October 2010 - two Tobys?
How would I cope with two Tobys?
That question briefly exercised my mind one day, when Toby raced to the front door, barking furiously.
I followed to see what all the noise was about, to find Toby staring at a mirror image of himself. For a moment I thought that the glass panel next to the door must have magically acquired reflective qualities.
Then the “reflection” ran off, wearing a blue collar just like that which Toby used to wear when younger. I know of no other black Labrador in Jenanter Drive, and there was no sign of an owner on the road.
Had Toby’s past come back to haunt him, or was there really another Toby out there, seeking a sucker as a carer?
Sadly, despite his attachment to the Kangaroo Valley Voice, Toby hasn’t yet learned to read. If he had, he’d have known – at least had he lain on his back on the floor and looked upwards, for the warning label is stuck underneath – that it’s unsafe to sit on my footstool.
As it is, in blissful ignorance of the unspecified danger, my footstool is his favourite destination whenever I sit down to read. Sometimes, as previously recorded, he uses it as a launching pad for my chair.
Often, however, he just sits on it, staring at me mournfully, as if to express his disbelief that I could possibly find reading a more congenial occupation than playing with him.
Toby loves everyone. That is a mixed blessing, as he assumes everyone loves him, too. Whenever I walk him off the lead I live in constant fear of his seeing someone who won’t welcome his attentions.
One morning he spotted someone getting into a car at the end of her driveway.
So did I, but too late to restrain him.
He bounded down the driveway, gave her a wet greeting, and tried to get into the car. Frustrated in that attempt, he turned his attention to the house, and in particular to an open door.
Before I’d even reached the end of the driveway, he was inside the house, jumping all over the owner’s mother. Fortunately, she was more tolerant of his adolescent behaviour than might reasonably have been expected. A few days later, he found an open door in an adjoining house, leading me to fear that the summit of his ambition for our morning walks was to visit every house in Jenanter Drive.
Whenever I decide it’s time to bring these annals to a close Toby, in an apparent attempt to postpone the inevitable, provides me with an eventful day.
I was without a car for a week, while it was in hospital for surgery following an unfortunate encounter with a wombat, so Toby was treated to a daily walk to the village and back. On the first such walk, he suddenly stopped dead, with hairs bristling, and growled. It took me some time to discover the cause of this unusual behaviour – a wombat, in a similar state of suspended animation, barely a metre from Toby but separated from him by a hedge.
This excursion had the advantage of tiring Toby more than our usual daily walks, but his recovery time rivals that of a well-trained athlete. Before long he hurled himself onto a large leather lounge with such force that it moved 1.3 metres (yes, I measured it, lest I be accused of exaggeration) until halted by an open wall unit, on which many of my most valuable ornaments are displayed.
Somehow they survived this onslaught undamaged, so the scratches on the parquet floor paled into insignificance and Toby’s banishment was only temporary.
I thought that was enough excitement for one day, but Toby evidently thought otherwise.
I don’t know what frightened him during his bed-time visit to the garden, but he shot through his dog flap as if someone had tied a rocket to his tail and lit it.
It seems that he derives greater enjoyment from the aromas produced by the local fauna than from close-range encounters with the alien creatures themselves. In fact he is easily startled by any unfamiliar sight or sound.
He may look threatening, and indeed he is capable of knocking down anything and anyone less than five feet tall. But despite appearances he’s a 35kg hunk of WIMP!
Tony Barnett