by Nikki Attree
Nobody’s Poodle
Copyright © 2013 Nikki and Richard Attree
All rights reserved.
www.nobodyspoodle.com
ISBN-13:978-1481912990
ISBN-10:1481912992
eBook ISBN: 978-1-63003-057-5
Contents
Chapter One: The Dog Bowl of Life
Chapter Two: An Out-of-Botty Experience
Chapter Three: Mean Streets
Chapter Four: Fighting for Life
Chapter Five: Friends Re-united
Chapter Six: A Very Special Dog
Chapter Seven: Wind of Change
Chapter Eight: I Woof therefore I Am
For the late, great Basil (Sr. el Baz) - a Very Special Dog, and the original
SpokesMutt for www.TenerifeDogs.com
“I am Nobody’s Poodle
But I’m Somebody’s Doodle,
And I Woof … therefore I Am!”
CHAPTER ONE
The Dog Bowl of Life
As usual it was raining when I opened my eyes. Another typical summer day in England - cold and wet. Woof-Bloody-Tastic, maybe there’ll be some mud to roll around in. Yet again those pesky pussies had been up-and-at-it all night with their infernal racket - no shame those pussies. So I was feeling a bit ‘ruff’, same as it ever was … but something was different this morning.
There’s been a lot of unusual activity in the Gizmo household lately. The humans have been doing strange things - like putting stuff in boxes, and now it seemed to be reaching a peak of frenzy. I went to check that my dog bowl hadn’t disappeared into one of the boxes. Nope, it was still there … phew, that’s a relief.
My owners: Sharon, Trev, and the small human: Tracey, have been talking non-stop about “starting a new life” in some place called Tenerife. From what I can gather, ‘The Reef’ is a small volcanic island stuck out in the Atlantic somewhere off the coast of Africa. The island is apparently very dry and dusty, and has no grass (except on the golf courses). This is a bit of a shame cos I really enjoy a good roll around on wet grass, or even better in some nice fresh cow dung. Unfortunately us dogs can’t afford the golf course fees and apparently there aren’t any cows roaming around Tenerife. Amazing eh? Anyway, wadever … I’m a very adaptable pooch and I guess I’ll find something else to roll in there. “Go with the Flow” and “Feel the Fur” as us adaptable woofers say.
I had no idea why they wanted to move there, but apparently the weather was better - wall-to-wall sunshine, and they were talking about having lots of “quality time” to enjoy outdoors. Sounds pretty wooftastic to me - lots more walkies, and some sun on my fur when I’m having a nap. Apparently the locals call this a ‘siesta’, and that worries me a bit. Am I going to be able to communicate with the local woofers? You see, us pooches have a universal language: ‘Woof’, but I’d have to get used to my new furry amigos’ dialect.
Maybe I’d just stick to sniffing butt at first. Woofing very loudly to make yourself understood is considered a bit rude, and only done by stuck-up snobby dogs like Poodles, or thick chav mutts like Pitbulls. Now, I’m nobody’s Poodle. I’m actually what’s known as a Doodle* and I’m very much my own dog. I’m also an extremely sophisticated, intelligent pooch (we might as well get that established early in the first chapter), and I want to try and integrate with the locals. You know - learn the lingo, explore the culture, eat lots of garlic … that kind of thing. So I’m hoping that in time I’ll be fluent in Canarian Woof (which is apparently different from the mainland Spanish variety).
So there I was, nicely curled up on the bed, snoring away and enjoying my siesta (may as well get used to the lingo) when this big truck pulled up outside our house. Four men got out and started loading our boxes into the lorry. Now normally, intruders engaged in daylight robbery would be my cue for a big-time woofing opportunity, but as I say, this morning was a bit different. Instead of encouraging me to bark like crazy and scare the shit out of the scoundrels before they stole all our stuff, Sharon was offering them cups of tea and biscuits, and Trev was telling them to “hurry-up mate, cos like we’ve got a plane to catch”.
So I retreated to a corner of the living room, as far away from the chaos as possible, and kept quiet. As I said, I’m a super sensitive pooch and there was enough tension in the air already, without me adding to it with my normal manic woofing. I watched as most of the boxes disappeared into the lorry, and then to my horror I saw Tracey hand them a box labelled “Gizmo’s Stuff ”. Oh No! Just as I feared, my dog bowl was being nicked!
