More stories of Morris the Bull Terrier
Life with Morris was never convenient, easy, or normal. ;-)
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DRIP AHOY!
When you take your normal pet for a dip at a dog-friendly seaside, you bring an extra towel. When I take Morris, I need an offshore powerboat, a lasso and a Thick Mutt Importation Licence, in case the boat and rope let me down. You see, although Morris is without doubt, the strongest, most determined swimmer in canine history, the sad fact is - he can only do it in one direction.
Morris can’t manouvre - fact. The dopey dog’s not for turning. He can’t come about, tack to starboard, or do anything navigational on the windward side, port bow or leeward wossname. Once into his stroke, Morris ploughs an arrow-straight, water furrow until his keel hits something solid. On a lake or river, that will usually turn out to be the opposite bank. In the sea, I could well be looking at Madagascar.
This is not a restful situation for me. You see, as with everything Morris, there’s no easy solution to his unilateral bathing policy and a day at the seaside is a most fraughtsome trial. Oh I know what you’re thinking. ‘If, when the Does are disporting themselves on Brighton beach and Morris happens to strike out for Europe in general, why doesn’t that useless writer bloke simply pop into the surf and point poor Morris back toward Blighty.’ That’s it, isn’t it? Well, it’s not ‘it’ or anything like ‘it’, as a matter of fact. It isn’t even ‘it’ish’, if you really want to know.
You see, once his doggy-paddle rhythm is established, Morris can outpace the average marlin. Flipper himself would be knackered trying to keep up with the waterborne version of my dog and a team of wild seahorses couldn’t turn him back to his point of origin. Trust me, folks, Morris is the one who put the ‘bark;’ in embarkation. The only chance I have, lies with early interception. If I can get Morris in a headlock before those paddle wheel feet accelerate to full-ahead, I can reclaim him without HM Customs getting involved. Should my attention wander for the time it takes Morris’s engine room to power-up his pistoning pads - it’s time to call the Coastguard.
Perhaps the less Morris-acquainted among you may harbour (‘harbour’ - geddit? keep the maritime motif going, Tel-boy), the notion that he’d eventually become fed up with being a salty seadog and return to the ones that love him so dear? Nope, won’t happen. I’ve already tested this one, and it was pretty scary. There was nothing pretty about it, actually, it was just scary. Morris went for a dip in a three-acre lake, surged to the opposite bank like a pink-testicled torpedo, then, with his chest against a gravel outcrop and his feet treading water, he swam on the spot for three-quarters of an hour. I sat on the bank, timing him, my dismay and wonder gathering compound interest by the minute.
Morris didn’t stop swimming. I stopped him. Left to his own devices, he’d have spent the night paddling his stationary paddle, while his permanently stationary brain told him to carry on until winter set in and the lake froze. I presume he would have then hibernated until the spring thaw, whereupon the new risen sun would have re-energised him and he’d take up where he left off. This prediction is far more realistic than the possibility of Morris angling his fat bum a tad to one side and swimming toward a shallow spot. He wouldn’t even deviate from his 180-degree course when I dislodged him with the elongated walking stick I carry whenever I walk him close to water.
Every time I prodded him off the promontory with my rubber-tipped boat hook, he re-docked at precisely the same position, chin on dry land, legs robotically churning, tail rudder set for straight ahead. Eventually, I could stand it no longer and I hooked the handle of my stick through his collar and hoiked him out. He simply did one of those shudder-shakes that hopeless dogs think (wrongly) will rid them of excess water, and bounded off as though he’d just paddled through a deep’ish puddle. Silently, my arms spread wide, I looked toward heaven, a venue at which I’ve enquired so many times before, begging the Almighty to at least give me a clue. Sadly, He was out and, like my dog, I remain clueless.
So, not only do I have the normal worries associated with owning a dog, and a dog which happens to be a bull terrier, and a bull terrier which happens to have done a brain-swap with a fruit fly called Dopey, I also have the stress of knowing that my particular dog is a shipping hazard. While the rest of you can sort out a cosy insurance scheme with ‘Doggyrisk’ or ‘Puppy Plan’, I’ve got to sit around a table with a gang of suits from Lloyds Of London in case Morris collides with a supertanker. He’s a buoy, that Morris, eh?
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