The Wannabe Pets

I like Animals, well most animals anyway.  Cats I can take or leave, but in general, animals are ok in my book. Hence I have always wanted a pet. Or lots of pets. But living a nomadic expat life kind of makes it difficult. Just as you form a bond with your animal buddy,  it’s time to move on and depending where you are heading, pets are not always portable. This means a painful goodbye after having found a good home for them.

None the less, I keep plugging away with the pet idea as I believe kids should have pets as a way of learning responsibility, especially expat kids. Often expat kids are rather spoiled and develop a skewed  view of life.  So having to care for something else should help them stay at least a little grounded. Unless they get the maid to look after the livestock. Which does happen.

In my ideal world, when the happy repatriation back to Scotland arrives,  we will have a veritable menagery. Wifey may have something to say about this,  but I reckon at least 3 dogs. Possibly chickens. The odd pig. Or two. And a few horses.  Could be risky as I haven’t always done well with pets, as I shall now describe.

The Wannabe Menagery

Growing up, the only pet I ever had was a goldfish won at a carnival. The poor creature was transported home in its little plastic baggy and transferred to a suitable container until the obligatory round glass bowl could be acquired.  It is said that fish have an extremely short memory. Just as well, living in a featureless glass bowl. I don’t think ours even had pebbles on the bottom or a small plastic plant. Just a plain empty glass bowl.

I felt somewhat cheated that I couldn’t have a dog I could take for walks and play with. Having a goldfish was not quite the same. I did get inventive though. What can I say. I was young and I am sure I am not the only kid in the world ever to do this. But, I thought it would be interesting to give my goldfish some exercise by stirring the water in the bowl.  I would get a big spoon and whizz it around the perimeter of the bowl.  I got some impressive speeds going. The poor fish would valiantly struggle to swim against the current and then finally give up and go whooshing around the bowl at a 100miles per hour. The fastest goldfish in captivity. Suffice to say it didn’t last long.

My sister had a goldfish too. Can’t remember what it was called. Jaws, or Plop or some such. Sis is a lot younger than I, but over the intervening years, fish husbandry in our house hadn’t improved so it also lived in a boring glass bowl.  I had a healthy disdain for this fish, but it did have a neat party piece.  It used to slap the surface of the water with its tail, splashing water onto the wall in the process. Every now and then, a distinct ‘Plop’. would be heard coming from its bowl and when investigated, traces of water would be seen slowly running down the wall. It lived on top of a rather heavy sideboard so there was never any question of moving the sideboard to mop up the water, only the bits that could be easily got at.  One day after a particularly loud splash, Plop-Jaws had gone. No where to be seen. It was a mystery.  A mystery that is until several years later, when we moved house.  Upon finally moving the sideboard, we discovered one very shriveled gold fish up against the skirting board beneath it.  No one believed Plop-Jaws could have squeezed down the crack between the unit and the wall, but oh yes he could. Obviously the boredom finally got to him and he committed fishy  suicide. Who knew all that splashing was actually a cry for help.

Being the younger sibling; as any older brother or sister will tell you, younger Sis had it much easier than me.  The family attitude towards pets had relaxed over the years,  so as well as PlopJawfish, Sis had a rabbit.  Tim the rabbit.  I will always remember Tim the rabbit.  He hated me.

Tim wasn’t the nice happy go lucky bunny you might expect. Oh no.  If you are of a certain age, you may remember a film called Monty Python and the Holy Grail.  There is a scene where the questing knights encounter a cave guarded by a cute white bunny rabbit.  Thinking this innocent looking fluffy bunny offered no threat, the knights move to enter the cave only to be attacked by the snarling monster. The result is blood, gore, decapitation and the application of the Holy Handgrenade. The point being, Tim was, I believe, the inspiration for the killer guard rabbit.

Monty Pythons Killer Rabbit of Carrbannog as played by Tim

No kidding, if I went into the garden whilst Tim was out grazing, he would literally growl at me then proceed to chase me, gnawing on my foot and trying to dig a hole in my leg with his powerful front claws.  And he was a big rabbit. I didn’t know rabbits could growl.  He didn’t like me and I wasn’t overly fond of him. No idea what it was I had done to quite offend him so much. He was all sweetness and light with everyone else. It was just me.   As I say, not that good with animals.

