Steps Out Of Puppyhood

By this time I was about 12 weeks old, and had been allowed to basically do as I pleased on account of being so small and young. I'd been taught only the word "NICELY", a command I learnt the night we spent in Worthing after I nearly removed several of Man's fingers with my puppy needles when reaching for a chew. A simple process of drawing the treat away when I went to snatch until I got the hint and the lesson was very painlessly learnt. Painless for me, anyway. Other than the odd threat to "SCRUFF YA" when I was making a particular nuisance of myself - I was seriously pathetic when it came to even a flea inspection on the back of my neck, yelping like the end of the world was nigh even though any vet will assure you that I couldn't actually feel a thing - I had basically just been being a pup, with no expectations of anything more.

It was when we got to Brighton that my training "proper" began. Being a hungry little soul, I didn't like it one bit, as the first and, I now appreciate, most important command for any street dog to learn was "WAIT". And the best way to teach it is to make the pup in question wait for his food. Oh dear.



The first day of training was the one when we busked in Churchill Square. It was fairly late when we packed up, so food was dished out there and then rather than waiting until we'd made the long trek back to the bottom of town for the night. In retrospect, it was dead simple. Pour out two bowls of food. Command both dogs to "WAIT". JD does just that, this being old hat for him, a ritual observed every night. Put pup down in front of his bowl and place hand gently across his chest between him and the food, repeating the command. Encourage his back end to rest on the deck as his older companion is demonstrating.Then cower with embarrassment as said pup proceeds to howl, yelp, yap and howl some more, drawing every judgemental eye for streets around to stare at "Those awful tramps, look what they're doing to that poor little puppy".

I did my absolute best to convince every single one of them that I was subject to the most awful and heinous abuse, and succeeded. One even came up and enquired, although I was dismayed to find that they were quite approving when told the whole story. After what seemed like hours, I noticed JD glaring daggers at me and realised he was being kept from his dinner as well. I shut up and sat down for approximately one eighth of second before Eyes said "Go on then" and my tummy was filled. Three days later I was mirroring JD like an old paw.



Once Eyes was certain that this command had gone in, she started making me wait for all sorts of stuff. Eventually it became clear that I would do exactly what I was told on the "WAIT"ing front, so late one evening she scooped me up and we left the cosy circle at home to ascend the steps into Brighton nightlife. This was to be the start of a new ritual for us, and was when we really bonded as Mistress and Dog. Up until then I had looked to Eyes for love and protection, but little more. It was on our night-time training treks that we became a cohesive and working partnership, as we explored the city together.

The first night, she carried me across the main road between the beach and the town, then headed off to the East where there were quiet residential streets with no traffic. Backwards and forwards we drilled, as I learnt to walk at her heel ("WAIT" when I tried to trot ahead), stop at a road ("WAIT"), sit quietly whilst she admired a view ("WAIT"), and even stay where I was left when she walked away ("WAIT"). I hated that bit, and whimpered, but I didn't move. These lessons learnt, more command were fed in - "WAIT AT THE ROAD" when I was allowed to trot ahead. "STAY CLOSE" when I needed to be within grabbing distance."WAIT FOR ME" when I got too engrossed in something just out of sight.



After several nights of this, she took my tiny lead off for the last time. I wouldn't need one again until I started to get too old to resist the temptation of a passing bitch or tempting snack. That would be many years later. These days I feign deafness, but then old age is always meant to be a second puppyhood, and I am enjoying mine to the full. But for now, I was a proper street dog. Free as bird but with no desire to take that freedom. Then we started REALLY exploring.

Life Ticks On

In through the door, people tumbling over one and another in the crush. We hang back until a path clears and go into a reception area with posters on the wall. "Need Help With Benefits?" they ask. "Drugs A Problem?" "Housing Issues?".



To the right, a doorway to showers and washing machines. To the left and into a hall, formica-topped tables and plastic chairs set out. Most are taken, but we find a corner and settle down, me and JD, Eyes and Man, and our three friends from under the pier. The men go up to a long bench and return with tea and sandwiches. We eat and Man mingles, giving it large to the scarier types. Eventually they disappear out of a back door, and he returns, smiling. Eyes raises an eyebrow and Man nods. She breathes a visible sigh of relief - not for herself, but for him.

Eventually we leave and head into town. We find the busiest area, in a large modern square at the top of town, and Eyes and I sit down and start to ply our trade. Man sets up across the way, juggling balls flying, JD's scarf ruffling in the breeze. He seems to be doing more watching than earning. The music gets lost in the crowd, and not a great deal happens, but eventually the coins start to fall and the mood of both music and musician lifts.



We run through our usual repertoire. Old busking favourites - Bright Eyes, Stranger on the Shore, Annie's Song. The flute sings out, clear and strong. Irish jigs dance across the pavement, fingers flying, breaths coming quick and sharp. More slowly now, English folk. The Young May Moon and it's ilk. Summer is Coming. Then a few classics, as Eyes starts to get bored and her ability shines through. The Halle Sonatas soar out amongst the shoppers, and Dvorak turns surprised heads. Chanson de Matin raises eyebrows. Satie's Third Gymnopedie stops them in their tracks. Unfortunately none of these actually draw any of the hard stuff we are after, so it's back to the beginning and Bright Eyes all over again.

