Dog Days E-Book

Robert Parker

• Herausgeber: Dolman Scott Publishers
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 154

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

For dog lovers who cherish the bond with their furry friends, Stories of My Four-Legged Friends is a heartwarming and positive collection of stories by Robert Parker lovingly illustrated by Carol James. Celebrating the joy, loyalty, and adventures of canine companionship, this book is a must-read for anyone who knows that dogs aren’t just pets—they’re family.

A Perfect Christmas Gift for the dog lover in your life.

Leseprobe

SHARING TIME WITH

OUR WONDERFUL DOGS

IS NEVER MISSPENT!

ROBERT PARKER

Published by Dolman Scott in 2024

Copyright © Robert Parker 2024

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission of the copyright owner. Nor can it be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on a subsequent purchaser.

ISBN:

PoD: 978-1-915351-25-8

eBook: 978-1-915351-26-5

Published by

www.dolmanscott.com

AN INTRODUCTION TO MAN’S BEST FRIEND

A dog is indeed an unparalleled companion for both men and women. Through my own experiences, I’ve found that dogs embody the epitome of loyalty, obedience, consistency, and unwavering faithfulness. They stand by our side through life’s trials and triumphs, always eager to protect, comfort, and love unconditionally. Stories abound of dogs who, despite being separated from their humans, wait with unyielding hope for years on end for a joyful reunion. Tales of dogs braving the elements and overcoming obstacles to find their way back home only reaffirm the depth of their devotion. It raises the philosophical question of ownership—whether humans own dogs or if, perhaps, it’s the dogs who possess our hearts. The optimal time to welcome a dog into your life is when they are between six to ten weeks old. Although separation from their mother at this tender age can be traumatic, it soon gives way to the formation of a profound bond with their new family. With time, love, and care, this bond solidifies into a lifelong, indestructible connection.

Throughout my lifetime, I have had the privilege of sharing my journey with eight remarkable dogs. Each one brought a unique set of traits that were utterly endearing, making every moment spent together a treasure. Sharing their discoveries of the natural world and cultivating an everlasting bond has been an immense joy. Although the sorrow at the end of their lives is profound, the memories we created are indelible.

This modest book is a tribute to those memories—a compilation of precious moments and experiences I had the fortune to share with my canine friends. It’s an attempt to encapsulate the beauty and depth of the relationships formed with these extraordinary creatures.

Robert Parker the author hard at work dreaming of new canine adventures.

For

Skip, Nutmeg, Wellington, Boots, Tigger, Millie, Jasper, Alphie and Mungo.

WHO ARE YOU SKIP, AND WHY ARE YOU HERE?

The last rays of the afternoon sun were fading as I trudged off the bus from Bakewell, finding myself in the quaint embrace of Ashford in the Water. My thoughts were clouded with the disheartening reflections of my inaugural day at the new school. The journey home to The School House—a name that still felt foreign on my tongue despite having been my residence for a mere week—was short but filled with contemplation on what could have made the day bearable.

I mused over my father’s simultaneous first day at his school, silently wishing his experiences had been more fulfilling than mine. As the familiar structures of the school and then our house came into view, curiosity nudged my disappointment aside. The priority was to ascertain how his day unfolded. But first, I reminded myself to adhere to the domestic discipline instilled by my mother: my blazer needed to find its way into the wardrobe, not abandoned in a heap on the floor or draped over my bed, lest I incur her displeasure.

The bedroom I had occupied for six nights had quickly endeared itself to me. Spacious and airy, it was a stark contrast to my previous abode, boasting a large picture window that offered a panoramic view of the River Wye and the rolling hills beyond. The prospect of exploring those hills, perhaps accompanied by a newfound friend, ignited a spark of excitement within me.

However, as I nudged the garden gate open, an unexpected sight halted me—a black and white ball of fluff, a burst of energy that momentarily appeared before skittering under the laurel bush at the garden’s edge.

I froze, processing the sight. A dog?. No, a puppy, by the looks of it. Questions swirled in my mind about its origins and how it managed to infiltrate our garden, surrounded by formidable barriers meant to keep such intruders at bay.

