Poo chase

Today Frank belted in from the garden, as part of a game he had devised, carrying poo between the toes of one paw. He grinned widely.

How long will it take them, he pondered, bouncing off the new sofa and me in a tour of his territory... how long, how long, how long?

About half an hour.

I can smell poo love, can you? I asked Jess.

Not really. What's that on your collar?

Um, you've got poo on your collar.

So began a nasal comb of the entire ground floor, in search of the remnants.

Apart from me, and a smear on the throw, the rest of the poo had been left in quantities big enough to smell but not see.

Frank followed me around, licking my ear. Warmer, warmer, hot, hot, really hot, cold, he whispered. This is more fun than I hoped.

There are bastards on the Downs at dusk

They won't hurt, said the horrible woman.

One of them ate Frank, while the other watched.

He spat him out because a six-month-old whippet isn't even big enough to count as a meaningful snack to Great Danes. Or because Frank had farted. Or because he was choking on Frank's body warmer.

It definitely wasn't because of me or the distant, largely disinterested owners.

I panicked and bellowed at them. Control your dogs please, they are eating mine.

Don't worry, they won't hurt you.

It occurred to me they may not even be able to see Frank from where they were. It was dusk, and the speaker had her back to me.

It's not me I'm worried about, I said, semi accurately.

Frank remained pinned to the ground, whimpering, contemplating his short life.

Later, as we hid over the other side of a hill, our hear rates decreasing, Frank wined at the silhouettes of two sharp corner roadsigns in the distance, which looked to both of us like the same Great Danes, after eating their own heads.

I inspected his injuries. A nick to the ear, all told. But can one really measure the psycological scars? Mine or his.

Although it was dark we went to the wreck in search of friendly hounds and confidence.

I told the first owner, whose name I do not know so we will have to call him Oscar, of our ordeal.

Beware of the bastards on the Downs with unruly dogs, he growled, through the night. I've stopped taking my Japanese Fighting Dog up there, altogether.

Lick it better

I just took a scab off under my jeans. Filth exited my mouth.

Frank wondered in, looked at me, walked up to my knee and started to lick a wound he couldn't see.

He's been licking his bum, Jess said, too late.

Food chase

Frank's been off his food.

Not off food, just off his.

William's is delicious.

And William, who must be wondering when this invader is going to stop growing, no longer puts up any resistance to the theft.

Frank knows he's not supposed to do it - but the animal in him, which admittedly might be a substantial part, can't help it. He sprints through the house, conscious we're soon to be tailing him, and dives into the bowel, mouth open, saliva at the ready.

William is not stupid, he can hear the approach. The speed of paw on floorboard, it's distinctive sound, is enough on its own. He leaves it until the last possible moment, and then springs back, exactly like a cat shitting itself.

The race begins. I'm usually no more than five seconds behind him, but Frank's speed eating is world-class now.

We rely on the speed of sound.

The deepest sound I can muster (I'm informed a deep voice is essential - and although I do not possess one, if I try really hard I can approximate manliness), is my first offering. 'NOOOOOOOOOO, FRAAAAANK!,' I instruct.

I may as well be saying, 'Dear boy, did you see XFactor last night?'

So I stamp - which comes more naturally, thanks to an appropriate weight.

I've seen Jess go through the same routine. I can say with certainty that we look and sound stupid and it has no affect.

The jaw movement is frenetic and primal by the time of arrival.

Bowl bounces around off his massive nose as he attempts to get into those hard to reach places.

He's prized away, chucked onto the floor, and as he struts off (past his own, brimming, bowl of dog food), arse in our face, continues to ignore threat and instruction.

'I've no idea what you're talking about, and it almost certainly wasn't me who did it.'

Crating havoc

Frank's agility has never been in doubt.

Today, for example, he was found by the neighbour walking along her wall, cat like, the wrong side of our fence, as well as numerous other barriers.

I'd gone to work with him left locked in doors.

Gill gathered her cats up for fear they might eat him, and plonked him back on the right side of the boundary.

Later Dad arrived to feed and walk Frank, and he was back on the sofa, chuckling.

This evening Gill came over to tell us - otherwise we would never have known.

Later the puppy trainer informed us we were heading for trouble.

A combination of letting Frank sleep in our room and sit on the sofa, followed by shutting him in the kitchen for a couple of hours, is not, apparently, reconcilable.

Back to square one with the crate training, she said, not even trying to cover her voice.

Fuck off, Frank said, almost loud enough to hear.

I'll move out first. Gill's place is a possibility.

Wrong end friend

Today a Chiwawa humped Frank's head in the park.

He looked up at us through the randy midget's legs.

His expression needed no interpretation. It was the end of a long day.

Earlier I found him in he kitchen amongst blood and broken clay.

Finally, I thought, the shocking and unexpected proof.

On Monday morning, inexplicably, the kitchen tap had been on when I came downstairs. I'd been cross with the cat all week.

It turns out it was Frank all along.

Today, in an attempt to lay claim to the stunt, he'd jumped onto the work-surface, knocked his bowel onto the floor and somehow cut his hind leg open in the process.

A small flap of skin, but the amount of blood indicated much worse. For a moment I thought the cat may have bought it, and was considering how I could help Frank with an alibi.

Franks following attempts to escape the kitchen were illustrated with red smears and splatters on Kitchen and back door as well as the window behind the sink.

While he was being head humped, the Chiwawa's owner said she's known an Italian Greyhound once, which could jump as high as her.

'They are very springy,' she warned.

If only we'd known a little earlier.

You set this up, Frank was clearly thinking as he looked at us laughing. This is my punishment.

Rain pain

It's raining.

Frank is not a wet weather dog and this suits me. I am not a wet weather owner.

It is September though. Our first Autumn with the dog. Damp, cold and dark are on the cards for a while. So what's the plan?, since outside is unappealing to all of us in here.

Things are OK as long as you're frank.

There are cushions to fray, a cat to torment, this stupid chewy rawhide thing dad bought back from the last costly trip to Pet's Pantry which turns into mush and looks like a decomposed, muddy and publicly discarded item of once sanitary purpose, to drag all over the new sofa. The wood floor isn't bad for skidding across on claws either.. leaves tracks like a Scalextric.

I'll wee inside too if you don't mind.

If it could stop raining that would be great.