by Nikki Attree
So there I was, stuck in a cage with a woofer who thought he was a rubber ball and bored the fur off me with his cat chasing stories; a mutt who snored louder than a Boeing 707; and now, a pooch who thought he was auditioning for the doggie version of X Factor … Woof-Bloody-Tastic!
I’d been at the refuge for a few days, more-or-less (as I say, us dogs aren’t too bothered about time), when the dog catchers brought in a Chihuahua. She was making a hell of a racket with her screechy little woofs, and I prayed that she wouldn’t be joining us in our cage. I’d only just got used to Luna’s snoring, Speedy G’s manic bouncing, and Elvis’ wailing, but you guessed it: mini pain-in-the-butt mutt was stuck in there with us. Funnily enough it turned out I knew her. It was Fifi, one of the Chihuahuas on the Flying Fur flight. I said woof to her and sniffed butt.
“Get orf my hind quarters you mangy mutt” she squeaked.
“Charming!” I thought, “I bet you don’t even remember me, and by-the-way your ‘quarters’ didn’t smell that wonderful anyway”.
“I’ll have you know, I’m a Chihuahua don’t-you-know, and chav dogs do not get to sniff my anatomy.”
“OK, calm down dear” I woofed back, “what are you doing here anyway?”.
This seemed to get to her. “There’s been a terrible mistake. I shouldn’t be in this horrid place at all” she bleated.
“Its the same for all us chica” I replied. “None of us should be dumped in a refuge. We should all have a home, with a family.”
Fifi spluttered: “but, but, but …” (“OK dear, we’re over the butt thing now, move on” I thought to myself). “I’m special. You cannot expect me to live in a place like this. I’m not used to slumming it like you street mutts”.
“Well mi amiga, you better get used to it, at least until someone comes to adopt you.”
“No, no, no …” she wailed (“why the feck does she have to say everything three times?”). “My owner is coming to collect me very, very, very soon. Just as soon as she realizes where I am.”
“Maybe she will, maybe she won’t” I said gently.
She looked at me, paused for moment, and started a high pitched howl. It was as if someone had pumped her full of air and then released it through her ‘hind quarters’ like a squeaky balloon.
“That’s just great!’ I thought. “Just what I need right now. A new kind of ear-piercing racket to enjoy. Join the club - they’ll love you.”
I shoved a bowl of food underneath her nose. The horrendous squealing stopped abruptly, as if the balloon had burst. She looked down her nose at it, and said disgustedly: “what on earth is that?”.
“Umm, duh, it’s called dog food, don’t-you-know”.
“No, no, no …” (here we go again, apparently only exclamations in triplicate are enough for this bitch) “you cannot be serious. I can only eat freshly cooked chicken with brown rice, smoked salmon, or occasionally caviar”.
I humoured her: “well OK Fifi, I know you’re more delicate than us rough chav mutts, but unless you eat this stuff you’re going to get very hungry”.
She thought about this for a second, and then reverted to her cloud-cookoo-land optimism: “I think I’ll wait till my owner comes to collect me. I don’t want to upset my stomach”
“OK mi amiga, suit yourself “ I woofed, and strolled out of the cage into the play area to chase speedy G around for a while and sniff a few more friendly butts. When I returned to the cage Fifi was curled up in a little ball.
“Why hasn’t my owner come for me yet?” she sniffed.
I was tempted to reply: “maybe cos she can’t afford your food bill”, but to be honest I was feeling a bit sorry for her now, even if she was a stuck-up bitch. As I think I’ve already mentioned, I’m a bit of a sucker for a chica in distress, so I woofed as gently as I could: “hey, she’s probably looking for you right now, but if she doesn’t find you, I’m sure that you’ll get adopted by another Chihuahua lover really soon”. Then I asked her how she came to be picked up by the dog catchers.
“Well I was at the hairdresser with my mistress. She was having her usual perm. When she was finished, she asked the hairdresser to look after me for a few minutes while she went to the cash machine. But then she never came back”.
