Get well soon Jemima

Sometimes the world can be a little difficult to figure, even for Dog Rock Gods like us. We got a call on the weekend from one of the world’s truly wonderful people, Libby, to let us know that the beautiful, cheeky, happy, gorgeous, marvellous little munckin Jemima had been through a most dreadful trauma. During the previous evening Jemima had started out a little on the quiet side then progressed to full on shaking and finally couldn’t move her back legs. All in very quick time.

Jemima and the Family Fabulous (and they truly are) all rush off to Sydney Uni vet hospital from where they are steered to the one at North Ryde where all sorts of specialists hover with scalpels and anaesthesia and surgeon outfits. These very important people find that this little tiny ball of love has four or five slipped discs and set about meticulously securing them back to her spine from which they never should have strayed.

The washup is that one of the absolute delights of our days is in hospital on happy drugs for the rest of the week and then will need at least eight weeks of restricted movement in a little cot. Not that we’re counting, but when you add the weekend before it happened and the week in hospital, that will be 68 days or, even worse, one thousand six hundred and thirty two hours without seeing Jemima and all of her wonderful entourage. We are very sad. As are many of our Critter Clubbers who have asked us to translate and convey their messages here:

Josie: Dear Jemima, I hope you get well soon. I miss sharing the front seat with you and I promise I will work hard to keep all the other ones from your spot.

Twiggy: Ouch. That’s bad. Miss you. Get back soon. Please. We need you in our group. Charlie is sad.

Buttons: White fluffies together!

Sadie: If you don’t hurry back who will I snuggle up to on the front seat? Think about it Jemima. It’s not always all about you.

Toast: Come on kid. Chin up. I’m just down the road if ya need anything.

Bebe: I know I always complained when you took my ball and I know this is where I should say I actually kinda liked it but I didn’t but I do really like you and I hope you feel very better soon.

Bello: Dear Jemima, you are one of the really nice ones. Please get well soon.

Spikey: Who’s going to beat me to the ball if you don’t? I like to chase it but I like it when you pick it up because I think it tastes a bit yukky.

Charlie: Dear Jemima. I should have said this a long time ago but I was scared. I know what I feel for you is unnatural. I know that. Boys are supposed to like boys like my dads and girls are supposed to like girls like the Dog Rock God and Dog Saint Meredith but I love YOU Jemima. I love you. And I miss you. And I would do anything to make you well. Love Charlie.

The Politics of the Front Seat

The true joy of dogwalking is the dogs. The ick of dogwalking is the driving to pick up said dogs. Sydney traffic, aaaaaaargh. Other Sydney drivers, double aaaaaaaaaaargh.

Sometimes, when we’re running through the process of the walks as mindless conversation with, say, an osteopath who must have studied at least something a little bit difficult to qualify to have you semi-naked face down, cracking that most vulnerable of body parts, your spine, sometimes they say “Oh, do you pick the dogs up?”

At this we pause. Wait for the penny to drop. It doesn’t so, aware of the power of the questioner, we ever so gently say, “We do. We’ve tried suggesting that they all catch a bus to the park but the idea has failed to gain traction.”

So yes. We drive. A lot. But there is one fascinating aspect that all but relieves the tedium of the drive and that is the race to get the best spot in the car. Or, as we like to call it, the politics of the front seat.

For some Critter Clubbers, there is no more desireable place than the front passenger seat. Harbourfront real estate. On the early run, it is owned by Buttons. Occasionally he allows Ruby Watson to share but he lets her know when she’s not welcome and, head down, she slumps to the back to see if anyone will talk to her there. One day each week Buttons goes on the second walk because the cleaners are scared of him – check his picture out on our Dogs page. On this day Buttons faces stiff opposition for his customary position. The second walk provides the fiercest competition of all. It is not pretty, not a place for wimps. His solution is not to compete but to sit on the brake lever between the seats and cuddle up under my arm. Never beaten.

First walk on Fridays and Otto has the seat all to himself. Don’t tell the others.

The reigning champ of the second session is the adorable Jemima. What is it with these little white fluffies? Her nearest competition is the seriously cuddleable Josie. They do, of course, both fit on the seat, but next to the backrest gazing lovingly at the driver is the prime spot. Yep, it’s a tough gig.

Josie accepts that Jemima gets the best spot because she was there first, but not all dogs get it so easily. Enter Babooti, Twiggy, Sadie, Bello, and Rex. Each of them tries to cling to the remaining area of the seat. Bello manages it with grace. Sadie growls at Babooti who growls back, all tough but not an ounce of fight in them. Now Twiggy notices that if she pokes Sadie with her nose she will growl. When she stops poking, the growling stops. So she does it again. Just like playing with a toy. At this Rex feels very uncomfortable, makes his excuses, and departs for the back.

If they all get a little squishy for Jemima she explodes (and clearly means it) and Sadie flies onto the floor, only to land on her sister Dixie, who lets fly with so many dog expletives that even the driver’s face turns a shade of tomato.

Make no mistake, the top of the pile has been won fairly and squarely by munchkin Jemima. New dogs Daisy and Indie have both tried their luck and been sent packing to the back, where interdog diplomacy is a much more relaxed affair.

Once Jemima has left the Critter Club to rule her home for the rest of the day, Ruby and Roger make their way from the back, very politely, to have a turn.

The only other given is the dog who would never fight for the front seat but who waits patiently for her opportunity to play driver. Olympic equivalent athlete Bebe just loves to sit in the driver’s seat when dogs are being escorted into their homes. Anyone going past sees a giant black groodle sitting proudly behind the wheel of the parked car, looking straight ahead determinedly, waiting for her opportunity to finally drive. What they don’t see or know is that the high level of ball activity in which she has just partaken has caused her to go and lie in the swamp to cool down. As the driver returns to the vehicle, Bebe returns to the back, the driver sits down and aaaaaaaaaaargh. Wet bum. Delightful. So yes, we do drive them to the park.

Jemima and The "Musician"

We're bounding along in the park, our usual happy selves, when we hear this sound. It is the sound of someone kicked out of their very own home, the sound of a poor misguided soul practising the saxaphone. Don't get me wrong, there is no sexier instrument than the saxaphone, played well. As one might imagine though, the skill level of someone sent to the park to practise their instrument does not tend to be in the higher range.

So we're all walking along, coping with the discord, all that is, except Jemima, the smallest of the pack. As soon as she becomes aware that her regular sounds of breeze in trees and carolling cockatoos have been disrupted, the little munchkin sprints forth to find the offender and howl him down. By the time we all catch up, the poor confused would-be saxophonist has downed his instrument and is staring in disbelief at this angry ball of fluff.

Job done, we move on. Sadsax starts again. I look at Jemima, she looks at me. There's a decision to be made here and I believe she makes the right one. She moves toward me and climbs up my leg. This signals her need for a consoling cuddle. Dutifully I pick her up and begin to snuggle her little head into my neck. But no. No, this is not what she wants. She struggles, forging her little body ever higher until she is virtually standing on my shoulders. And now she fills those little lungs with more warm air than global warming has ever produced and she lets loose. Screaming abuse at the misguided musician, right next to my ear. She didn't want a cuddle at all, she just needed height!