Musing with Charlie

Gordon Morris

Description

Gordon Morris wrote this book originally as a kind of diary for himself. It is an account of the antics of his English springer spaniel, mainly on their walks together on Hayling Beach, near Portsmouth. It is also a cautionary tale of the hectic nature of the breed, and the enormous commitment it is to look after such an intelligent, energetic, bloody-minded type of dog. Musing with Charlie is also about Gordon's memories and thoughts of his life, the universe and everything (to quote a phrase) as they walked together. If after reading this book you see old boys walking their dogs deep in thought, or having a discussion with their peers on a bench, you may have an insight into Gordon's generation's lives and experiences, and you will have had a laugh or two at Gordon's expense - and Charlie's antics!

Sujets

• Philosophie et théologie
• Diaries
• Memoir
• Humour

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 03 décembre 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780722350942
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Musing with Charlie
Gordon Morris




Musings with Charlie
Published in 2020 by
Arthur H. Stockwell Ltd
Torrs Park, Ilfracombe
Devon, EX34 8BA
www.ahstockwell.co.uk
Digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2020 Gordon Morris
The right of Gordon Morris to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without express prior written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.



Chapter One
The Rescue
The wind is enough to cut even a tough old bastard like me in two. Still, a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do. This January night is black as coal as I hear the enormous breakers on the shore and feel the horizontal rain lashing my face.
On with the wellies, don the waterproofs, tie the hood tight and take a deep breath.
He was a handsome bugger; I really couldn’t have blamed any woman for being taken in by that ebony-black face, lying on his stomach looking at my partner with those brown eyes through the bars, sleek body and God-given good looks. No wonder she just melted for him. Two weeks later he was released. It took three of us to put him in his harness.
Three hundred quid later – castration fees, bowls, collars, leads, toys, food and goodies – I was then forced to suffer the indignity of being pulled like a locomotive out of the rescue centre to admiring looks and comments, mainly from the ladies. He pulled me straight into the car park, looking expectantly from one car to another then to me as if to say, “Come on, stupid – which one is mine?” I mentioned to my partner that he must be used to being chauffeured. Six months of springer-spaniel pup was to now rule my life.
Still, back to where I was: Hayling Island common and beach in a gale-force wind and horizontal rain. My partner is snug in her warm living room covered with a blanket, Southern Comfort to hand, digesting that opium of the female population, EastEnders or some other neuron-destroying soap.
So I’m a Meldrew! Well, I’m almost sixty and I’m entitled to be so. All things considered, I’ve probably got the best deal.
Right, I open the tailgate and a flash of fur leaps out like a hyper leopard, charges around for a few minutes then crouches down and leaves a veritable truncheon. A disdainful look says, “Go on, then! Clean that one up, ya numpty.” With that he’s off into the darkness – a dog on a mission, the Bruce Willis of the canine world – off to sniff as much arse as possible in his allotted time, wreak as much havoc as possible, roll in the worst decaying fish, carrion and any other foul stinking mess he can find, and if possible give me, his dad, his mentor, his best friend, a coronary. Still, I love the little bugger to bits.
On these walks (or should I say endurance tests?) the mind does tend to wander! What’s the attraction in arse? Huh! I can talk. When I was young the fashion gurus of the time ordained that all female backsides should be encased in tight miniskirts and hot pants. Criminal to testosterone-charged young lads like myself with hormones surging through the veins like white water! On more than one occasion, sitting on the top deck of the bus, hot sunshine pouring down on my groin through the window, I was vainly trying to look nonchalantly out of the window as if the abundance of rears walking the streets with tight blouses and naked thighs had no effect on me whatsoever. No effect? No effect! There was effect all right, and no way could I walk that long, long walk down the bus aisle. So I sat tight until many stops past my destination, desperately trying to concentrate on thoughts of waterfalls and cricket matches, dreading the thought of a female ticket inspector asking me why I had gone so far past my destination.
Of course the wisdom of old age tells you to take a carrier bag of groceries to hold in front of yourself. Alas, but of course by then nature has had the last laugh as that white water has now turned into a babbling brook. Yes, I’m beginning to understand him to a degree.
The other long walk was when the smoochy music ended and then through gritted teeth you told your partner to stay pressed up tight and she insisted on knowing why and then giggled uncontrollably upon realisation.
Still, back to the beach. I’ve bought the essentials for walking Charlie: ball slinger, shoulder bag with a minimum of three doggie bags (this little fella could crap for England), water, brush, collar, lead, treats, etc., etc. I look like something out of Ross Kemp’s Ultimate Force preparing to go to war! No wonder the other dog walkers give me a wide berth. Dressed like this I’d be afraid of me too.
On one such night two police officers on patrol approached me thinking they were in for promotion for discovering the real ET. They saw the small flashing lights careering round the common at about a foot above the ground, following the contours of the land, darting here and there. They were amused and disappointed to learn it was only my Charlie wearing his battery-operated flashing collar, so I at least have a chance of keeping track of that bundle of nine months of inexhaustible energy. Still, some light relief on the long shift thanks to the little clown!
I battle on, plastic bags and flashlight at the ready. I think back to the ‘rescue’ again. It was a Sunday afternoon in October 2006 and, being a little bored, I suggested to my partner that we take some of our old blankets and towels to the local animal rescue centre as we had been meaning to for some time. Yes, she replied, but it was an unspoken agreement that we would be bringing no dog back with us as it was only eighteen months since her beloved dog died. There was no way that another dog could replace her dog – that paragon of virtue through her rose-tinted specs. I too loved that dog, but I saw him as he was – another three-to-five-bagger with convenient deafness, digester of decayed organic matter and roller in it, delinquent all his life, but as lovable a rogue as a dog could be – but that’s another story. Anyway, an hour or so later we arrived at the rescue centre with the towels and blankets. No, it wouldn’t do any harm to have a look at the wretched inmates. Minutes later her brain was penetrated by those piercing brown eyes in that black white-dappled head right through to the maternal area of her mind that he managed to instantly reduce to mash, and the deed was done. Mummy’s boy from that moment on – although Dad’s too, I have to admit. I loved that little miscreant from the moment I saw him.
Two weeks later, out in the car park as I’ve already described, I was being dragged about by this little pup whose closing statement on his CV read, ‘This dog is completely nuts.’ UNDERSTATEMENT! As soon as he knew which one was his, in he leaped. Satisfied with this roomy car, back seats down to give him much more room than even we had, the next half-hour was spent driving back to my partner’s bungalow, tail wagging – well, everything wagging – and tongue licking everything in sight, obviously content with his new car and two new mugs.



Chapter Two
Settling In
Arrival at my partner’s house went without a hitch. He investigated her large pristine garden, making plans for his future lawn hole digging, shrub chewing, laundry burying and general yobbish behaviour.
I return to that endurance test we call a walk and encounter three more stalwart soap-opera avoiders. Three arse sniffings and one abortive soggy mounting of Baxter the Labrador. After the big chop, my Charlie has been very confused about his sexuality. But I have to hand it to him, he’s a trier. My mind wanders back to that first Sunday we collected him and decided to walk him on the beach around the perimeter of Hayling Island Golf Club. This is our favourite walk on this unspoilt part of Hayling, with its ever changing seascapes over the Hayling bay and the Solent across to the Isle of Wight.
After a few hundred metres I said to my partner, “I think he will be OK off the lead,” he was such a good dog.
Was he? As a matter of fact yes, he was surprisingly good, didn’t run away and kept near us.
His first encounter was with Barney the black Labrador. He said hello as only dogs can and then moved on.