The sudden sensation of a tap on my shoulder made me whirl around, coming face to face with my father, who excitedly pointed out the tiny intruder now making its cautious way across the lawn towards us. Despite my disbelief, I blurted out an offer to catch the apparently lost sheepdog puppy.

My father’s response took me by surprise. “He’s yours,” he softly announced, “His name is Skip. Calling him should bring him to you.”

Sure enough, within moments, Skip was in my arms, anointing my face with enthusiastic licks. The revelation that Skip was a gift for me, a symbol of a fresh start in this new chapter of our lives, left me speechless. My recent tumultuous history in Warsop, marked by mischief and admonishments, seemed a world away. Yet, here I was, being entrusted with a companion, a gesture of faith and love from my parents that felt like an unwarranted reward yet a profound opportunity for redemption.

Skip’s arrival marked the beginning of a new bond, a shared journey of growth and healing, in the shadow of past troubles and towards a future filled with hope and companionship. It was a strange, beautiful twist in the narrative of my life, a testament to the unpredictable, gracious turns of fate.

SHEPHERDING THE SHEEP

The sudden urgency of the knocks on the door startled me from my academic reverie, the sharp raps demanding immediate attention. With a sigh, I set aside my fountain pen, carefully tucked my biology homework into the desk, and made my way through the hall toward the unexpected intrusion. My mother, however, with her innate responsiveness, had already reached the door, swinging it open to reveal the source of the commotion.

Standing there, with a storm brewing in his eyes, was George, the familiar farmer from Top Farm. His usually composed demeanor was nowhere to be seen, replaced instead by an aura of barely contained fury. With a knot of apprehension tightening my stomach, I pondered what could have possibly incited such wrath.

Before I could interject, George’s thunderous voice filled the space, targeting our beloved Skip with a threat that sent chills down my spine. My mother’s posture deflated under the weight of his words, a silent testament to her concern. I couldn’t stand idly by. Stepping forward, I positioned myself between my mother and George, ready to bear the brunt of his anger. “He’s my responsibility,” I declared, the words heavy with a mixture of fear and defiance.

George paused, seemingly taken aback by my intervention. This moment of silence was merely the calm before the storm, as he launched into a detailed account of his ordeal. His narrative painted a vivid picture, The sprawling Harrup field, with its sea of green under the expansive sky, was a pastoral idyll and home to George’s flock of ewes and their lambs. However, this tranquility was disrupted by the chaos unleashed by Skip.

It was a curious thing, George not having a dog, especially given the nature of his work. His absence of a canine companion on a farm teeming with livestock was a puzzle I had often contemplated but never solved.

As George’s initial fury calmed down to a simmering frustration, he recounted the laborious task of selecting lambs for the market, a day’s work rendered futile by Skip’s unsanctioned herding escapade. The disappointment in his voice was palpable, especially as he mentioned Joyce’s missed hair appointment—a casualty of their unexpected overtime in the field.

The final revelation of Skip’s misadventure left me in a precarious position, torn between defending my loyal friend and facing the consequences of his actions. George’s final query about Skip’s whereabouts filled me with dread. Yet, as I stood there, a silent prayer on my lips, the quiet of the evening remained undisturbed, granting us a temporary reprieve from the storm of George’s wrath.

In that moment, the depth of my bond with Skip became crystal clear—despite the chaos, the fear of loss, and the daunting responsibility his actions had thrust upon me, I knew that navigating these turbulent waters was part of the journey of companionship and love that we shared.

“WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?”

The urgency in my mother’s voice sliced through the afternoon calm, her words laden with concern for Skip, our adventurous Collie who seemed to have embarked on an unsanctioned exploration of the village. The realisation that Skip was missing from his usual haunts in our backyard sent a ripple of anxiety through me. “How long has he been gone?” I shouted towards the kitchen, secretly hoping for reassurance that his disappearance was a recent event. The mixer’s whir humming in the background only heightened the tension. My mother confessed she had no idea of his whereabouts, her focus divided between baking and the crisis.