Fifi was starting to sniffle again, but she went on with her tragic story: “the hairdresser was really annoyed because my mistress hadn’t paid for the perm. I heard her say that she hadn’t paid her rent or bar bill for three months, and now she was expecting to get a free haircut. She was so angry that she got straight on the phone to the dog catchers to demand that they come and get me.”
By now she was whimpering, and the full-on balloon squeals couldn’t be far away. “My mistress isn’t coming back for me is she Gizmo?” she wailed.
“I’m really sorry mi amiga, I doubt it, but like I said, you’ll soon find someone just as nice, and maybe they’ll be able to afford your diet”.
I left her to sleep, crept over to Luna who was just starting to pump up the snoring volume, and woofed loudly in her ear. Hey, puppy-ish I know, but I just had to get my own back for all the sleepless nights. Luna woke up with a confused start, grunted and woofed: “what the dog crap is going on?”. She gazed around for a minute, shrugged and fell asleep again. A few seconds later the jets overhead were once again drowned out by her industrial level, heavy-metal snores.
The dog pen next to ours housed the bigger dogs, and I got quite friendly with a Canarian Presa called Manuel. He helped me brush up on my Spanish woof, which helped pass the time in between eating and trying to sleep. Manuel explained to me that the best way to communicate with the local Canarian mutts was to woof loudly and quickly, wave my paws around a lot, slobber a bit, and when in doubt over a woof or its pronunciation, just to add an ‘o’ onto the end of it (as in ‘el bastardo, woofo, stinko’ etc). This seemed to work surprisingly well, and from then on I got to know a lot more of my furry amigos in the refuge.
Trev was right, it wasn’t too bad there. OK, not as good as a proper home with a loving family and soft furnishings, but we were well taken care of. The volunteers came to take us out for walks most days, and even though some of my fellow cage-mates were a bit annoying, it was good to have company. Nope, things could definitely be worse (as I’d found out in El Bastardo’s shed). All in all it wasn’t such a bad life, at least as a temporary solution, but I did start to wonder about life outside the refuge fence. Some pooches had been in there for years (or at least they reckoned for a sizeable slab of time) and that was way too long for me. I hoped someone would give me a home and new adventures soon.
CHAPTER SIX
A Very Special Dog
Basil the Yorkie had been ill for a while. His owners, Nikki and Richard were very worried about him. He’d spent most of his life in damp, muddy old England, but when he was nine years old they moved to Tenerife, and now they lived in El Blowo - the town with a thousand Yorkies. He felt quite at home there really, but he was getting on a bit. He still enjoyed his walks, woofing at the postman, and chasing the stray cats that dared to come into his garden, and he still kept up with his important role as The SpokesMutt for Tenerife-Dogs.com - a website run by Nikki to promote the refuges in Tenerife.
All in all, el Baz had lived a long and happy life (he was, after all, ninety years old in human terms) but sadly he was coming to the end of it now. He was fading away gradually, spending much more time sleeping, and when he was awake he was often confused - bumping into furniture, or just staring into the distance. So Nikki and Richard took him to the vet. The vet said that it might be a heart problem and prescribed some tablets. He told them to come back in a few days.
That night Basil’s condition deteriorated rapidly. He’d always had these little fits, right from when he was a puppy. Perhaps it was something to do with in-breeding, but that evening it was almost as if a massive electric shock had ripped through his brain. He was shaking all night, and in the morning he couldn’t
walk. So Nikki and Richard took him back to the vet.
The vet was great. He wasn’t overly sentimental, just very kind. He looked them straight in the eye and said: “if Basil was my own dog, I’d put him out of his pain now”. It was clear that he would never recover or have any quality of life again, so the sad decision was made to put Basil to sleep. It was one of the most difficult things that Nikki and Richard ever had to do, but it was the right decision.
They spent the last few minutes of Basil’s life gently stroking his head and saying adios to their furry amigo, as the injection was given to sedate him, and he gradually and peacefully went to sleep.