At University, I had a pet hamster. Hammy. He was entertaining at least.  He would scuttle around my room and his party piece was to climb the curtains, his little furry face appearing at the top, before he absailed down to run off and hide in his cage.  It didn’t last. One night, whilst at the top of the curtains, he tried a swan  dive into my cup of tea. It was a brave effort, but he missed.  We held a touching funeral for him the next day.

Hammy the flying hamster

Hamsters in particular tended not to do well or last long around me. For example:

I was living in an apartment in Newcastle after graduating and was working for a local chemical company.  On an impulse I had bought another hamster, this one called Hammy II.  (Not good with animal names either. ) Not as suicidal as Hammy I, he seemed  happy enough in his cage, occasionally venturing out for a run in his hamster ball and looked set for a long and happy life.  Then one Saturday night, I remember I had been playing tennis, then gone to the pub and retired quite late, a little worse for wear.  I was awoken in the wee small hours by a strange noise.  There were a few drunken revellers walking past the apartment at the time, so I put being awoken down to them.  As I tried to drift off again, there was the weird noise again?  Kind of crackling, hissing noise. Being summer it was quite light outside by this time, around 4.30am, so I decided to get up and wander through to the house to see if I could spot the source of the noises. Nothing in the lounge. Through to the dining room where Hammy II lived. Hmm. A weird mist floating towards the top of the rather high ceilinged room. The light bulb had popped and shards of glass were lying on the carpet. Ah ha, thought I.  Bear in mind, very late, hung-over and half asleep.  Obviously the light bulb had popped causing the carpet to smoulder hence the Smokey mist in the room??? Yes, I know, ridiculous but the best my feeble mind could come up with to explain what i was seeing at the time.  I wandered through to the kitchen, got a glass of water. Poured half over the remains of the lightbulb and went back to bed.

Couple of minutes later,  a tiny thought was niggling away at the back of  my mind. My explanation really didn’t make any sense. Back out of bed, back into the dining room. A lot more smoke and it was bloody hot in there. Oh dear.  Back to the bedroom, clothes on and outside  where I proceeded to flag down a fortuitously passing police car. Having initially assured me they were, ‘not a taxi mate’, I explained the situation and a couple of very skeptical policemen looked first at me. Bedraggled, half dressed and obviously hung over.  Then at the apartment. Nothing obviously wrong there, then at each other. Eventually one got out the squad car and went to investigate for himself. With a last withering look at me, he wandered inside and up the stairs. A few seconds later he came charging out wth a cry of ‘Bloody hell the place is on fire.”

After a  frantic radio message and some ten minutes or so, half the fire appliances in the NE of England seemed to congregate outside the apartment.  I had tried to get back into the place before they arrived to rescue Hammy II, but the police had dragged me out coughing and spluttering before I could get him.  I told the firemen as soon as they arrived about poor old Hammy II’s plight and off they went.    Hence I was sat on the steps of a fire engine with an oxygen mask, still coughing when a fire man appeared with Hammy clutched in his hand.  He didn’t look well. “He’s dead” I said. “ No he’ll be fine” said the fireman and proceeded to take the oxygen away from me and stick the mask over Hammy II. He fitted in it quite well as I remember.  After a few minutes of this, the fire guy agreed. “Yup, he’s dead. Sorry. “ And so ended Hammy II.

RIP Hammy

After Hammy II came Hammy III,  (Ashyxiated by paint fumes after I decorated the room he lived in), Hammy IV, (Drowned in a cup of tea whilst I was on the phone – long story that one. Just take my word for it.)  And Hammy V (escaped and, I like to think, went on to lead a long and fruitful life in the surrounding fields and woodlands. ). At this stage I gave up on pets, hamsters in particular.

Many years have passed since I halted my extermination of hamsters.  In the intervening years there have been more pets. But expat life and pets don’t always mix well, so often these have been brief affairs.  For example…..