I sprinted out of the house, but I was too late. The robbers slammed shut the door of the truck and drove off. My precious bowl had now disappeared into the distance, and they were probably going to sell it. Thieving feckin so-andso’s! Some morning I’m having then … and the rest of that day didn’t get much better.
A few hours later I was dumped in the car and taken off to Chris’ house. Apparently he’s what’s known as a ‘dog sitter’ (maybe because he keeps telling me to “sit”, cos he certainly doesn’t do much sitting around himself. Most of the time he’s out at work, but anyway wadever …). I normally get left with him when my humans go on holiday. He’s a nice enough bloke, but I always miss my family when they go away. Sharon and Trev waved good-bye and told me they’d see me in a couple of weeks.
A couple of weeks! What’s that all about? I’m a feckin dog, and even a super-sophisto pooch like me doesn’t have much concept of future time. Or rather, us dogs have a different, slimmed-down, more efficient concept of time. We realize a long time ago (ha ha, get it?) that time was more like a small round thing rather than a long thin thing. More like a dog chasing its own tail rather than an endless piece of string, or an infinitely long ladder, or whatever else humans think it’s like. For us dogs, the past and future don’t actually exist - there is only the present. It’s much less confusing to live like that.
Anyway, as they say: wadever … I didn’t really have much say in what was happening, so I gave Tracey (the small human) a farewell lick, and the taller humans my best hard-done-by look.
Time went by in a flash, as it always does for us dogs (like I said, try chasing your own tail - it works!), and the next big day arrived. Chris got me up early. Today I was going to Tenerife … “Yee-ha Wooftastic!”.
A taxi was due to pick me up from Chris’ house and take me to the airport. We waited and waited … finished our breakfast … and still no sign of the taxi. Chris was getting more and more agitated as he was going to be late for work. Finally he couldn’t wait any longer and rang the animal transportation company (‘Flying Fur’), who were supposed to have booked the taxi.
Feckin typical! Never mind ‘Flying Fur’, the fur brains had lost some of my paperwork and didn’t even realize I needed to be collected. Now I was going to miss my flight! Chris was a real hero though. He took me to work with him, and arranged for another taxi to pick me up from there. The Flying Fur bimbo said that she’d book me onto a later flight.
In the end I had a really interesting day meeting Chris’ work mates. They were all very kind to me and apparently thought that I was a bit of a star (frankly, I’m not surprised). In fact I was having such a good time that I thought about not getting into the taxi, but I knew Tracey would be really sad if I didn’t arrive in Tenerife. So I said farewell to my new friends and climbed into the taxi.
The saga wasn’t quite over though, and the fur wasn’t flying just yet. The taxi driver demanded a hundred-and-forty quid for the journey, but in his haste to leave the house Chris had forgotten the cash. He asked the driver if he could give it to them later, but taxi man said no - he needed paying right now, or this mutt was going nowhere.
I began to panic, but as
I say Chris is a hero, and so were his work-mates. They had a quick whip-round and managed to raise the dosh (so I really had worked my charms on this lot - wooftastic!). I was thinking: “scratch my bollox! a hundred-and-forty quid for a fifteen minute journey - this limo must be seriously bling”. My tail was wagging like a yo-yo anticipating what I might find: probably a cocktail cabinet of sausages and a cute little bitch to entertain me on the journey. Woof woof - life was finally looking up.
Once inside the taxi though, I was sadly disappointed. No food - not even a solitary dog biscuit, and no sign of a panting poochette waiting for me in the back seat. Just a feckin wooden box with handles and a little door - and guess who that was for …
So I was shoved in the crate, and eventually arrived at an extremely noisy smelly place (apparently called ‘Cat-Wick’). Still in my box, I was wheeled through the airport without even having the chance to sniff around the duty-free section (I was hoping that I might be able to pick up another dog bowl to replace the one the thieving scum-bags in the lorry had taken).
The plane journey was similarly disappointing. I was looking forward to the in-flight meal, but there seemed to be no stewardess service. I’d heard my owners say that the food on planes was “only good enough to give to a bloody dog”. In fact I think they actually called it “a dog’s dinner”. Well that’s all-right then. How very considerate of the airline to make meals especially for us dogs. So, where was my dinner then?