Resigned to my role in the rescue mission and reminded of the non-negotiable nature of maternal directives, I donned my jacket with a mix of haste and reluctance. The Hall Orchard, a communal treasure and the village’s verdant heart, seemed the most plausible destination for a dog with Skip’s curious inclinations.

Upon arrival, my query to a group of children, engrossed in their playground antics, was met with a disdainful disregard, a stark reminder of my less-than-favourable reputation among the younger village residents. Their blunt refusal to aid in my search only fueled my frustration, prompting me to widen my search toward the cricket field.

The cricket field presented a bittersweet tableau; friends immersed in their game, a scene I longed to join but duty bound me elsewhere. Alan’s cricket prowess momentarily distracted me, a testament to the camaraderie I was missing. Yet, the urgency to find Skip tugged at me, pulling me away from the fleeting joy of the game.

The failing light and the growl of hunger pangs hinted at the day’s end, compelling me to consider admitting defeat. The thought of returning home empty-handed was disheartening, yet the promise of a hearty supper offered some small consolation.

However, fate had a twist in store. As I neared the village’s heart, a familiar black and white figure emerged, igniting a flicker of hope. “Skip!” I called, desperation lacing my voice, only to be met with a response that was anything but reassuring. Skip’s evasion seemed a stark denial of our bond, his distance growing with every call I made.

The chase that ensued was a test of wills, winding through the village’s arteries, a silent plea for recognition hanging between us. The sight of Skip veering into our home’s embrace offered a glimmer of hope, a potential end to this unexpected odyssey.

There, before the threshold of our home, sat Skip, the embodiment of innocent mischief, his wagging tail and direct gaze seemingly asking, “You wanted me home, didn’t you?” His presence, both a relief and a rebuke, was a reminder of the unspoken pact between us—a bond of trust, companionship, and the occasional chase. In that moment, all frustrations melted away, replaced by the warmth of reunion and the silent acknowledgment of the adventures and misadventures that lay in the heart of our shared journey.

HE’S GONE BACK TO UNI.I HAD BETTER GO AND FIND HIM

The persistent rain drummed a rhythmic pattern against the windows, a soundtrack to Greta’s firm instruction that Bob should venture into the storm in search of their wayward Collie, Skip. Bob, though swamped with the daunting task of preparing school lessons, couldn’t ignore the directive. He donned his mac, a protective shield against the downpour, his mind swirling with thoughts of Skip’s unusual escapade. It was out of character for Skip to stray, making his absence more perplexing.

The quest to find Skip turned into an exhaustive search, spanning every conceivable locale from the farm at the lane’s end to the village’s communal heartbeat, and even the local pubs, places brimming with familiar faces yet devoid of any sign of Skip. Upon his return, soaked and disheartened, Bob found solace in Greta’s pragmatic optimism. Supper awaited, albeit slightly overdone, a small comfort against the backdrop of worry for their absent friend.

The new day dawned with no sign of Skip, escalating their concern into action. Greta’s call to the local police yielded no immediate hope, leaving them to grapple with the silence of uncertainty. However, the unexpected call from Bakewell police station later that day sparked a flicker of hope. The detailed description of a found Collie in Matlock, a good distance away, matched Skip’s appearance and behaviors uncannily. Bob couldn’t help but smile at the image of Skip, detained yet untroubled, in a police cell.

The revelation that Skip might have embarked on a quest to find their son, Robert, who had recently returned to university, painted his journey in a new light. The lengths to which Skip had gone, driven by loyalty and perhaps a sense of loss, astounded them. Matlock, with its distance and dangers, seemed an improbable destination for any dog, yet Skip had defied the odds.

Greta’s conversation with the Matlock police further confirmed their hopes. The description matched Skip perfectly, right down to the distinctive black tail with its white tip. Their journey to Matlock, filled with anxious anticipation, culminated in a reunion that was both immediate and emotional. Skip’s demeanor, unphased by his adventure, mirrored the simplicity of a dog’s world where such escapades are mere blips in the continuum of their loyalty and love.