After my very first expat assignment to Tunisia, I was moved to Scotland for the first time, so beginning the Scottish love affair.   We were living in Milltimber in Aberdeen and looked set to be there for some time. We had 2 offspring at the time, both quite young so I decided they needed a dog.  Of course this was to be a surprise so I went alone to the dog pound and selected a puppy, Jake I think I called him. No idea what flavor he was. Just a mut probably, but he was cute and had all his shots.  After stopping off to pick up a dog bed, bowl, leash and collar, I arrived home, bristling with pride and the new pup.

Didn’t go well. Wifey was horrified and after the initial kiddy delight, they ended up terrified of the beast as he had very sharp puppy teeth and wasn’t afraid to use them. Of course, his peeing and crapping everywhere didn’t help. Almost every inch of floor space got covered in news paper, but he still managed to find the one bit that wasn’t covered when he performed. Under daughters bed seemed to be his favorite spot, despite his never going there any other time.   I think he was actually a very good dog in the making, I was just a terrible and largely clueless owner. As it happened, I got moved to Paris and doggy couldn’t come so Jake went to a far better home.

Young Jake made a big impression

A few years later after a few more international assignments, I found myself working back in Aberdeen and living out in the sticks near Aboyne. There was an excellent stables nearby and so I got into riding big time and ended up buying some horses.  I got a huge 17+ hands Shire thoroughbred cross. Grately Gattling Good Time Girl, or Time as we called her. She was a beautiful horse, bold as they come and would jump anything. I really like horses and she had a great character. I used to thoroughly enjoy riding her out over the rolling Scottish hills on the Glentanner estate for hours and hours.  I also did it properly and learned about horse husbandry, well the basics at least as the stables did most of the caring for her.

No. 1 daughter also got into riding and was keen on having her own pony.  So one Christmas, with the help and advice of the stables manager, I acquired a wonderful little Exmoor pony called Toby.  He was another bold little horse, but was perhaps a bit too much of a handful for an inexperienced little girl.  The weather over that particular Christmas was awful, so the horses were all stabled up for weeks.  I did ask for Toby to be well exercised before Daughter had her first ride out on him.  Sadly something must have gotten lost in translation. On the big day when we were all going to go for a ride, Toby was in hyper drive after not having been out for weeks.  He bucked daughter off as soon as she got on him, reared several times with her onboard and proceeded to gallop off around the training ring with a terrified little girl hanging on for dear life.  After that she was not so much wary of him, as petrified.  I used to go and watch her riding lessons and she would be sitting on him in floods of tears quaking in fear.  So, Toby had to go to a more experienced owner.

We almost got another couple of horses. Crystal, a grey mare who lived up to the grey’s reputation of being evil. She would bite and kick anyone she didn’t like. Which was most people. Unusually,  I could do what I liked with her, but no one else would go near her.  And Saracen. Saracen belonged to one of the riding instructors. A beautiful warmblood, he was described as a school master.  Not really.  I rode him a few times and he was exciting but a handful. Wifey tried him and got thrown a few times. I finally went off the idea after seeing his owner at full gallop crossing a field, standing in the stirrups and heaving on the reigns whilst shouting ‘Stop you evil bas…d’.  Probably wouldn’t have been a wise investment.

Inevitably, I got moved again. This time to Jakarta in Indonesia which effectively put paid to my horse ownership. I tried riding in Indonesia but it wasn’t the same. Too hot and the very game little ponies were rather small to the extent my feet were almost dragging on the ground. I still like horses and we have had a few horsey experiences since then. Riding around the pyramids in Egypt should have been an amazing experience, but i was terrified the badly kept old nags might collapse and die at any moment. They were in a shocking condition and we passed the remains of a few unfortunate horses that hadn’t made it. I guess animal welfare is not a terribly well regulated area in Egypt. If you ever visit, there used to be a few stables near the pyramids that did look after their horses. They cost a little more, but I recommend you find them, rather than go with the first tout that comes along. That was our mistake.

