My Beautiful Ruby

Ruby Beagle is the canine love of my life. It’s true, even Dog Rock Gods have a weakness, and Ruby Beagle is mine. Which is not to say that I don’t absolutely adore our other puppies, Bubble and Gizmo, I do. And I’ve loved other dogs in my visit to this earth, Misty, Cooper, Ziggy, even Sparky who hated me because he previously held the position of my mother’s baby. And of course I love (most of) the dogs we walk. But Ruby is it for me.

After 10 years of a previous relationship, I finally talked my way into a dog – clearly a career as a salesperson would have been a mistake. Much better Dog Rock God.

OK. So having received permission, what sort of dog? Beagles have always looked cute. Get the Trading Post. There’s one just near where I work. Pop out and get her at lunchtime. Two to choose from. I pick the shy one and instantly know that her name is Ruby. Because, of course, no-one has ever named their dog, Ruby.

I show her off to everyone, cuddle her to bits and pieces, get her home and discover the poor little bugger has fleas and ear mites and I hadn’t even noticed the bent over tail which snooty beagle breeders later frowned on as a gay tail. Any being who is frowned on for anything gay immediately rockets in my estimation.

But back to the early days, She was as cute as cute could be. I’d take her on her walks and, after a short time she’d just flop down on the pavement, apparently exhausted. After a minute or so, she’d build up a big batch of energy and take off like a crazy thing, pulling and pulling on the lead until she tired again and did her puppy flop. During one such a pause, a well meaning women with a genuinely sympathetic tone enquired, “Is that your first beagle?”

Soon her meaning became apparent, but as we’re here to hail Ruby, I will just tell you that in her early years she ate a whole couch and caused the entire Balmain first grade rugby league team to mock me as I did laps of Rozelle hospital grounds, trying to cojole her to come back to me. Every time I passed them, they echoed me in a girly voice calling “Ruby, Ruby”. Schmucks.

We survived these early adventures and our bond grew to titanium strength when the ex walked out on us. Us! One day, said ex came to have a pretend civil discussion and proceeded to coo over now one year old Ruby who quickly turned on her paws, jumped on my lap, and stared down the infidel, not a smile in sight. That’s my girl!

Surviving that little episode, us single girls met the new, and improved, love of our life and a meeting was proposed between my Ruby and Meredith’s Great Danes, Ziggy and Cooper. Never one to be intimidated, the gorgeous Ruby raced straight into the house of this woman I was desperate to impress, and I mean raced, and pooed on Cooper’s bed. And I mean pooed.

Somehow Meredith’s eyes were still full of love goo and she overlooked our little indiscretion. The early days were a little rocky between my dog love and my human love. At one point I clearly remember one of them saying, no, make that shouting, “It’s either you or me Ruby”. From another room I do recall thinking that might not be a threat I can accommodate. I think the said threatener may have realised too, because things calmed down markedly after that. From then on she became our Ruby.

Fast forward to now. Ruby is 12 and a half – born July 24, 1997, possibly in a puppy brothel, certainly in Taree. She has been having a few neck problems, bit of a creaky back, and a lovely vet named Richard has been looking after her. On her second last visit Meredith requested that her anal glands be squeezed – super ick – because she’d been licking the area recently. Lots of stuff came out and he suggested she might have a bit of an infection. Routine follow up on Thursday, his jolly conversation suddenly gets a little serious as he has his finger up her bum. I know he does this sort of thing for a living so I know it isn’t a sudden distaste for his chosen career. No. Ruby seems to have a lump. Should I bring her back in a couple of weeks to see if it goes down? No. Get her straight to a specialist.

Next day, lovely Dr Katya Voss – how are these specialists so young? – confirms, very gently, that in all likelihood this is a cancer. My world is spinning now as I seem to understand that I need to hope that it hasn’t spread to the lymphs but if it has it can stay there for a long time before it inevitably goes to her – my beautiful Ruby’s beautiful lungs. No.

Just no.

The life expectancy of a beagle is 12 to 15 years. I want 15. Hell, I want 30!

