kitten!” she giggled. Sure enough, he was heading back to the cage at the back of the shop. So, yeah…. you guessed it, I bought him the kitten for his birthday. I know. I am a pushover.

As soon as we got out of the shop, Rasta’s nose was glued to the cardboard box I was trying to carry home! He was overjoyed with his birthday gift and couldn’t wait for her to be put on the floor at home. The kitten was attempting to bite his face off and he totally adored her! It was hilarious to watch. She was smaller than his paw, but feisty like a tiger! She had his heart in her claws before that day was out and that was where it stayed every day for the rest of their lives.

I also decided to get some professional photos made of Rasta, around that time, and I am so glad I did that. Black dogs are very difficult to photograph and I have never been one for taking copious photos anyway.

I named the kitten Pearlie because she had blonde dots under her ears which looked just like pearl earrings against her otherwise dark mottled coat. She oozed confidence and quickly learned to use all the facilities including the cat-flap. She liked to cuddle up to Rasta in the evenings, but never wanted to be held by humans. I think that was beneath her dignity. She became royalty in our house, the rest of us were merely her servants and that was just as Pearlie liked it!

Rasta and I were out at work for most of the days. If we were not finding lost dogs or collecting strays we would patrol the favourite dog walking areas, talk to the local people, patrol the beach and respond to emergencies, like controlling a dog during a police forced entry when someone had died. Every day was different and there were no fixed hours.

Council policy for stray dogs was pretty strict. If a dog remained at the kennels for more than a month, we were expected to euthanise. This aspect of the local bye-laws worried me a lot, so if nobody had claimed the dog after seven days I always advertised them for adoption. I avoided putting a healthy dog down that way.

One very stormy day I was sheltering in a friend’s flat, over-looking the sea-front at Clacton. I saw a man struggling to drag an overweight white Labrador dog down one of the pathways to the beach. The rain was especially intense at that moment, so this appeared very odd to me. There was nobody else walking around, it was too cold and wet. When the rain eased off, Rasta and I ran down the pathway and quickly found the old dog, soaking wet and tied to a waste-bin. There was no sign of the man. With much effort, I was able to get him up to the road and once in my van, straight to the vet. This dog had very overgrown and curled nails, making walking very difficult for him. He was loaded with fleas too. After his health check, we dealt with the fleas and nails, the vet gave him some medication for arthritis and recommended a senior dog diet. I had to take him to the kennel, even though I knew that nobody would be coming to claim him.

Whenever I was at the kennel I would check on the dogs who were unclaimed, but this old boy needed more than that. I phoned the local paper and asked if they would run a feature on him. I named him Major. I explained that he was very elderly but had the sweetest and friendliest nature. I asked for someone to give him a loving home for his twilight years and no sooner did his photo appear in the weekly paper, than I heard from a large care home on the seafront, very close to where I had found Major. I took him along to meet the proprietor and residents. He was ideal for them and they were ideal for him!

Occasionally, whenever we were around that part of town, Rasta and I would visit Major and he was always so pleased to see us. He had lost some weight, been bathed and brushed to a gleaming whiteness and was freely roaming around the care home being loved and spoiled by all the residents. He could not have found a better home.

Of course, the job was not always sweetness and light. There were the occasional days when we had to deal with tragedy. Poverty in our community resulted in dogs being abandoned, especially if they were unwell. People loved their pets, but they simply could not afford the veterinary costs. I remember a Doberman who was tied to a lamp-post in the centre of town. He was tied tightly by the neck and was sitting down when I approached him. As I worked to loosen the length of chain, he stood up and that was when I saw a huge extremely sore looking growth immediately under his tail. That poor dog must have been in a lot of pain, but he silently waited so patiently while I disentangled him and then helped him into the van. The vet had no choice but to euthanise that dog immediately and I could not help but cry for him. He was beautiful and I cannot forget his eyes, trusting me as I held him until he breathed his last.

Every day had its ups and downs and sometimes I would be asked to assist the local RSPCA officer with a case. Jim was usually investigating puppy farms, hare-coursing, dog-fighting and cruelty. Occasionally I would transport a dog to the kennels if they were fit enough to be rehomed. One confiscated dog, a cross-breed who had a pit bull head, very short intense coat, but the colours and body shape of a German Shepherd, was acquired under suspicion of being trained for fighting. He needed to be observed before we could safely put him up for adoption.

I took this dog to our kennel and played with him outside for a short while. He seemed friendly enough, so I introduced him to Rasta. The scene turned into a blur of growling, battling, fur flying mayhem! Then they both laid down panting and grinning madly. Round two was just as crazy. Neither of them were injured, miraculously, so I sat down and let them continue with this until they were too exhausted for more. I named this incredibly brave battler of a dog ‘Big Ben’ and we took him out for exercise as often as we could. Ben was extremely competitive. If Rasta could do a thing, Ben would be determined to do it better.