On another occasion, whilst living in Wales on assignment with BHP from Melbourne (being moved to N Wales from Australia was a shock to the system, I can tell you, ) we got a couple of dogs. Bonnie and Clyde. Bonnie was a collie, a rescue dog and had the hardest head I have ever known. Probably just as well, as some evil swine had beaten her about the head with a rock and abandoned her, bloodied, on a moor where she was fortunate to be rescued and nursed back to health. When we got her, she was very wary of people and hadn’t a clue what toys were for. Her first real toy was a ball and oh how she loved that ball. We could literally spend all day throwing the ball for her and she would never get bored. If you didn’t immeadiately throw it for her, she would pick it up and plonk it closer to you, eventually dropping it into your lap (if sitting down) or feet (if standing). She proved to be a very faithful dog but didn’t like being left alone. So we got another rescue dog to keep her company. His name was actually Ambrose. Ambrose? Really? We renamed him Clyde for obvious reasons and he was a big, daft, Labrador cross. He reminded us of a beach bum and took to wearing colorful bandana’s. He seemed pretty stupid but wasn’t as daft as he made out. He liked to fetch ball too, but he would let Bonnie do all the hard work, racing down a hill to get the ball, then he would mug her as she got back to the top of the hill, happily running the last few feet himself with ball in mouth. They were a great pair. Sadly I was moved to Egypt and they couldn’t come, so we had to rehouse them. Bonnie went to a nice lady in the village where we were living and is adored. Clyde went to a young family by the coast where he truly did become a beach bum, spending his days running around the seaside. So at least we know they are happy and well loved.

One of the nicer experiences with pets occurred when Wifey bought me a gun dog during our last stay in Scotland.  2011, I believe it was. We were living at Crathie near Ballater at the time. It is a beautiful part of the world and we were renting a beautiful old house in the middle of nowhere, whilst looking for a more permanent residence.   Being in such a rural environment, I was getting well into my shooting.  I ingratiated myself with the local gamekeepers on the nearby Balmoral estate, getting invited to a few clay shoots and, he said modestly, acquitting myself reasonably well.   I had also joined a shooting syndicate near Tarland and as we became  more established, I was starting to receive a few invitations to shoot adjoining estates.   I was in my element. And so Wifey hatched her cunning doggy plan.

When we lived in Wales, we made friends with a wonderful family, the Fords.  David, Kelly and their son Lyndon.  They run the internationally renowned Kelford  Dog Training Centre,  with a reputation for solving canine behavioral problems they are, frankly, the doggy people of choice to the rich and famous.  Being lovely people and being partly responsible for getting me into shooting and fishing in the first place, wifey pressed them into service to help  select a good dog for me.  It was all very cloak and dagger and I was completely in the dark.    Eventually,  we all drove down to Wales, ostensibly just to visit David and Kelly or so I thought.  The day we were due to drive back home, a big song and dance was made about going to look at some farm where a family were breeding black labradors and I absolutely had to go too. Whilst a bit surprised, I didn’t mind, as I like dogs and lab’s in particular.  When we got there I had a feeling there was something going on and then all was revealed.  I was handed a beautiful black Labrador puppy whom was called Purdy. She was gorgeous and after trying to lick my nose off, promptly fell asleep in my arms. I was hooked. So Purdy accompanied us home to Scotland.  It was a long and as it turned out, particularly messy journey, but I didn’t mind in the slightest.

Purdy was meant to be a working dog and I was given strict instructions on her training and how she should be handled.  She was to be kept in her crate when not training, not overly fussed over,  not allowed in the main house and definitely not allowed on the furniture. That didn’t last more than, oooh,  never. She was far too cute.  She was a bright dog, she learned things very quickly, especially how to manipulate me, she didn’t mind guns going bang and would happily sit to heel until I let her go. We were a good team.

Purdy

Inevitably, I got moved. This time to Doha in Qatar. I was very attached to Purdy. After a lot of soul searching, we decided it would be cruel to take a black lab; used to ranging over the rolling green hills and valleys around Balmoral, off to a hot deserty country. So the difficult decision was taken to leave her behind.

On the positive side, we had become friends with a retired gamekeeper called Johnnie who is an amazing gentleman. A former WW2 Spitfire pilot, Johnnie had been a gamekeeper on the Balmoral estate for many, many years. Now retired, he had not long lost his wife and also his dogs, so lived alone.