We go back to Sydney Uni vet hospital tomorrow, me and my gorgeous Ruby who doesn’t seem sick at all, and she has a day of tests.

They’ve given me a long document to sign that tells me basically that I must cough up the dough before they will lay a finger on her and, if I don’t, they really don’t want to know about her. Also. In another really long passage, any mistakes they might accidentally commit upon this absolute dog love of my life, you guessed it …. not liable. I don’t want liable. I want mistake free, I want my 15 years. Let me be clear though, the vets have been wonderful, caring people. I'm merely protesting at the role the lawyers and the dodgy people of this world have played in throwing trust out the window.

Having said that, perhaps they will sign something to say they will do everything in their power to make her well. I know Dr Katya will, but why am I the only one who has to sign? It would also say that they will cuddle her all the time while she’s there, unless of course, she doesn’t want them to, and then they’ll stop. Additionally, they should handle her very gently, not put their fingers near her mouth because she doesn’t like that, make sure she gets neither too hot nor too cold, reassure her regularly that I will be back to pick her up as soon as they call me, give her as many treats as she wants when the procedures are through, make sure she gets taken for wees and poos so she doesn’t get uncomfortable, and grant her the last three years of her life. Please.

UPDATE:
Having sought a million reassurances that they would give her plenty of love, I sent Ruby off for her tests and, guess what? Clear lungs, clear lymphs, and a most excellent chance that the big lump is nothing but a big lump of fat in a very odd place. I have those!!! Yay. Yay. Yay. Going for 15 years and beyond ... thanks Dr Katya!

Just Add Water

Dogs and Water. Water and Dogs.

On a scorching summer’s day, it is vital to ensure that the dogs in our pack have plenty of water available. There’s a tap and a bowl on our walking route – that should take care of any thirst, right? Sure unless you’re Dixie and Babooti, who can’t possibly drink out of any bowl another dog may have used. Heavens no. Doesn’t matter how hot it is, we need to make sure we have an alternate method of getting them to drink. Babooti requires her own portable bowl while Dixie, strangely enough, is happy to drink from any water laying around on the ground.

Even in the driest of weather, Centennial Park has water laying about, primarily in the form of a swamp, right smack bang in the middle of where we walk. Most dogs have no interest it unless it’s very hot. The athletes (ball dogs) however, need to run to the swamp in between throws to replenish their fluids and cool their undercarriages. No amount of stern “NO!” will dissuade them. We’ve tried. So on a perfectly fine day there is the odd dog who may well go home muddy. Some people see this as a sign that their dog had a great time. This we encourage. Some don’t. And that’s unfortunate.

Golden and Labrador retrievers will always lie in any puddle of water they can find. It’s in their blood, which incidentally must be like ice, given that they will indulge this passion even in the dead of winter.

Which brings us to the recent torrential rains. Aaah the glamour of dogwalking. When it’s outrageously heavy, most dogs bound out of the car, get struck by the fact that it’s pelting down in the park just like it was in their backyard – who knew? – and quickly turn around and head straight back for the comparative luxury of the dog bus. Most dogs that is. But when it’s bucketing down like that and the majority have quickly come to their senses, you can always guarantee there’ll be at least one waterbaby, standing there in the downpour, tapping their feet, and giving you the “I’ve paid for this” look. A quick negotiation will usually have them back in the vehicle waiting for it to clear with the rest of us.

For the most part though, dogs like a bit of a play in light rain or, even better, immediately after. The smells that come out of the ground seem to be something particularly fascinationg immediately after rain. And the fresh water is such fun to splash through and flop in. After the weekend rains everybody had the best time. Even 10 year old Gordon Setter, Monty, danced like a two year old.

Unfortunately, the biggest fans of pelting through the water and mud at speed are our white fluffies: Jemima, Buttons, and Josie. Design fault. Josie outdid herself on Monday (see pic above) and was forced to suffer the indignity of being publicly bathed under the aforementioned tap. Next we ran her through the long grass to dry her off – theory being it’s a little like those carwash thingies. She returned home looking almost freshly washed. Almost.

