November 2010 - I blame the ABC
Surely Foreign Correspondent is supposed to report human, not simian, behaviour around the world.
Yet one episode was entirely devoted to the activities of bonobos in Congo.
Bonobos are a rare species of primate, and Toby was evidently anxious to see them before they become extinct.
In his effort to get up close and personal, he pushed a glass shelf, together with a DVD player and VCR, out of the TV stand onto the floor. My anguished reaction led Toby to lose all interest in bonobos.
We hadn’t been to the beach for some time, so I decided to ignore the gale-force wind one day, to assuage my guilt.
Berry Mountain was like a dodgem course, with so many fallen branches, but I made it almost to the other side before a fallen tree brought my efforts to an abrupt end.
It was almost two weeks before I had another free day and this time our drive there was subject to a different sort of interruption, which caused Toby and me to jump as high as our respective restraints would allow, when he inadvertently turned on a pop radio station, when the volume was adjusted for a quiet, classical CD.
However, we made it to the beach on a perfect spring morning when, according to the tidal chart, it should have been low tide.
But it certainly didn’t look like it, and I realised that “low”, when ascribed to tide, is a relative term, and it was close to the spring equinox. But at least what was left of the beach was deserted.
Sadly, I soon discovered the reason for that, when I got close enough to read the first of several signs on the beach: fox baiting.
I wasn’t going to deprive Toby of his walk on the beach again, so I risked the assumption that baits had been laid on the dunes, rather than the beach itself.
All went well, even if I did shout myself hoarse to keep Toby off the dunes, until he spied a small boy just arrived on the beach. I managed to get his lead on, tried to persuade the apprehensive child that Toby was only a puppy, and moved on. I let Toby off the lead after some 100 metres.
He ran back to the frightened child.
I pursued him, put him on the lead, and moved on again. This time I didn’t let him off for at least 200 metres.
He raced back to the child, now terrified.
By the time I caught up, the child’s mother wisely decided that discretion was better than valour, and removed the child from the beach.
I suppose I should blame myself.
I had decided to fence the raised bed within Toby’s enclosure, to discourage his efforts to dig up, or ring-bark, the weeping cherry trees planted in it. But, instead of using a tape measure, I paced around the bed, and decided that I needed 20 sections of the fencing I had chosen.
I couldn’t believe my luck when I found that Nowra Bunnings had exactly that number in stock. Unfortunately, because of the bed’s irregular shape, I found 20 sections weren’t quite enough. So, until I could buy one more, I left the gap where it was blocked (or so I thought) by a large lomandra.
Once again, I had underestimated Toby’s perseverance. He waited until the bed had been weeded, fertilised, mulched and watered before attempting to dig up one of the weeping cherries.
Then he raced to share his delight with me, happily spreading mud all through the house and over my clothes as I sat at my computer.
The best way to keep Toby out of trouble, when left unattended, is to give him a bone. But he can consume (completely – not just chew) the “normal” sized bones I can get at a supermarket in half an hour, so I’ve taken to buying giant bones from a butcher, which last several days.
One day I gave him an especially large specimen before leaving him for eight hours. When I returned there was no trace of it to be seen. I couldn’t believe that he’d consumed it all in that time, so I searched every inch of his enclosure, groped through the green, slimy water in the fountain (which he prefers to drink to the clean water in his bowl) and, in case he’d dragged it through the dog flap, looked under the furniture and even felt into the depths of the leather lounges.
Despite my dislike of mysteries, I had to give up. The next morning I looked out the window and caught him digging up a very muddy bone, from a spot I had carefully walked over several times. He must have replaced every grain of soil, and every blade of grass, to avoid detection.
I chose a bad day to leave the gate to Toby’s enclosure unbolted while I took shopping out of the car. The wind blew the gate open, and when I turned round there was no sign of him. I grabbed his lead and ran to the road. Fortunately a neighbour was driving past so, when I heard her furious hoots a few moments later, I guessed she was trying to tell me something.
Sure enough, by the time I reached her car she was out of it, trying to catch Toby. He thought it a great game, and raced off towards the main road. Fortunately he was distracted by a large number of parked cars, and went to investigate. By the time I caught up with him he was terrorising two small children and an even smaller puppy at a surprised funeral gathering.
Toby is now almost 18 months old.
As I have no reason to believe that he won’t respect the tradition of his breed, that means I can look forward at least another 18 months’ puppyhood. Much as I’d like to share that experience with you, I think that the interest of regular readers of this column, who have now shared life with Toby for over a year, could be stretched too far if I did so. I might be tempted to resume these chronicles if and when Toby finally grows up. But I suspect you’d find them boring. Tony Barnett