Son of Serge Bastarde (17 page)

  I agreed with her but inside I felt sad, knowing that soon I was going to have to leave our house in the Chalosse where I was safe and comfortable. It had been the only place – apart from Helen's flat in Clapham and our windmill in Portugal miles from anywhere – that I felt at home.

  It all felt a bit daunting and I couldn't say exactly why.

  'So can we get another Staffordshire bull terrier as well then?' I asked.

  'Ooh, I've wanted one for ages,' said Helen. 'It's been so long without one since Spike. I'd really like that – a new house, and a new dog to love.'

  'You're on,' I shouted, punching the air. 'YES! To the woods!'

This wasn't quite working out the way we had hoped. Our Staffordshire bull terrier puppy was attacking our feet, trying to bite our shoes as we walked. He barked and jumped with glee, tail wagging furiously, clearly excited, as if this was what we wanted. He was a 'red' (tan-coloured) Staff and we had christened him Buster – the way he was turning out we couldn't have chosen a better name. We had bought him from a Staffie breeder at le Petit Crécy in the middle of France.

  To be fair, this behaviour wasn't his fault. We'd had to leave him with dog sitters while we returned to England on a buying trip when we'd only had him for two weeks. We needed to spend a few days bidding in the auction rooms in the UK, scouring through the antique fairs and car boots for bargains that might go down well in France. We couldn't take him with us as we had to wait until he was six months old to have his first rabies jab. Then we had to wait a whole year for them to issue him with a special 'doggy passport'.

  We found English dog sitters living in the Gers, a couple, Malcolm and Brenda, who had recently bought a small country cottage and moved out to France. Brenda seemed kindly and capable, but we weren't totally sure about Malcolm. He never stopped talking from the moment we arrived. He appeared to have a completely over-romanticised view of France and everything French.

  'I love it here,' he insisted. 'The builders are real trained professionals, not cowboys. You wouldn't catch me going back to England... no way!' He admitted he couldn't speak a word of French, but he was determined to learn with the set of CDs he'd just bought.

  'I love dogs,' he said, down on his knees play-fighting with Buster. 'I've always had German shepherds – marvellous dogs! So intelligent and easy to train.'

  'Best not fight with Staffs,' I advised him gently. 'They get overexcited and don't know when to stop.'

  'I could play fight with my Alsatians for hours,' he insisted. 'I only had to give them the command and they stopped immediately.'

  'It doesn't work like that with Staffordshire bull terriers,' I said. 'Trust me, we've had eight and it's best not to get them too worked up. When their eyes glaze over they kind of lose it.'

  'My dogs were well trained and totally obedient,' he persisted. 'I could do anything with them. Don't worry, when you get back you won't believe the change in this little chap.'

  'There's really no need,' we said. 'Just feed him and exercise him, he'll be fine.'

  Brenda was more practical. 'The garden's fenced so he can have the run of the place. He won't be any trouble.'

  As we drove off with them waving at the garden gate holding up Buster and waggling his little paw goodbye Helen had second thoughts. 'I'm not happy,' she said. 'Let's cancel the trip and take Buster home.'

  'He'll be all right,' I said. 'They're dog lovers. What harm can it do?'

We returned a week later with a van full of English goodies and were keen to see how Buster had got on. Helen had been phoning regularly while we were away to be reassured by Brenda that he was 'going great guns'. And it was true, he looked fit and healthy and even appeared to have grown. He was jumping up at the gate watched over by Malcolm, who was smiling proudly. As we walked up the garden path Buster attacked our feet, leaping back, growling and barking, going in for the kill, nipping at our toes right through our shoes.

  'He's a right little devil, isn't he?' said Malcolm. In through the back door he pointed at a pile of assorted trainers strewn across the floor.

  'I haven't got a decent pair left; he loves to have a good old set-to with my shoes.' He held up his foot in a torn tennis shoe and kicked out at Buster, who responded with a chorus of furious growls, biting the rubber sole and tugging at it. Malcolm then went in to play-attack him, slapping him round the head, pinching his hindquarters, knocking his feet from under him. Buster reacted like a maniac, biting Malcolm's sleeve and pulling it violently with all his strength and letting out menacing deep-throated growls.

  Helen gave me a wide-eyed look. What had we done, leaving our puppy with someone who hadn't grasped what a Staff was all about? Buster was hyped up and out of control. When I tried to call him he ignored me and threw me evil little backward glances as if to say, 'Who the hell are you... do I know you?'

  When I clipped his lead on his collar he reacted badly, twisting and turning, biting with eyes bulging like he thought I was carting him off to his doom.

  'He doesn't like the lead, does he?' said Malcolm, chuckling.

  
Well, he was walking with a lead and collar before we left, even though he was so young,
I thought to myself. In one week Malcolm appeared to have undone our puppy's basic training. We managed to carry him out to the van and set off for home. Buster sat up front panting, staring out at the scenery flashing by.

  'I can't believe it,' said Helen. 'How has this happened? He was all sweet and cuddly when we left him.'