All great fun but spare a thought for Dixie and Ruby Watson who both really can’t cope with the rain and its’ after effects. A lady should never have to get her paws wet. Never.

One Wish

Before we took over this business, someone we privately considered quite bonkers said to us: “Be careful. Every dog walker I know is totally mad”. Unsure whether this was the pot calling the kettle black or simply the pot assuming everyone was a kettle, we ploughed ahead. After six and a half years of walking dogs, I have to note that I am no more insane than I was teaching high school but I do consider dogs to be some of the best beings around. Further, and this is where it gets a little scary, if granted one wish (OK, and all the nice poor people and sick people were already healthy and rich), I would choose to spend a day as a dog.

Settle.

When you spend so much time with a different being, a whole bunch of questions start nagging away. And assumptions of so called experts really start to get up your nose. There seems to be an understanding that dogs are somehow less than us, that they are roughly the equivalent of a two year old child and no more. Rubbish. Why can’t humans think that maybe there are different kinds of intelligences and capabilities that may far exceed our own.

Simple case in point: I could find a whole bunch of dogs who could run the 100 metres faster than that Bolt guy. Yet the Olympic champion is feted for not being able to run as fast as many a dog.

This is just one experience I’d love to have during my day as a dog. I’d run fast and play lots and jump many times my own height, just to know what that feels like. I’d also cleverly navigate the world without hands and wag my tail furiously.

Then I’d check out what my vision of the world would be if I was less than, say, 30 centimetres tall. Would I just see a less than stunning array of knees? And I’d get to know if my eyesight really is my least adequate sense and if I see in colour and what that spectrum is like. I’d get to know what I actually see and think as I watch my people incessantly for cues that I can figure out.

And here’s the real kicker, the thing I’d really love to know: if I don’t have words, how do I think? If I think: “ooh it’s about dinner time” and I don’t have the words, “ooh it’s about dinner time”, then what do I think?

Which brings me to the next fascination, how do I know what time it is and what day? Because dogs do know these things. Dogs we walk will wait at the door on Tuesdays and Thursdays if they’re the only days they come out with us. On the other days they don’t wait. How does that work?

How will I know when my person is five minutes away in the car? Is it my amazing sense of smell? And what is it like to have a sense of smell like that? When my person comes home and I sniff them all over, what am I smelling? Is it like a story of the day? Does the ground have a history of every dog that has been past and can I recognise whether or not I would like each dog just from this scent.

Here comes the difficult bit. Some humans who proclaim to know about these things say that when a dog sniffs the bum of another that they get all manner of information, ranging from age and sex to understanding of their position in the hierarchy. OK, so as a human I don’t ever want to sniff a dog’s, or any other creatures’, bum, but dogs don’t seem to mind and I would really like to understand how this information is conveyed. And again, how do they register it without words?

And then, when my day is over, I’d want to be sure to remember it all so I could retain a better understanding of these gorgeous creatures.

But then again, I imagine the experience of their purity of emotion, simplicity of existence, and enduring curiosity, may not so easily be left behind.

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.

Beautiful Angus

Sad news this week. After 17 and 1/2 years on the planet, the most gorgeous of Border Collies, Angus, has left us. His Mum called us with the news and explained how in the end he had become totally deaf and blind as well as incontinent. She knew it was time and made the trip we all dread to his lifelong vet. She spent a half hour with him before it was time, talking about all the great experiences he'd had in his life. We were included in that and feel very privileged to have been such an important part in the life of a most beautiful dog.

Angus was with us from the very start. I remember our first day of walking a pack and there were three black and white border collies. They all looked so alike to us, naive new pack leaders. How would we ever tell the difference? Of course they all had their own personalities and Angus' was pure heart. Every morning he would be waiting for us at his gate - where are they? where are they? Open the gate and straight out, a quick wee in the lane so as not to disgrace himself, then into the van to greet the others.

On the walks we always felt that Angus was somehow looking after us. He was a brilliant ballcatcher, loving to play, but he'd also be always aware of his responsibilities, rounding up the stragglers - come on, we're all a pack together, do your bit! It always felt safe with Angus there.