Jonnie, despite being in his 90’s is one of the fittest guys I know. I first met him after some trees came down in our garden. He drove up a day or so later and asked if he could take them away and turn them into logs for me. He didn’t want anything for this, it was a neighborly thing to do and he fancied the exercise. It was just a few days later he reappeared with a huge trailer piled high with logs. I helped him unload the lot and was soon puffing and panting whilst he was still going strong. To thank him we invited him to join us for Sunday lunch. I thoroughly enjoyed chatting to Jonnie and hearing his tales from the estate and from his days in the RAF and we soon became friends. As a retired gamekeeper of over 50 years, Jonnie knows a thing or two about gun dogs. He would offer advice on Purdy’s training and was very fond of her and she of him. Hence, when the time came for us to leave the country, it seemed an obvious solution that he might like to look after her for us. He agreed and the pair of them are now inseparable. They still walk miles and Purdy is a very happy as well as a very lucky dog. I miss Purdy, but I am content to know she has a very caring home in a beautiful part of the world. As for Jonnie, I think he will outlive me but one day, I would love to capture all of his stories and write them down. Honestly, you couldn’t make this stuff up.

In Abu Dhabi we had a brief dalliance with Tropical fish. Can’t go wrong with tropical fish I thought. Wrong. It was extremely stressful. The little swines would die at the drop of a hat. I bought a vast array of chemical tests to check that the water was perfect for them, got every supplement recommended for healthy fish, kept the tank pristine, monitored the temperature to within 0.1 of a degree. And they still died. Bloody things. I would obsess over them, fretting even in the pub, worrying in case another one curled up its fins. Which they invariably did, leading to another round of fruitless investigation. Eventually I had to sell the lot before they killed me.

We also got another hamster. Fluffy. (I didn’t name this one. ) This was Daughter no, 2’s hamster and he was a very cute and very resilient wee beast. He actually lasted years. Far longer than all of my previous hamsters combined. We had a moving funeral for him when he eventually pegged it, earlier this year. He is buried in the flower bed opposite our garden and was a very good little hamster.

Fluffy the Wonder Hamster

Now, back to our current pets. Snuggles and Squeak.

Squeak with chum Snuggles enjong a night watching tv

Our huge, fluffy cat, Squeak, was acquired whilst we were in Egypt.  He is massive.  Ironically, given I don’t particularly like cats, Squeak has been a feature in our lives for over 11 years now. He has travelled with us from Egypt to Jakarta, Jakarta to Scotland, Scotland to Qatar and from Qatar to the UAE.  That cat has cost me a fortune. Years ago, I suggested we should have him stuffed and mounted so that he could go as part of our furniture shipment.  Would have saved us thousands, but no, he is still with us and will doubtless survive long enough to see Scotland again.  The story of how we got Squeak is one for another day as its rather long winded and this is long enough. Suffice to say he is a very vocal cat, especially when food is around and drives me demented.

Snuggles is a new arrival. Snuggles was bought for No 2 daughter as a birthday present.  He has some ways to go to catch up with Squeak in the airmiles, but has already travelled from Scotland, where we got him last summer, to the UAE.  Snuggles is a character. A little dog with a big personality.  He is a West Highland Terrier crossed with a Schnauser, so No. 2 daughter calls him a Wowser. I like that. I don’t usually like little dogs, but he has won me over. He is like a Westie on stilts and he and I have walked miles around the Green Community here in Dubai.  I don’t think there is a tree, bush or lamppost that hasn’t enjoyed his tender ministrations. Honestly, that dog spends an inordinate amount of time on three legs, the fourth cocked against a suitable target.   I look forward to getting him home to Scotland so he can christen the many trees there, he will be in his element.

So over the years we seem to have gotten better with Pets.  I like the current crop, even Squeak and seem to have discovered how to keep them alive.  I do look forward to having them, plus a few others, in our home in Scotland one day.  I know Snuggles will be happy as he misses his ‘cousin’ Fidgit, daughter No. 1’s Dog. Snuggles and he were roomies whilst he was waiting for his flight to the UAE and both got on very well.  As for Squeak, he wasn’t keen on the Scottish  climate during his last stay and after one brief outside excursion, spent his entire time in Scotland in front of the fire. I’m sure he’ll grow to love it and it will be fun finding out.