Did I ever tell you about Mrs Seymour? She had Four Little Seymours, and no dogs. She didn’t name them all Dave. Or Hoos Foos. Or Snimm. Or Hot Shot, or Sunny Jim. But often, she wishes that, when they were born, she had named one of them Orlando, and one of them Ptolemy. And one of them, Olympia, and another one – Loveday. So many names! Such little time!
Anyway, the Four Little Seymours’ names are just fine – I love them. I mean, what could be better than Number One, Little Seymour Number Two, Boy and Mini? Perfect, I say.
But Dave is definitely a name that wasn’t on the list. Not because I don’t like it – it’s just not quite right for us. David was a possibility – that’s a good name. But I didn’t use it. And now it’s too late.
So I certainly did not expect to find myself standing in the middle of my garden the other week, yelling “Dave!” at the top of my voice, repeatedly, and more and more shrilly, with my legs wobbling in despair as I started to run up the garden towards the Ostentatious Gates, through which the Dave in question had just escaped.
Yes, dear readers, Dave is a dog. And I was looking after him.
Now, we don’t have a dog. That’s not because the Seymours don’t like them. But it is mainly down to the fact that, at the moment, WE LIVE IN A SHED. There is no utility room. There is no porch. The garden is not dog-proof, and there isn’t even a kitchen I could shut a dog in for its own benefit and the retention of my sanity. So no. We do not have a dog.
So when I agreed to have Dave the Yorkshire Terrier to stay for a weekend, I think I made something of an error. Aside from the lack of canine facilities in The Shed, Dave is a dog like no other I’ve been associated with. He is a “toy dog”, apparently. He doesn’t do much, he “just lays”. And he wears a diamante collar emblazoned with his name. How hard could this be?
Oh dear. Oh dear! It has taken me a few weeks to put this dreadful tale down into words. Because I should not have had Dave the Dog to stay in the first place…
Dave arrived at lunchtime on a Friday with his running lead and his little bag of essentials. Alarm bells rang in my head, though, as soon as his owners drove away. Dave cocked his tiny head, strained on his long lead, and wanted to run down the A281 after them. “Come on, Dave,” I cajoled. “Let’s go to The Shed!” I jollied the little chap along as we went down to the safety of our temporary home, and there, I thought, I can carry on with my work. Dave will “just lay”, and I will get on.
That, I am afraid, did not happen. The day in question was gloriously sunny and warm, and I had enjoyed the morning, working away with the doors and windows open, Now, Rebecca! I told myself sensibly, the door will have to be closed. Dave can go off the lead, and just lay. Because that is what he does.
I entered The Shed. I let Dave off the lead. I turned round to shut the door. Because that was sensible, wasn’t it? I glanced out of the door glass to lament – for just a second, that it was a shame to have to close the door on such a day, but needs must, and what should I see? A tiny ball of blurry fluff whizzing back up the garden the way we’d just come, intent on finding his owners who were now merrily pootling off to Butlins for a well-deserved break.
Oh bugger. And therein lies the reason was why I was standing, screeching “Dave! DAVE!” at the top of my voice that day, panic rising in my chest as I knew I had no hope of catching the little fella. All I could do was shout at him – to let him know where I was. There was nothing else! To make matters worse, I had also assessed the bars of the Ostentatious Gates when Dave was dropped off – there was no way his escaped would be hampered in any way by those. In no time at all, Dave was loose on the A281, and I felt like I was going to vomit.
The next few moments were strange – eerie, almost. Dave was on the road – I knew that. I couldn’t see him, but I could hear the ominous beep of a car. This was not good. I hadn’t yet reached the gates, but before I did, I realised that, although Dave could get out, I couldn’t! As I gave futile chase, I forgot to take the flippin’ gate key with me, so I was running after a disorientated, desperate dog with no means of getting out of my bloody property to find him! I returned to The Shed, found the key and my phone, then ran up the garden again, frantically dialling Dave’s owners, in the hope that maybe he’d caught up with them, and was safely inside their Zafira, rather than under it….
But then, a miracle happened. Dave – bless his little lost heart, returned to me! I was shaking his food – grabbed in haste with the key and phone, he hurtled my way, and by some miracle, I was able to grab the little blighter. Dave was safe! There would be no scruffy, miniature corpse on my roadside sporting a flashy collar today, thank you very much! What luck!
After that, the shakes set in. Dave was stressed. I was stressed. What on Earth was I supposed to do with him for three more days? With the windows shut, The Shed is an inferno. With them open – well, we all know how Dave got out by now, don’t we?
Poor Little Dave. It was not his fault. The whole farcical episode was my bad. Big Seymour had told me it wasn’t a good idea, and I had ignored him. We’ll cope, I told him. After all, Dave just lays…
Very soon, I had come to the decision that Dave was neither safe nor happy in The Shed, and a rescue call was put out to Dave’s human granny – a lady to whom I shall be forever grateful! She came in a flash and whisked little Dave off to her secure house and garden, to spend the weekend with Welly Boot, his doggy friend. And then I collapsed on the floor in relief.
As is the case with most chapters in life, there are lessons to be learned from this:
Lesson One – If Boy Seymour asks again, I can tell him in no uncertain terms that, no! We are not in a position to own a dog.
Lesson Two – I must listen to Big Seymour more often. He’s right about some things. Sometimes.
Lesson Three – Yelling like a banshee/total prat may have made me feel idiotic, but I think it helped Dave know where to find me. I’d definitely do it again under similar circumstances, and…
Lesson Four – Just because a Yorkshire Terrier is small, classed as a toy, wears a blinged up collar and smells like Chanel Number 5, do not underestimate him. Because the most impressive thing I’ve seen in a long time is that dog, flying up my lawn, following his heart.
(FYI Simon, your dog does not “just lay!” He’s an athlete. Take him running with you.)
And for Dr Seuss’ poem, Too Many Daves, heavily referenced in this post, please see this link. It’s one of my absolute favourites.
(Drawing courtesy of Number One. She’s very clever, you know.)
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