He did have one little special quirk, not shared by any other dog we've met. He loved a little white fluffy dog. Not just to look at, or cuddle up to. No, he saw a new little white fluffy coming his way and he felt an overwhelming need to round up the unsuspecting little fluffball - come on little thing, this way, this way, over here, now there you go, through the imaginary chute. We figured he saw them as little sheep and his genetics just kicked in.

Sometimes his Mum would go away and he would come to stay. Our dogs were all thrilled when Angus arrived, like some sort of God had deigned to join them. Socksy, our cat, on the other hand, would be most amused because he knew that for the duration of his stay, Angus would try to befriend him. This gave Socksy the much coveted opportunity to mess with the mind of a dog. It always went the same way. Angus would stare from a distance. Socksy would grant him a glance. Encouraged, Angus would move closer. Socksy would do that thing with his fur where it ripples up and down his back. Angus would take this as a sign, and move closer. Socksy would look him directly in the eye, get up, and turn his back before settling down facing in the other direction. Angus would sigh gratefully. This would go on for hours, days.

I remember the first day we became aware that something was wrong. We never had to worry about Angus on the walks, he was always rounding up the pack, checking what dangers or fun lay ahead, reporting on the others. Sure his legs had gotten a little wobbly and he needed help into the dog bus, but he still performed his duties with distinction. Then one day he was well behind the pack. We called him and while he heard the voice he could no longer tell which direction it came from, nor, it seemed, could he see too far ahead. He responded to the call by running to catch up with us, but entirely in the wrong direction. Our hearts broke. Our beautiful Angus was getting old.

From that day on, we reversed the roles of him looking after us and made a priority of looking out for him.

We are eternally grateful to have had this wonderful dog as a part of our lives. May he rest/play/round up the pack in peace and joy. We miss you Angus.

The Delight of Dogwalking

Starting to get a little concerned that this dogwalking stuff all sounds like a joyous piece of cake. The dogs themselves are a delight, the people we walk for are a delight, but there is the occasional moment that is anything but … a delight. Try this:

It’s a Tuesday, the start of a busy day. Mitzi is a Miniature Schnauzer. She has the unfortunate combination of the most delicate stomach known to dog and a predilection for eating poo. For this, of course, she has made Baci her role model. Aware that Baci has a better nose for finding freshly arrived poo or recently dead animal, she follows her around like a canine acolyte.

On this particular morning her tracking of the naughty Labrador pays off. She scores some poo. Ick.

Already I think you know where I’m heading with this but stick with it, because it may be even worse than you’re imagining.

Between the first walk and the second, there is dropping off of dogs and picking up of others. We would prefer that they get a bus to the park and meet us there but this has proved an unpopular concept thus far.

Mitzi is still in the dog bus, waiting to be dropped off. I go up to get Dixie and Sadie from their apartment, leaving Mitzi on the front seat next to Bichon Frise (a small white fluffy), Babooti. Back to our transport, I get Dixie and Sadie in and take my seat, ready for the next pickup.

Suddenly the stench hits. I look down. Great gobs of sticky, runny, Mitzi nutrition (regurgitated dog poo for those of you not following) all over Babooti, the cloth seat - say it again – cloth seat, and running down the side to the part under the seat from which nothing is ever recoverable – nice design there Mr Volkswagen.

Slightly agitated, I pickup Mitzi, lovingly, and gently deposit her in the back of the van, WHERE SHE SHOULD HAVE VOMITED IN THE FIRST PLACE … if she had ACCIDENTALLY eaten poo … WHICH SHE SHOULD NEVER HAVE DONE. Fullstop.

This gentle action of depositing her in the rear of the vehicle somehow causes runny regurgitated stinking dog poo to further find its way into my lap, onto my phone, and onto my hands. Too awful.

I know really really bad things happen to people in their lives but I truly believe this is the Everest of ick. I scream. I get out of the car. I look around. I’m the adult here. This really sucks. I cry. None of these actions cause the sticky runny regurgitated poo to clean itself up off the seat of the car, Babooti, under the seat, my phone, or me.