Nikki and Richard were devastated. El Baz had been such a big part of their life, now he was gone it felt empty. They went for long walks, wrote his name in the sand and watched the sea wash it away. The grief was so intense that for a while they didn’t want to get another dog. They didn’t know if they’d ever be able to love another pooch as much, and they even worried that it might be disrespectful to his memory. He was an irreplaceable part of their little family, but they were ‘doggie people’ through-and-through, always would be, so deep down they knew they’d be adopting another pooch some time soon. Their lives would be a lot emptier till then.
“Come on Gizmo. Get your paws moving. I know you love digging up the beach, but we’ve got to get you back to the refuge for dinner time”. Karen, one of the hard-working volunteers who regularly gave up their spare time to walk the dogs, was having a bit of a hard time persuading Gizmo to leave his favourite spot.
Yeah well, who could blame me? Everyone loves the beach, no? It’s fur-tastic fun digging a huge hole. I’m aiming for the world record, and who knows, one day I might just pop out the other side and say g’day to my furry mates Down Under.
But fair enough, I realize that there’s more to a dog’s life than digging, and I must admit I was getting a bit peckish. Karen bribed me with a biscuit, slipped my lead back on, and we walked back up the track to the refuge.
As we came in through the gate, I couldn’t believe who was mincing around one of the other pens. It was none other than my old amigo Rambo - the Rottweiler hero who’d saved me from El Bastardo’s clutches!
“Hola Rambo, so you made it, and here we are again. You just got here?”
Rambo looked at me about as warmly as a Rottie can manage, slobbered a bit, and replied: “no mate, I’ve been here for quite a while. I’m in the ‘fierce dogs’ cage over there by the office.”
“Ha ha, that’s a joke” I thought, “Rambo fierce? They obviously haven’t seen him in his pink frilly outfit then”.
He went on: “when the police raided El Bastardo’s dog fighting ring, they bundled me into their van and brought me here. I’ve got a micro-chip but my owner’s disappeared … and thank feck for that, because I wouldn’t want to go back to that bugger anyway. He didn’t beat me or nuffin, but I didn’t get much love, know what I mean? I think he only kept me to cultivate his ‘ard man’ image! To be honest I’m better off here. I’ve made some good mates, the humans aren’t a bad bunch, and now my old amigo Gizmo’s here …” I think he almost had tears in his eyes, or would have except the slobber was in full flow.
“It’s wooftastic to see you too Rambo”, I woofed warmly.
We sniffed butt in a strictly manly (or rather doggedly male) way, and he carried on woofing: “I really hope they find me a better owner this time. You know, someone who likes to play with me, and gives me a cuddle sometimes. You know what a softie I am Gizmo”.
“Yeah, well you may be a bit of softie Rambo, but you’re one hell of a brave woofer. If it hadn’t been for you I’d still be chained up in Bastardo’s shed, or chewed up in little pieces in that ring. You saved my life Rambo, and I cross my paws that you find a good home now”.
It was getting on for dinner time, so we woofed our goodbyes, and I trudged back to my cage with its motley crew of inmates. Some important developments had occurred while I’d been away. Blooming feckin typical! When I turn my back for a minute, something interesting happens. Anyway, a human had actually agreed to adopt Luna. I hoped they had a good supply of ear plugs!
She gave me the low down: “yeah this old bloke came along and took me out of the cage this afternoon. He sat with me for a while, feeding me dog biscuits and patting me on the head. He seems really kind. He said he wanted to adopt an older dog cos he wasn’t so quick on his feet anymore, and a puppy would be a bit too much for him.”
“Yeah he sounds ideal for Luna” I thought “she’s definitely no pup”.
“He can’t walk too far anymore, but you know Gizmo, that suits me just fine. I’m not that keen on this walking malarky, its very over-rated in my opinion.” Then she came to the really important bit: “and guess what - Marta was talking to him, but he couldn’t hear her cos he’s stone deaf. So no problem with my snoring! Anyway he’s coming to collect me tomorrow - she wrote it down for him”.
