A post-modern ironic sort of Spot

I passed. I passed. It's as good as getting your "O" levels with an A*++ whatever.

A kindly lady came and interviewed me and looked at the house and garden. Explained about Here and There. That'll be okay as long as you don't move the furniture around. Hmmmm... well not often. And I don't explain about the building projects there. She checks out that I'm relaxed about the mess of having a dog. Well possibly, I have had some experience ...


And we can always look for continuing development on fox poo, chicken poo, badger poo and wonderful red mud from Bruce



Unlike a phone call to another rescue, she didn't feel the need to make a snarky comment and, in fact, seemed to think that I would be just right for him. Thank heavens she didn't want to go upstairs since I'm not sure that she would be convinced that white cotton bed linen goes well with border collies.

A quick phone call to the rescue centre and we're on. Booked. Collect on Friday evening. Worked flat out all day so I didn't have time to think about it and then left the office with palpitations. M25 on a Friday night is not a good place to be. Apparently there was an accident at Junction 18 meaning they had closed it between 17 and 19. And the queue goes from Junction 10 to 17. But that's clockwise and I'm going anti-clockwise. But the queue going clockwise of rubber-neckers is from the M11 through to Junction 17. And so the stop-start queue going anti-clockwise is from Junction 8. It seems that everyone going clockwise is queuing to get past an accident and everyone going anti-clockwise is queueing to look at it. At least I won't get done for speeding. Arrive on time, just.

He's "watching" everything. Listening, sniffing. Not sure about me at all. I'm so shocked when I see his back. He's shaved from just below his shoulders to his tail. A sort of tonsure. Just below his shoulders is a huge puncture mark and across his rump are criss-crosses of gouges and claw marks. It's all healing but it makes me flinch to see it and tears prick my eyes. I can hear my mother's voice telling me not to stare. The women with rickets, the polio boys in calipers, the FLKs. "If you don't stop staring, young lady, there'll be trouble". I reckon that we're in for a lot of staring in the next few weeks. He crouches by a wall, feeling the security of an edge.

Spot has been a much loved pet so he won't have the uncertainty of an abused dog. The injuries are shocking but he has settled well in the rescue here. He has very mature cataracts and can see very little. I reckon that he's going to be a combined Bella / Mossie in terms of care needs.




Dinner, a walk. He falls over the plant pots in the garden and I just keep him out of the just-about-to-bloom-really-rather-expensive tulips. He sits neatly in the kitchen watching me cooking my dinner. By 10, we're both ready for bed. Thankfully he shows no interest in coming up the stairs and I settle him in the kitchen for the night. At 1am I hear him snuffling at the front door so let him out for a quick pee. Then we both settle back down and the next thing I know it's morning. I can't hear him and hurl out of bed to go downstairs to check him out. Except, I don't need to go downstairs since there he is, on the landing, fast asleep.

We spend the day walking and learning going downstairs. In the morning, he finds the Bella step on the turn on the stairs and settles down there to sleep while I'm tidying up.



Thanks, Bella. He's a bit big and paws dangle over the edge.



When I'm in the shower, he pokes his head round the doorway and puts the front two paws in but is not coming any further. When I come out, he's gone downstairs on his own and is sitting by the front door. Thanks, Mossie. I'm not going to work today.



But there are no spots, unless you count the tiny white tip on his tail.