I contemplate calling 000 like those crazy Americans who call 911 because their Big Mac lacks special sauce. But I couldn’t possibly do that … my phone is covered in the unspeakable. I’m going to have to be a grown up. Gingerly I go to the back of the dog bus and find a towel. I start with myself but only serve to smear it further on my clothes. I contemplate throwing myself on the ground. Fortunately I realise this would only serve to draw attention to myself and pretty soon people would notice I'm covered in excrement that has spent time in the stomach of a schnauzer. Bad idea.

Another idea. You can clean the phone, go on, you can do that much. And I do. Horror everywhere but at least the phone is clean and now I am able to do the only thing I know how to do. I call Meredith. Help.

And she drives across town and saves me.

New Puppies!

Two new puppies have joined Critter Club. One is the most handsome, Indie who started with us one whole week ago. On his first day: ick I will not get into the car with you even though you smell like a dog and thus could be fun. Wolf in sheep's clothing and all that.

Indie's Mum and Dad told us that Indie will love to walk with us but really doesn't go much on other dogs. But of course we are the Dog Rock Gods and we do make magic happen. Today, just one short week later (miracles always happen in short weeks), Indie not only jumped enthusiastically into the car but played like a crazy boy for the entire hour walk with Olive the Staffy. Good huh?

Today we introduced a brand new puppy to the group. Despite our well placed bravado we were a little trepidacious because this particular pup is a Labrador from the House of Baci. Baci's individual Critter Club page tells you a little of what you need to know about her but trust us, there will be plenty more Baci features on this very blog before our time is up. In short - because this really is meant to be about her new sister - Baci is the naughtiest dog we walk - currently or ever. Fortunately for Baci she is also loveable, but enough about her. This is about her new Chocolate sister, Daisy.

We've known Daisy for five or six weeks now. While we waited for her to have her final shots, we'd go pick up Baci every day and little Daisy would be waiting at the gate with her. We'd pick Daisy up and take her over to the Dog Bus, let her look inside, give her a cuddle, then put her back behind the gate.

At last, today is different for little Daisy. This time the gate opens and a lead is paced on her collar and she follows Baci to her transport. Open the door and in jumps Baci with Daisy quickly looking up at the human to see what to do. With encouragement, she pops in and scurries immediately to the back to sit next to her big sister. Paws up if you're surprised Baci sits at the back of the bus.

Once at the park, Daisy is last out of the bus, firmly on her lead. The first walk is always on a lead no matter how good the dog appears. And puppies take quite a while to be allowed to roam free. Into the park and Daisy is so excited she doesn't know where to look first. So she looks to Baci. Unfortunately at this very moment Baci is engaged in one of her favourite past times. PLEASE STOP READING FOR A FEW LINES IF YOU HAVE EATEN OR INTEND TO EAT WITHIN A THREE HOUR PERIOD. As Daisy looks to her big sister she sees Baci rush to the back end of Tilly, mouth open facing up, hoping to catch the poo Tilly is producing before it hits the ground. Think Homer Simpson under a beer tap.

We turn the innocent head away and encourage her to sniff the grass to get an understanding of the dog wonderland that is Centennial Park. Heaven. Daisy attempts to sniff every blade of grass in the park. Gradually she looks up and starts to interact with other dogs. This is great!

We're so impressed with her alert responsiveness that we try to call her between us - first a metre away and then further. We get all the way up to five metres on her very first day. What a clever little dog. We praise her lavishly, "good girl, good Daisy" and who should come running over for a congratulatory pat? You guessed it, Big Sister Baci.

On the journey home, Daisy runs into her first piece of bad news. Dogs who are big or who will grow big, are not allowed on the front seat of the car. The politics of the front seat is quite the area of discussion at Critter Club and a blog on that very topic is bound to follow. Daisy simply cannot understand how masses of praise do not lead to an invitation to join the Dog Rock God in the front of the car. But being a smart little girl, she gets the message, and curls up with the others in the back.