  Buster began to drool. 'Poor little chap, he's overexcited and he's not used to looking out of a moving vehicle,' said Helen. Suddenly he gave a strange moan and vomited all over the dashboard. We jumped to avoid the splashback. (This wasn't a new phenomenon for us. One of our Staffs, Iggy, had suffered with car sickness, but he loved travelling and you couldn't keep him out of the car.) We pulled up and attempted to mop up the mess, but it was a hot day and as we drove on the smell was overpowering. Buster was tired now and had settled down across Helen's lap.

  'I hope we can get his confidence back again,' I said.

  'He doesn't know who he belongs to,' said Helen. 'It's just like when children are moved from pillar to post and don't know who cares for them. He's like a problem child, an emotional mess.'

  'He'll be all right,' I said. 'He'll soon settle down.' I was trying to sound confident but I wasn't so sure. The next day he wasn't any better. If you tried to walk anywhere, he sprang along backwards ahead of you barking and biting your feet, mostly in play, but often his sharp little teeth actually snapped shut on your foot causing considerable pain. We tried talking to him gently, soothing and calming him, begging him to desist. I even resorted to shouting, but it made things worse. He thought it was all part of the game of rough house.

  We were at our wits' end. 'This is the last Staff puppy I'll ever have,' I announced, rubbing my sore toes. Helen found a possible solution for a misbehaving dog. 'You get a water pistol and squirt him with it whenever he's naughty and say "No!" firmly. They reckon it's a painless way to discipline a dog.' We bought one and tried it. As soon as Buster attacked our feet we gave him a squirt and said 'No!' firmly. He ignored us. In fact, he thought we were playing and ran round in circles, barking furiously. We believe it was this that started his obsession with hoses. Whenever we use one in the garden he attacks the spray as if it were alive, biting the nozzle until he rips the end off.

  This wasn't his only obsession. Sniffing around our field he discovered holes in the ground, the homes of ground squirrels or
lérots
, small rodents that look a bit like meerkats. They are strictly nocturnal and we have never seen one, they hide so well, although we once found the corpse of one the cats had killed. Buster was excited by their scent and liked to set about digging dementedly in an attempt to unearth them. However many times we caught him and ordered him to stop it made no difference; he would come inside all covered in dirt and mud, excited and panting as if we should be impressed. Then I'd forget, and walking across the field I'd step in one of the Buster-enlarged burrows and nearly break my leg. Once I heard a scream and ran out to find Helen had tripped in one of these holes and badly twisted her ankle. We took to shutting Buster in the house to keep him out of mischief, but his surplus energy built up until he began frantically twisting round in circles trying to bite his own tail.

  Gradually, with love and kindness, he started to trust us a bit more and by walking him down the lanes behind our house and getting him to 'heel' on the lead we began to calm him down. He even stopped throwing those evil little backward glances. The lanes ran through deciduous woods filled with oaks and horse chestnuts, a favourite spot for local hunters. We were taking him for his evening walk when a figure appeared on the brow of the hill.

  'It's that horrible farmer bloke from the next village,' cried Helen.

  'Oh no!' My heart sank.

  'And he's got his dog with him.'

  I grabbed Buster and snapped the lead onto his collar. The man was an oafish, taciturn character who always had an evil-looking rifle over his shoulder on the lookout for pheasant or deer, regardless if it was the hunting season or not. His dog was a giant mastiff-cross, a brute of a beast. I pulled Buster's lead tight and called him to heel. I was worried because the farmer's dog, a dominant male, believed that this was his territory. Buster was a puppy and if it came to a fight he wouldn't stand a chance. We froze as the dog spied us from afar and came bounding down the hill to investigate. Buster saw him coming and dropped down, crouching. The dog ran up to him, barking loudly. He was sizing Buster up, scolding him before he taught him a big lesson. I prayed his owner would call him to order and save us, but he was strolling down the hill with a big stupid grin on his face, enjoying our discomfort. The big dog loomed over Buster, who lay there silent, just waiting. As he came in to attack, Buster sprang to life, launching himself at the dog's throat. I tugged hard on the lead and stopped him as his jaws snapped shut a hair's breadth from the dog's jugular. The brute jumped back in surprise, let out a loud squeal, and ran away with his tail between his legs, cowed. The farmer stopped dead in his tracks, his mouth open. Our little puppy had seen his monster dog off. I couldn't believe it either, but I was secretly proud at this turn of events, even though I didn't really want Buster to learn to fight. He was a true Staff!

  I grinned at the farmer. 'It's OK, don't worry, he's had his dinner.'

  He looked flummoxed. He wasn't sure if I was joking or not. He sneered, turned on his heel and strode off back up the hill closely followed by his dog, which had decided to pretend the incident never happened.

  'Did you have to say that?' said Helen.

  'Well, he has had his dinner.'

  'Yes, a good joke, but no need to antagonise him. Did you see him hefting his rifle? If there had been a fight, I think he might have used it.'

  'Oh, come on!' I said. But the thought made me go hot and cold.