Cats, dogs, sheep and other local fauna
By Sue Fenton of F Words
I was on an organised ramble on the North Downs the other day and the leader stopped to meow to a passing cat. “I suppose that seems a bit strange,” he said apologetically, in response to more than a couple of enquiring glances in his direction, “but every time I see an animal I have a compulsion to ’talk’ to it in its own language!”
One of the group said there was nothing wrong with that, confessing that she often fails to recognise acquaintances she sees out on walks - she only knows it’s them because she recognises their dogs!
As someone who also takes more notice of dogs than of their humans, I can quite understand this. One of my regular routes for walks is what I call The Track, the bridleway that leads from Green Lane in Whitebushes down to Horley.
It’s an unusual day on The Track if you don’t meet at least two dogs on their daily constitutionals. Many give me a sniff around the leg area - fascinated by the delicious aroma arising from my trousers - and stop to chat for a bit, then potter off to rummage though the undergrowth.
Others rudely ignore me because what they’re doing is far more interesting. A case in point is the Staffordshire Bull Terrier I found hanging by its jaws from a tree branch. Its barrel-like body - these creatures are built like brick outhouses - wiggled with delight, all 8 stone of it suspended from those monster jaws, as it ‘killed’ its prey. Its owner assured me that this was a friendly one, far more interested in killing trees than people, though to see this demonstration of the sheer power in those jaws, the tenacity of the beast, I could understand why people are wary of bull terriers. The fact that they look extremely similar to the illegal pit bulls gives these dogs a bad press, but Staffy owners, in common with owners of that other maligned breed, the Rottweiler, are adamant that the problem is bad owners, not bad dogs. These dogs’ tenacity in dealing with enemies equates to their loyalty in protecting their loved ones.
Talking of monster dogs, have you ever been down that footpath near the Skimmington Castle that runs alongside a garden with a disused tennis court in it? If you walk past at the right time you get the awe-inspiring sight of a pack of enormous Great Danes burning off the calories in their field. The owner takes them for a ‘walk’ by driving a motorised tractor thing around the field while the beasts chase after him. These massive hounds could clear the garden fence in a single bound and I was rather scared that they would. I like to think that, if they did, they would opt to lick me senseless rather than tear my throat out - size no more dictates aggression in dogs than it does in humans.
One of my favourite walking spots is a place I call Dog City - a farm half a mile down a track from Buckland. The place might look deserted, but as you approach first one, then another, then yet another, and another, Golden Retriever awakens from its slumbers in the farmyard or amid a hay bale, and comes trotting out to greet the stranger, barking enthusiastically. There must be eight or nine of the creatures and the great noise they emit (for Retrievers are no introverts when it comes to speaking out) belies their deep desire to lick you all over, which they proceed to do if given half a chance. I so love to mingle in this sea of wagging tails - it’s like massage for the soul.
I also like to speak to rural creatures like cows and sheep - though frankly the look of disdain they shoot you in return is rather humiliating. Sheep aren’t supposed to be very intelligent, are they? But who’s to say they actually aren’t really pretty bright and that the blank look they give you disguises the contempt they feel from their ability to look right into your soul and see everything that is dull, contemptible and worthless?
I’m sure this must be true, because I was once chased by a flock of sheep when crossing a field near Leigh on my way to the Seven Stars. Afterwards, everyone told me I must have been imagining it. “Sheep don’t chase people,” one friend told me. “They run away. Cows chase you - they must have been cows.” I’m no farmer but I assure you I can tell the difference between a sheep and a cow - particularly when I have hared across a muddy field trying to escape a bleating herd of them intent on disembowelling me.
It was during that same Seven Stars walk that I attracted the attention of a horny goat. Not content with his harem of nannies, this lad fixed his beady eye on me as I hopped over the stile into his field, and stalked enticingly towards me, accompanied by what I can only describe as a fascinatingly - and increasingly long - pink appendage. William Hill could have started a book on which of the two favourites would reach the safety of the opposite stile first - I am happy to report that it was me, by a whisker, leaving my disappointed suitor to the company of his usual ladies.
Horses also show an interest in human passers-by - possibly because they can see any apple or carrot you might have prepared for them earlier. Once that’s been wolfed down, though, they look at you contemplatively as though seeing you for the first time - and start stalking towards you. Their motives might be purely food-related but I see only menace in their gait and I usually hop back over the fence sharpish - I’ve heard about what a well-aimed kick on the shin from a testy horse can do, and have you seen those gigantic teeth?
I’m more relaxed with pigs: I spent a happy hour in a sty last summer visiting a sow and her numerous offspring owned by a chap I know from the pub. Now pigs - they’re supposed to chase you, especially if you mess with their young, but this sow was relaxed to the point of neglect about a strange human fooling about with her piglets. She happily snuffled about among the bran mash or whatever it is pigs eat, entirely ignoring the squeals of her little ones as I sat on the sty floor attempting to stroke them and cuddle them like kittens.
Which brings me onto cats. I will write more about them another time, since mine are a source of constant delight and amusement.
By Sue Fenton of F Words copywriting services
www.fwords.co.uk