Once home, a big kiss and cuddle - for Daisy, we do not share kisses with Baci, ironic isn't it? - and then in to rest to prepare for tomorrow's big adventure. We can't wait.

2010 - it begins ...

The first day back walking after the Christmas break is like a regular Monday on steroids – no, we don’t take steroids, just look at us for heaven’s sake. No, the regular ‘why aren’t I rich, why do I have to work for a meagre living?’ Monday feeling is amplified.

Mongrel alarm goes off and the bad news begins. It is no longer a day off. There is work to be done. Dogs to be walked.

Out of bed ridiculously early because the dog rock gods have to walk their own dogs before the actual work of dog walking begins. Ruby, Bubble, and Gizmo cope with our hurrumphing around Sydney Park, groaning about how ridiculously quickly that ‘holiday’ went. We hurrumph a little too long and suddenly we’re late. Great.

Rush rush. Fortunately there’s not too much traffic on the roads because all those other bastards are still on holiday. Not us. Our holiday is over. Serious grump.

And then, and this is going to sound pathetic but its true so the cynics need stop reading now, because, yes I’m going to say it, the magic begins.

First stop, Monty and Buttons' house. Still groaning, out of the car and … engage.

Bark bark bark bark bark. That would be – you’re late and oh, by the way, where have you been for the past ten, yes ten, days? Always complaining. Fumble for the key, the barking intensifies, gate flies open, and there they are: two of the biggest smiles you ever did see. Hello hello, how are you, good to see you.

Rush to the Dog Bus, and once inside, licks, and cuddles, and vastly wagging tails, and sheer delight. The scenario is repeated at every stop of the day. Nothing is more delightful than the unadulterated joy of a dog. And this is pretty much what greets us at every house, every day that we walk.

Terrible job. So sad the holiday is over.

Play Ball

Dogs love nothing more than to play with a ball right? If you answered yes, you’re either a novice around dogs or you have a Border Collie. The correct answer is … some dogs live to play ball, some dogs love to see a ball being thrown around, and others, like Jemima Maltese x, Babooti Bichon, Dixie Special Girl, and Ruby Watson Cairn Terrier see it this way:

“She throws the ball. You run a million miles an hour to get it. You rush back and present it to her. She throws it away again. And you chase it? You’re kidding right?”

Steadfastly ignoring the disdain of these naysayers, Critter Club has a virtual rugby team of ball-chasing talent. And, like a rugby team, there are many positions to be filled by all creatures great and small.

But first, lets examine the game itself and the equipment needed. Equipment, you laugh. Read up, junior.

We Dog Rock Gods see many a debutante dogwalker pick up the ball and throw it as far as they can, pick up the ball and throw it as far as they can, over and over again. In a straight line no less. Where’s the art? Where’s the finesse? Where’s the fun? The skill?

Rocks, stones, hills, trees, and tree roots were invented for a reason: to make playing ball interesting. The skilled ball thrower learns to ricochet the ball off these helpful tools so the ball catching dog need not only be fast but agile, alert, and aware.

This is where the most vital piece of equipment comes in, the ball itself. And truly, there is only one. It must be light so as not to damage nature’s tools, and it must bounce like billyo. The ball? Spalding’s High Bounce Ball. There is no other.

Now to the team. Essentially there are the High Performance Players, the Supporters, and the One-Offs.

The Supporters are a unique bunch. In our team they are Spikey Cairn Terrier, Snowie Westie, and Twiggy Manchester Terrier. Their role is to bark like crazy at the Dog Rock God until the ball is thrown. They then run like crazy after the ball – all looks normal so far – but when they get to it they refuse absolutely to pick the thing up.

“What? Put that in my mouth? I don’t think so.”

Fortunately for them, one of the A team always swoops in, gathers the ball, and rushes it back to the Dogwalker Extraordinaire, allowing them to bark like crazy in support of the elite athlete carrying the ball.

Twiggy has her own little twist on her supporter schtick. While the A Team have their eagle eyes trained on the about-to-be-released ball, Twiggy chooses one to stand behind, usually superstar Bebe Groodle, and pokes them continually with her pointy little nose, as though looking for the on button which will start the chase again.

