Wednesday, 4 August 2010
A few years ago, following a minor breakdown, I attempted to
spend a recuperative few months in rural Spain. Therapy it wasn’t - I found the
Spanish countryside literally full of dogs.
Most people of course would probably wonder why that should be any sort of problem, but the trouble is, I am one of those astonishing people who really isn't that sold on them. Ever since a deranged German Shepherd got hold of me and put me in hospital when I was nine years old, I have tried to keep as far away from them as possible. I’ll be brutal: I'm not keen on their smell, I don’t like the row they make, and I don’t like their constant need for attention.
Believe me, I have tried and tried to get over it, to shake paws nicely when introduced, to find them amusing when they’re destroying some toy or a new pair of shoes, and to laugh heartily when they thrust their snouts between my legs at the door. Sadly, I often fail, and owners are often taken aback at my firm “get OFF me” command when their bundle of woofs, snuffles and licks chucks itself at me in greeting, leaving filthy paw marks and gob on my clothing. I have lost count of the number of times I have accepted an invitation to someone’s house, only to be knocked to the ground and literally terrorised by some enormous slobbering hound whilst its indulgent grinning fool of an owner assures me “he’s only playing”. So few doggy people seem to be able to process the notion that someone might not be utterly enchanted with their pet, they inevitably try to “help”. Many have actually suggested I get therapy for my “problem”, and I absolutely agree this is an excellent idea. Perhaps, at the same time, I can get lessons on how not to be scared of tigers, or sharks, or alligators, or any other large carnivorous beast with strong jaws and sharp teeth...
Of course, I’ve known plenty of perfectly pleasant dogs. Silent cowering whippets are best if I have a choice; intelligent, independent Jack Russells, and working border collies. I have even managed to reach a strained understanding with my aunt’s pedigree poodle. On the Costa Blanca, however, I lived in daily terror on my mountain; an otherwise idyllic lump of rock engulfed by frothing pink bougainvillea and heavenly jasmine - dogs were everywhere, and nine times out of ten, they were running around loose. They were either barking incessantly like the two huge German Shepherds (my favourite) on the road above me who seemed to spend their entire life on a balcony and would go insane in stereo if a leaf so much as blew past them; or they were rushing out at you on the road, jaws gaping, if you so much as dared to walk past one of their wretched houses.
This happened to me twice, and with the same dog on both occasions. Each time, as I walked past its house on my way to the village shop, it catapulted out of its gates and across the road straight at me, barking, snarling, growling, and refusing to let me pass. At least the second time this happened I managed to alert its owner, and yelled in angry Spanish that this was the last time his thug of an animal would go for me. Glancing at the Shropshire staff in my hand, I think he realised I was serious.
Just because a dog happens to live in the countryside, it should not be exempt from learning the same manners as a city dog, and neither should it have a free pass to roam the streets and lanes as a cheap and lazy form of “security” for someone’s villa. Quite frankly, I found this to be the biggest fly in the Spanish ointment.
Of course I understand that none of this is the fault of any of the dogs who lunge, and bark, and snarl and threaten; - they’re just programmed that way. It is the responsibility of people who have chosen to share space with an aggressive predator to socialise it. Even I know there are no bad dogs, only lazy owners. However, neither I, nor anyone else should have to run a gauntlet of yapping, snapping “family pets” as they go about their daily business.
Heel!
Posted by Emma Blake at 03:56
Most people of course would probably wonder why that should be any sort of problem, but the trouble is, I am one of those astonishing people who really isn't that sold on them. Ever since a deranged German Shepherd got hold of me and put me in hospital when I was nine years old, I have tried to keep as far away from them as possible. I’ll be brutal: I'm not keen on their smell, I don’t like the row they make, and I don’t like their constant need for attention.
Believe me, I have tried and tried to get over it, to shake paws nicely when introduced, to find them amusing when they’re destroying some toy or a new pair of shoes, and to laugh heartily when they thrust their snouts between my legs at the door. Sadly, I often fail, and owners are often taken aback at my firm “get OFF me” command when their bundle of woofs, snuffles and licks chucks itself at me in greeting, leaving filthy paw marks and gob on my clothing. I have lost count of the number of times I have accepted an invitation to someone’s house, only to be knocked to the ground and literally terrorised by some enormous slobbering hound whilst its indulgent grinning fool of an owner assures me “he’s only playing”. So few doggy people seem to be able to process the notion that someone might not be utterly enchanted with their pet, they inevitably try to “help”. Many have actually suggested I get therapy for my “problem”, and I absolutely agree this is an excellent idea. Perhaps, at the same time, I can get lessons on how not to be scared of tigers, or sharks, or alligators, or any other large carnivorous beast with strong jaws and sharp teeth...
Of course, I’ve known plenty of perfectly pleasant dogs. Silent cowering whippets are best if I have a choice; intelligent, independent Jack Russells, and working border collies. I have even managed to reach a strained understanding with my aunt’s pedigree poodle. On the Costa Blanca, however, I lived in daily terror on my mountain; an otherwise idyllic lump of rock engulfed by frothing pink bougainvillea and heavenly jasmine - dogs were everywhere, and nine times out of ten, they were running around loose. They were either barking incessantly like the two huge German Shepherds (my favourite) on the road above me who seemed to spend their entire life on a balcony and would go insane in stereo if a leaf so much as blew past them; or they were rushing out at you on the road, jaws gaping, if you so much as dared to walk past one of their wretched houses.
This happened to me twice, and with the same dog on both occasions. Each time, as I walked past its house on my way to the village shop, it catapulted out of its gates and across the road straight at me, barking, snarling, growling, and refusing to let me pass. At least the second time this happened I managed to alert its owner, and yelled in angry Spanish that this was the last time his thug of an animal would go for me. Glancing at the Shropshire staff in my hand, I think he realised I was serious.
Just because a dog happens to live in the countryside, it should not be exempt from learning the same manners as a city dog, and neither should it have a free pass to roam the streets and lanes as a cheap and lazy form of “security” for someone’s villa. Quite frankly, I found this to be the biggest fly in the Spanish ointment.
Of course I understand that none of this is the fault of any of the dogs who lunge, and bark, and snarl and threaten; - they’re just programmed that way. It is the responsibility of people who have chosen to share space with an aggressive predator to socialise it. Even I know there are no bad dogs, only lazy owners. However, neither I, nor anyone else should have to run a gauntlet of yapping, snapping “family pets” as they go about their daily business.
Heel!
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