Sadly it didn’t appear. Not even a feckin complimentary packet of peanuts. Woof-Bloody-Tastic eh? I’d heard that there were now “no frills” on budget airlines, but for goodness sake - they could have given us pooches a few measly peanuts (come to think of it, peanuts aren’t too good for us woofers are they?). And here’s another thing: my flight actually cost more than a human’s ticket! For the price Sharon and Trev paid, I should have been up-graded to ‘fur-st class’, with my water-bowl being filled the instant it became empty, and tasty snacks arriving each time I raised my paw. But instead, here I was stuck in a bloody cage, not even able to have a shit. I had a water bowl, but that was about it as far as the in-flight entertainment went.
My fellow travellers didn’t exactly ease the pain either. Next to me was a Rottweiler called Rambo, and I had to endure his sneering, snarling and spitting for the entire journey. Just behind Rambo there was a rather more luxurious crate containing two Chihuahuas: Fifi and Hilton. They kept yapping on about “the class of dogs you get on these cheap flights”, and moaning that they’d never be seen dead “Flying The Fur” ever again.
I couldn’t work out whether it was me or the Chihuahuas that was getting up Rambo’s nose so much, but just as we started our descent he suddenly started apologising for his bad behaviour. Apparently he suffered from a ‘fur of flying’ (ironic given the name of the airline), and he wanted us to know that he really loved us all! Moreover, as it was very unlikely that he’d ever see us again, he wanted to share something that he’d never been able to tell another dog.
“Never say never” I thought to myself, “dude, I’ve got a feeling you’re going to regret this”.
He told us that his owner insisted on dressing him in macho studded collars and black dog t-shirts with “Watch Out … I Haven’t Eaten Today!” on them; and he only ever took Rambo to the parts of town where even the rats have moved out because it’s gone so down-market (hence the expression: “gone to the dogs”). Whereas actually he’d much rather be wearing a pink frilly coat with a matching spangly collar, and strutting his stuff in a chic up-town neighbourhood.
Now I’m not adverse to a spot of accessorising myself. I do sometimes sport a very cool bandanna when I’m out and about town, and Sharon has been known to put a Christmas hat on me - but only once a year, in the privacy of my own home, and then just to take photos. Of course I have no problem with humans giving a pooch some extra protection from the elements, but dressing up dogs in ridiculous looking outfits usually makes me barking mad. In this case though, the cross dressing malarky was Rambo’s own predilection. His own little secret, until now anyway.
To be honest, the thought of this hulking great Rottweiler posing in a pink frilly outfit went some way to making me forget the day’s many stresses. I was bursting to laugh but I felt sorry for the dude, even if he had made my flight worse than it already was. After all, it couldn’t have been easy for a macho mutt like him to come out with a confession like that. The Chihuahuas didn’t hold back though. They were rolling around their cage howling with laughter. As we touched down he was trembling and sweating, and they certainly weren’t showing him any compassion.
After we’d landed, Rambo was very quiet. I think he was probably regretting telling us his deepest darkest secret, but we didn’t have long to say our good-byes before our crates were wheeled into the airport. I could hear the Chihuahuas’ manic laughter receding into the distance as they were driven away to a different section of cargo.
Then I heard some familiar voices. “Wow is that my humans? Yes oh yes, that’s their smell. Yippee, Woof Woof!”. There they were: Sharon, Trev, and Tracey - looking very relieved to see me. I was in doggie heaven, and we had a very emotional reunion in the cargo bay, involving lots of licking of faces and a few tears. Even the tough guys with tattoos working there were touched.
I never saw Rambo’s owner, but out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed the Chihuahuas being greeted by two ladies wearing lots of make-up and jewellery, and stuffed into matching handbags with ‘Gucci Poochie’ labels. I wondered if I’d see any of them again, and what adventures the dog-bowl-of-life would bring to my new life on ‘The Reef’.
CHAPTER TWO
An Out-of-Botty Experience
A warm breeze gently ruffled my fur as I stuck my head out of the taxi window. At first sniff Tenerife smelt, well … smelly, and it definitely wasn’t raining. Wooftastic! After the flight-from-hell things were looking up. I was so happy to be with my family again, and so intrigued by all the strange new smells, that the journey raced past without me noticing the lack of grass, mud, and cows. Pretty soon we arrived at some place called ‘Costa del Scorchio’ and my new home.