At the end of the month, nobody had shown any interest in adopting Big Ben and, rather than have to sign him over to be euthanised, I paid his fees and took him home with us. That is when we discovered that Ben had never lived in a house before. He had never met a cat either, certainly not a feisty miss with murder mittens like Pearlie!

Ben raced up his learning curve, carefully copying everything Rasta showed him. It was an amazing thing to watch. The first time he followed us to the bathroom was hilarious. He jumped in shock, with all four feet off the ground simultaneously, when the toilet was flushed and he treated it with great suspicion for quite a while! Rasta taught Ben all the command words by example and they shared absolutely everything, even Pearlie, who accepted Ben provided that he obeyed her every whim. Ben loved Her Majesty, which was very handy.

Play-fighting was the favourite sport. I remember watching the dogs in the garden from the kitchen window and marvelling at their skills. They were about the same age and the friendship they formed was solid. They just loved to fight, but there seemed to be rules. If either of them yelped in pain there would be a brief break while they panted and grinned at each other until they were ready to resume where they had left off.

The first time we took Ben near water he was shaking with fear. It was a flat calm creek and, as was customary, I threw a stick out as far as I could and Rasta flung himself into the water to chase after it. Ben simply ran along the bank, barking in panic. He wanted to jump in, but fear was preventing him. After missing out on retrieving several sticks he lost his footing and tumbled into the deep water by accident. He had no choice, he began to swim and very quickly realised that swimming was great fun. After that, swimming became Ben’s new favourite game. It was not long before his ingrained competitive streak kicked in and he was beating Rasta to the sticks every time. I admired that about Ben. He surmounted every obstacle to be as accomplished as his friend and, in so doing, he pushed Rasta to strive for more strength and speed in all their endeavours. They were very good for each other.

Rasta slept alongside me on the pillow. Ben liked to tuck himself into the back of my knees and Pearlie would perch herself wherever she wanted, on or beside any one of us. As long as Pearlie was on top, she was happy.

When Pearlie was about two years old she suddenly looked very round in the belly and I realised that she was pregnant. I had seen a gorgeous, sleek black and white tuxedo cat hanging around and so I assumed that this was her boyfriend, potentially the father of the imminent kittens. One evening, she suddenly climbed onto my lap while I was watching television. She never sat on my lap normally, so I guessed that she was giving birth. Luckily, a friend was visiting at the time and I asked them to bring me a towel from the bathroom. I slipped the towel under Pearlie just in time to assist in delivering the first of four tiny kittens.

Pearlie was as good a mother as any cat I had ever seen before, but when the babies were only a couple of weeks old she developed cat flu and became very unwell. One by one, her little brood became congested and unable to feed. It was a tear-jerk couple of days while we endured them fading and dying. It was heart-breaking to gather their little bodies in a box and bury them in the garden, under the elderberry bush. Pearlie was still very weak, but she pulled through and recovered from that nasty flu eventually.

Within no time at all, she was pregnant again. The second litter was delivered on my lap, just like the first. This time there were six little wrigglers and I hoped that these would benefit from their mother’s newly acquired immunity to the flu. Sure enough, as the weeks went by, the little kittens grew steadily stronger and there was no sign of congestion or wheezing. There were two exactly like her, two tuxedos and two pale ginger toms who reminded me of Pearlie’s shy little brother in the pet shop. They were all beautiful and had a comfy bed in the bottom of a large cupboard in my dining room.

One evening, I spotted the father tuxedo cat sitting on my garden path waiting. Without disturbing Rasta and Ben, I quietly shut them in the lounge and opened the back door to allow the father cat access to visit his kittens. This became a regular thing for the next few weeks. Listening to them purring and ‘breeping’ at each other was a wonderful experience. They were very affectionate between themselves and their kittens. However, Pearlie was looking a bit too slim by this time and I did not want her to risk another pregnancy, so I arranged for her to be spayed when the kittens began to wean. I found out who the tuxedo cat belonged to and I went to inform the family. They came to see the kittens and helped me to find homes by telling all their friends. We had no trouble finding homes for all six of the little kittens and thankfully, Pearlie slowly regained her usual more rounded appearance.

It was around this time that the European Union introduced pet passports and a plan began to germinate in my mind.

My itchy feet were crying out for the freedom of a new travelling adventure and I wanted to give Rasta, Ben and Pearlie a taste of the wild life….. but this time I wanted to escape with no strings attached….. no unforeseen impediments dragging me back, kicking and screaming to Essex.