Me and my canine cage-mates were happy for Luna, and relieved that we might finally get some sleep. Next day we bid her a fond farewell with a last butt sniff. I must admit I felt a little jealous. When was it going to be my turn?
That same afternoon a smart young couple with a small child took Fifi out of the cage and made a huge fuss over her. They’d been looking for a Chihuahua to adopt for ages, so she was in luck. Fifi was whisked away to her new home in a swanky new silver BMW. I think the car just about met with her approval.
Next to go were Speedy Gonzales and Elvis, in a two-for-the-price-of-one deal. They were both taken by another couple who owned a finca with lots of space - something they definitely both needed, and which was in short supply in the cage. So again I was happy for them, relieved that there’d be no more manic bouncing and wailing, but now I was also starting to feel a bit lonely and depressed. I really needed a home to call my own. When would it be my turn? How come all the other woofers in our cage had been adopted except me? Whenever a human looked at me in the cage they always said what a lovely dog I was. I just didn’t understand. Maybe I was too pretty, could that be possible?
After Basil the Yorkie passed away, Nikki and Richard were devastated. They grieved for him and wondered if another dog could ever replace him, but there was such a big gap in their lives without a pooch that they started looking. It was tough. Every time they went to look at another mutt they found themselves comparing it to el Baz.
They had endless conversations about which breed they should get. Perhaps a Jack Russell - but they could be a bit too feisty; maybe a Spaniel - they sometimes had health issues. After their experiences with a pure breed they wondered whether a crossbreed mutt might have fewer problems. One thing they did know for sure - this time they would definitely be adopting a dog from a refuge and giving them a new home. There was certainly no shortage of candidates, the problem was finding one that they could both fall in love with as they had with Basil.
A few weeks of fruitless searching passed, and they were starting to despair of ever finding a woofer that would be worthy of the late great Baz. Then one day Nikki got a phone call from Marta …
“Hi Nikki, I heard about Basil - I’m so sorry. Listen, I’ve got this very special dog here. He’s about a year old, and a sort of mix of Labrador and Poodle. He’s absolutely gorgeous. I’d have him myself, but I’ve already got Tio. You should definitely come and have a look at him before he gets snapped up.”
Nikki said “OK Marta, thanks for telling us. We’ll have to think about it. I’m still very upset after losing Basil, and I’m not sure if I’m quite ready for another dog in our life yet.”
They talked about Marta’s call and Richard’s opinion was: “what have we got to lose? let’s just go and have a look at him. If we like him we could just foster him for a few days and see how we get on. Let’s just take it from there.”
So Nikki called Marta back and agreed to come to the refuge that afternoon,
and have a look at this ‘very special dog’.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Wind of Change
Time passed slowly for me at the refuge. Of course, as I’ve explained, us dogs can’t tell how much actual time has passed, but it felt long enough. Some of this time I was alone in the cage, and sometimes other woofers joined me. Of course the refuge felt nothing like El Bastardo’s shed. It definitely wasn’t a prison, although we spent a lot of time ‘behind bars’. We weren’t treated like prisoners, but it wasn’t exactly what I’d call a proper home either. It was more like a refugee / transit camp. A kind of limbo-land where we were all in a state of suspended animation - temporarily in limbo between humans that had abandoned us, and others that would hopefully give us a new home.
Life was OK, if a little predictable, but I could handle that. Us woofers like routine. A bit like Zen Buddhist monks in that respect. I was getting enough to eat (even if it was more menu del dia than cordon bleu); plenty of walks with the volunteers; and if I was lucky enough to get Karen then I’d get to do some running, swimming, and digging on the beach. I spent the rest of the time woofing with Rambo and dreaming of life outside the fence. Then one morning he tested my Zen-like stoicism to the limit by announcing that he too was about to experience life on the outside again …
“Karen needs a guard dog for her finca, and she reckons that I’d be perfect.”
I knew him well enough by now to risk a little sarcasm: “well yes mate you certainly look the part, and even if we know that you’re really a bit of a softie, any intruder’s going to skedaddle when he sees you in full-on slobber mode”.
