skyring

Next door has bought a dog. They went the same way we did, rescuing a dog from the pound, and good on them. She's a Staffordshire Terrier, newly desexed, lovely personality, ugly as sin, strong and solid, as Staffies are.

The neighbours were good enough to letterbox the immediate neighbourhood about Roxy and how they are working on the barking problem.

So about eleven this morning i go out to check the mail and there she is, trundling out of the hole in the hedge with a big grin on her face.

Yipes. I can't let her wander around the place by herself, she's liable to get run over, she's still got stitches in her tummy, and my own little terrier is getting very interested.

So I get out Coomie's leash, hook it on, get the thing tangled around my legs as the two dogs circle each other, trying to sniff without being sniffed, and walk her next door. There's a car in the front yard, so I'm hoping someone's home.

But no answer to the bell. Drat.

I look into the back yard, which they've been working on to make it dog-retentive. They have tied up the gate with wire, and it's a fairly high fence, at least a metre. So I lift up Roxy, who is really a delightfully well-behaved dog, and discover just how heavy she is for a young dog, and lift her over the fence into the secure back yard.

Job well done, I'm thinking as I walk back home, but here's Roxy coming out through the hole in the hedge, very pleased with herself.

Blast. What do I do now? I've got the new fridge being delivered soon, and the old one is still full of food and melted iceblocks and melting ice and curdled milk. Not to mention fridge magnets and what I know is a horrendous mess underneath that needs to be swept up.

So I clip the leash back on, take her around to their back door and leave her tied up. She begins crying and barking when she realises her freedom has vanished, but I'm hard of heart.

I can hear her complaining for a while. The neighbours say they are working on behaviour therapy, and I know this takes time.

After a while the noise stops, and I'm hoping she's given up.

But no. She's here at the door, the broken leash dragging on the ground. Crikey, she must have snapped it or bitten through it.

And here I am with nothing strong enough to hold her. We juggle dogs and boxes of food and cleaning rags for a few minutes during which time Roxy discovers the cat food, and eventually I find a nylon rope, with which I fashion a new leash, drawing upon my experience of many years ago as a Cub Scout to tie bowlines and stuff.

So I tie her up again.

And after the obligatory ten minutes of crying, she's back again. Bloody hell. The fridge bloke has just called in, he's on his way, and we're nowhere near ready for him. The floor is a mess of drip water, melting ice, and odd peas and bits of suspicious things from around the back of the shelves.

I let Roxy slide for a bit and when I poke my head out to see if she's still around, i can hear voices from next door. Good-oh! It must be the neighbours, checking on their delinquent dog.

Nope. It's the neighbours from two doors down, on the other side of Roxy's house. Or rather, it's the lady and her gardener. We talk about the situation, i mention she's broken her bonds twice over, and the gardener looks at the remnants of my nylon rope with scorn. he's got a decent rope in his truck, and he'll do a proper job of tying her up.

I leave them to it, and just as we get the old fridge moved, and we're attacking the grime and gloop underneath, the fridge delivery man arrives. I have to go outside to greet him, and here's Roxy to join the welcome committee. She's worked her magic on the stout rope the gardener used, and she's free again, helping us as I move pot plants, help push the fridge up the stairs and round the tricky corners. She listens in as I get instructions on what to do, warranties and so on, and then as the fridge guy packs up the old one and departs, she decides it's time to explore the area and trots over the road, ignoring traffic.

Bloody dog. So DD and I chase her as she bounds down the street, saying hello to strangers walking down to the restaurants at the local shops, disappearing behind bushes and crossing another street.

I eventually find her, looking up at lunching diners and being dreadfully cute. I seize one of her fragmented ropes, mutter something about her not being my bloody dog, and take her back.

This time I fashion a rope out of several strands of rope and tie her up again. DD has opened communication with the owners, and they are coming home.

Yeah, well, my new rope lasts as long as the others, but I've now found DS's bike chain, which should hold her.

Unfortunately I haven't found the combination, and DS, when quizzed, hasn't got a clue.

Not a very secure lock and we gradually work and rattle it free. 6312, i announce, and DS looks bright. Yes, that's right, he says. Humph.

Anyway, the bike chain holds back the hound until her owners get home. Apparently they'd locked her inside their house, so she had broken out of the house and out of the yard. They put her in their car and take her to work.

So that's that sorted.

Until tomorrow.