Home again, with Skip contentedly enjoying his supper, the ordeal seemed to dissolve into the fabric of family lore. For Skip, the adventure was just another day in his life, a testament to the boundless spirit and enduring bond that pets share with their families.

NUTMEG ARRIVES AT RECTORY.

The thrill of welcoming Nutmeg, the Irish Setter, into our home was palpable. Her previous visits had painted her as nothing short of delightful—a vision of elegance with her curly, nutmeg-brown fur and a demeanor that radiated charm. Yet, the abrupt departure of Sandra, her previous owner, with a finality that spoke volumes, should have been our first clue to the impending whirlwind Nutmeg was about to unleash upon our serene Rectory life.

Our evening out with friends was a brief respite from the anticipation of integrating Nutmeg into our family. The night was serene, with the celestial tapestry overhead whispering the calm before the storm. However, upon our return, the silence that greeted us was not the peaceful quietude we had expected but the ominous prelude to chaos unfurled.

The sight that met our eyes upon opening the drawing room door was one of bewildering astonishment. A scene reminiscent of a midwinter snowstorm unfolded before us, with what appeared to be countless snowflakes blanketing every surface. The realisation that these “snowflakes” were in fact the remains of what once were our plush, floral curtains—meticulously dismantled by Nutmeg in our absence—sent a shockwave of disbelief through us. Nutmeg’s nose, barely visible behind the sofa, and her sheepish, almost contrite expression did little to temper the magnitude of her misadventure.

In one evening, Nutmeg had transformed from a seemingly gentle soul into a whirlwind of destruction, leaving us to ponder the true nature of her spiritedness. Her artistic endeavor, while destructive, was a stark reminder of the unpredictability that comes with opening one’s home to a new pet. The missing curtains, now transformed into a landscape of faux snow, stood as a testament to Nutmeg’s untapped energy and perhaps a mischievous streak that Sandra had alluded to, albeit subtly.

As we stood amidst the aftermath, the weight of Nutmeg’s “handiwork” settled upon us, not just as a loss of material possessions but as an unforeseen challenge that lay ahead. It was a vivid introduction to the complexities and joys of pet ownership, a journey that, while sometimes fraught with unexpected turns, promised to enrich our lives with unconditional love, laughter, and the occasional reminder of the sheer unpredictability of sharing one’s life with a spirited canine.

NUTMEG AND THE FOX

The tale of Nutmeg and the vixen is one that transcends the ordinary encounters between domestic pets and wild animals, weaving a narrative of unexpected camaraderie against the backdrop of Yate Hall’s neglected splendor. The mansion’s serene desolation, alongside the untamed beauty of its fox residents, set the stage for a remarkable interaction that speaks volumes about the instincts and intelligence of animals.

Nutmeg, despite her previous rambunctious behavior within the confines of the Rectory, showcased a different facet of her nature during the twilight encounter with the vixen. Her poised observation, followed by a silent release to chase, not hunt, reveals a complex understanding and restraint uncharacteristic of many domesticated dogs when confronted with wildlife.

The chase, rather than culminating in a violent clash as one might fear, unfolded as a breathtaking dance across the Rectory’s fields. It was a chase devoid of malice, where the thrill of the run united predator and playmate in a moment of pure freedom. Nutmeg’s ability to match the vixen stride for stride, yet choose companionship over conquest, showcases a rare moment of interspecies understanding and respect.

This momentary bond, fleeting as it was, left an indelible mark on Nutmeg, whose subsequent searches along the wall seemed driven by a hope for another playful rendezvous rather than a predatory impulse. It’s a poignant reminder of the potential for harmony in the natural world, even between the most unlikely of friends.

The legacy of that evening’s encounter goes beyond the thrill of the chase; it’s a testament to the unexpected connections that can occur between the worlds of the wild and the tamed. Nutmeg’s story, set against the backdrop of Yate Hall’s quiet grandeur, adds a layer of mystique and wonder to the life within and around the Rectory, encapsulating the beauty of nature’s unpredictability and the endless possibilities that lie in the simple act of crossing paths.

WELLINGTON EATING THE CHICKENS AND EGGS