The house was smaller than the old one in England and there was no garden, just a small tiled area outside. So, was that where I was supposed to do my business then? Anyway, wadever - no worries … I was back with my family again, and these questions could wait until there was something in my stomach worth coming out the other end (or as us dogs say, having an “Out-of-Botty Experience”). I went for a sniff around to see if I could find my dog bowl.
Sharon put this red plastic bowl-like-thing on the kitchen floor and said: “don’t worry Gizmo, your bowl is coming with the rest of our stuff on Monday. It just needs to stay at customs for a few days”. So what’s that all about then? Haven’t these customs dudes got dog bowls of their own? Why do they need to borrow mine? I don’t remember giving my permission to loan it out. Blooming cheek! Oh well, I ‘spose I’ll just have to put up with this plastic tat for the moment. In fact it was a real pain-in-the-mutt’s-butt trying to eat out of it. Every time I put my snout in to grab some food, it slid away from me across the tiles. Pure comedy. Now I knew what the humans meant by a ‘dog’s dinner’.
As I was trying to grab some food from this excuse-for-a-bowl, a small brown creature emerged from a little hole in the wall and made a dash for it right across my food. Before I could snaffle it, the slippery little bugger disappeared under a kitchen cupboard. A piercing scream interrupted my munching. “Blimey what’s happening folks - has the roof fallen in? I’ve got a dog’s dinner to finish here”. Sharon was standing on a chair, pointing to where ‘Speedy Gonzales’ (the little brown bug) had disappeared. A few of Speedy’s mates peeked out from below another cupboard (probably to see what all the commotion was about), setting off more screams.
I must admit, they weren’t particularly pretty critters (maybe that’s why Sharon was shouting something about “cocks” and “roaches”), but were they really
worth all this fuss? I mean, it’s not as if they’re some kind of alien life form … or maybe they were? Note to self: wait till you’ve sussed them out further before attempting to chew on one. Not that I could catch one anyway, but I might have some fun trying.
Trev came rushing into the house and started dashing around trying to catch Speedy and his mates. The tiles were slippery and Trev was sweaty, so the chase was quite an amusing spectator sport for me and Sharon. After about ten minutes he gave up and started spraying this disgusting toxic chemical everywhere. We all had to leave the house.
The humans went out to eat and left me on the terrace. I hadn’t even had a chance to finish my dinner, and here I was being abandoned again. Woof-Bloody-Tastic! Eventually they rolled back at about one in the morning, making quite a racket, and rudely waking me from a very entertaining dream involving rescuing some rather fine bitches from an army of little brown alien critters. Apparently my humans had made some new friends and “had a few drinks”. I wondered if my new life in paradise would be quite as idyllic as my first impressions had promised.
The next morning started late as Sharon and Trev were feeling a bit ‘ruff’, but once they’d dragged themselves out of bed we all went out for a walk. “About time too” I was thinking, but us dogs are stoic. We don’t complain much, and anyway I was excited to have my first chance to explore the neighbourhood. As we strolled around Costa del Scorchio I couldn’t help noticing how many bars there were. Must be a lot of thirsty people around. Some of the bars had a sort of loud wailing noise coming from inside, which was apparently called: ‘karaoke’. To me it sounded like a Chihuahua with a firework stuck up its bottom, but apparently some humans enjoyed it. Weird eh?
Just then a local pooch moseyed on up, giving me the chance to say “hola” in my best Spanish Woof. He gave me a funny look and replied: “hi mate, well here’s a ting … I don’t speak de Spanish lingo”. It turned out he was actually Irish. He told me his name was Clooney, and he went on to explain that his master owned one of the karaoke bars: ‘Los Wailing Leprechauns’. Apparently the local Canario mutts were quite fluent in English Woof, so he’d never really needed to learn Spanish. He’d tried to speak a bit when he first moved out, but then never had the chance to practise. He invited me to join him in his master’s bar that evening and enjoy “the feckin marvellous oi-didilly karaoke singing”. I politely declined, saying that I had a previous engagement listening to a couple of cat-dudes scream at each other on my neighbour’s wall. He gave me a funny look, shrugged, and wandered off.