This brings us to the One-Offs, all of whom have their own little quirks. They’re basically dogs that are more interested in the ball itself than the game. This manifests itself in various ways. Baci (“Marley’s got nothing on me”) Labrador likes to grab the ball and run with it so no-one can play the chasing the ball game. She likes them to play the chasing Baci game. Fortunately she’s a bit of a wimp so as soon as one of the elite wrap their mouth around hers, she quickly surrenders the ball.

Little Charlie Cavoodle would love to be a member of the big team but he really only has his training wheels on at the moment, so if ever he has a chance to snaffle the ball he just lays on the ground and chews it, much to the chagrin of the big kids.

Perhaps the smallest dog in the pack is Sadie Terrier. Not often, maybe once every two months or so, Sadie thinks it would be hysterical if she stole the ball. Somehow she manages to grab it and steadfastly refuses to give it up. The sight of this tiny little thing with her mouth opened as wide as it will go in order to accommodate the said ball, being frantically followed by a pack of big dogs, while refusing to give it up point blank, is something to behold.

And finally, the oddest one-off of them all is Buttons Maltese x Shihtzu. The Dog Rock Gods must be very careful that Buttons does not get hold of the ball at any time during the walk because he feels – no, he knows – that it is his responsibility to return the ball to the car. We can be at the furthest point from the start of our walk and, if Buttons is allowed to swoop on the ball, it is not only game over but walk over. What follows is a little white fluffy busily moving all four legs for all he’s worth followed by up to ten other dogs and a couple of humans trying to persuade him that it will be OK to leave the ball out of the car for just a little longer.

We now arrive at the A Team, the jocks, the elite athletes, the friends of John Coates. The stars are Harry German Shorthaired Pointer, Jennifer Labradoodle, Tilly Boxer, Toast Boxer, and the champion of the world, Bebe Groodle. Each has their idiosyncrasies:
Harry likes to give the ball a thorough chewing before he gives it back so it is clearly marked with his slobber. Tilly and Jennifer both like to prance in circles, heads held high, “how clever am I?” Toast prefers to have the ball kicked rather than thrown because he has his eye on Mark Schwartzer’s position for South Africa 2010 and needs all the practice he can get. Toast’s goalkeeping approach is particularly frustrating for all other participants as the more successful he is in stopping the ball, the less chase they have.

This leaves the wonder that is Bebe. Athletic, balletic, fast, agile, smart. In short, superior all round. If we happen to come without a ball, Bebe gets her nose to work and finds one that some poor schmuck has left behind. Once in play, Bebe can outsprint, outjump, and outmanoeuvre every other dog. Every time. She is one of the few dogs who can follow a ball in the air, anticipate how it will bounce, know where it will land. She is Ronaldo, Nadal, Jordan (not Woods) all wrapped up in one. She is our megastar. Want to challenge us anyone? Bring it on!

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!

Welcome

Welcome to our brand new communication to all proud Critter Club members and their people. At least once a week, but hopefully more often, we'll post true stories here about all things weird, woeful, and wonderful that happen on our walks in Centennial Park. We'd like to thank you all for being Critter Club members. We're in the very fortunate position of not having a single client, dog or human, that we don't love working with. How lucky are we?

We've been doing this for six years now and we become very attached to all puppies great and small who walk with us. So, in our very first post, we'd like to remember those wonderful dogs who are now romping around in heaven:
Ziggy Great Dane, Cooper Great Dane, Loki Great Dane, Lucy Terrier, Waldo Bitsa, Chloe Boxer, Max German Shepherd, Max Doberman, Sasha Doberman, Buddy Labradoodle, Bridie GSP, Maeve GSP, Chester King Charles, Charlie King Charles, and Billie Saluki.
We've also lost one human in that time, Marlene Snider, a truly beautiful woman. Our thoughts are with all of them.

That's the hard part of what we do. But there's plenty of great stuff and we intend to share it with you right here forever more.

Enjoy!