Back to the pier and the humans stretch and smoke. Man is not happy with the meagre haul. He is particularly unimpressed with how small his portion of it is. Words are exchanged and Eyes hangs her head as she agrees to take on the burden of making the next day's money whilst Man goes off in search of The Big Issue, whatever that may be. He relaxes and skins up. She sighs and I curl up. JD throws up, and Man is after him, dragging whatever rank remains he is attempting to eat from between his jaws. The party disperses.



Dusk stretches it's fingers along the coast, and lights flicker on along the prom. The pier is reflected along it's length, the lower version dancing like fire in the water below. The beach clears, and we surface from our gravel-strewn home and amble along the front, a happy group of five adults and four dogs. I dart amongst their legs, weaving between the long human ones, and getting tangled in those of my fellow canines, who nip and growl at me in that maternal way reserved for the baby amongst them.

Eventually we find another group of street people, some faces familiar from this morning, others not. This time everything is calm, as the unspoken etiquette of the soup kitchen calms tempers and admonishes drunks. "These people are here to help us", the older, bigger, and scarier ones say, "Have some respect." One man won't listen, and there is a tussle before he leaves with his proverbial tail between his legs. I watch it all from my hiding place beneath Eyes' skirt, reaching my nose up and my tongue out to take pieces of sandwich and pools of soup poured onto the floor for my satisfaction.



Afterwards we head back down to the stark uprights of our beachfront mansion. Beds are rolled out and joints rolled. I sniff about under the boards and between the timbers, discovering a whole delicious world of seaweed and burger leavings, shellfish and chip wrappers. I have my fill, before returning to curl up in the bed and drift off to sleep, listening to the gentle crash of the waves on the shingle just feet away.

Large Scale Streetlife

There are certain places every homeless wanderer knows are good ones at which to start when it comes to setting down roots and making contacts in a new town. One of the best is confined to towns with a relatively large transient population, and Brighton certainly fits that bill. So it was that we followed our new friends under the pier deep into the backstreets on our first morning to find the Day Centre. I have a vague recollection that it was called St Ann's or St Ann Street, something like that, I'm not sure. It was not somewhere we visited very often afterwards. What I do remember was coming out of an alley onto a fairly main road, with a church fronting the street and the day centre attached to it's side. It didn't open until 9am, and this was a little before that. Outside was a large gathering of all kinds of flotsam and jetsam, ragged people of every shape and kind.



One thing you have to understand about the homeless community in larger urban areas back then was that it was very definately divided into groups. There were your classic tramps and bag ladies, the permenant residents of the town's bridges and doorways, who had control of the best skippers and woe betide anyone who tried to step on their patch. There were your Brew Crew - generally site travellers whose affection for a drink had led them to lose their vehicles for while, so they ended up with the streetlife until they got it together to return. There was the punk squatter element, who didn't class themselves as homeless at all, who only "lowered" themselves to mixing with the rest of us in order to "work the system". Then there were the homeless travellers like us, whose dream was of one day being on site, and who considered themselves free rather than downtrodden. Of course, apart from the first group they were all kidding themselves. They were all just as down and desperate as each other. But it is human nature to build hierarchies - humans are pack animals, just like dogs, except humans have more hangups. We dogs just had a fine old time, without the delusions of status.



Of course, it was never as cut and dried as all that. The "real" homeless held all the genuine power, and looked down on everyone else, who in turn looked down on them as "dirty tramps". Just as well there are no mirrors in the gutters, eh? The Brew Crew lorded it over the Punk Squatters, even though they were often one and the same. In fact, usually the Brew Crew were the ones who had "bettered" themselves by having been on site - even though they'd managed to screw up even that. The Squatters looked down on the Brew Crew because they were always banging on the splintered and broken door and taking refuge. The Brew Crew looked down on the Squatters because they had never been on site, even though it actually took a fair amount of organisation and brains to open a squat and keep it open for any length of time. Of course, none of this was ever openly talked about, which in turn meant that fights were forever breaking out over something and nothing, with no-one fronting up to what it was really all about. The Travelling Homeless looked down on all of this because actually they were terrified of it. The tramps drank. The Brew Crew drank and took drugs, the Punk Squatters drank and took drugs, whilst the Travelling Homeless just toked and had the odd can here and there. They were better because they weren't useless pissheads. The fact that they were useless potheads instead passed them by completely. All the groups were arrogant, all of them used that arrogance to cover up their underlying fear of each other, and all of them were forced to mix to a certain extent in order to get what they needed to continue on their spiral of self destruction. Consequently, Day Centres were violent places. And they closed early.



This all probably seems a little harsh, considering I'm talking about "my own kind". Back then, of course, I was nothing but a pup, curled up under Eyes' coat. The politics of the whole thing went straight over my fluffy head. But one thing even a puppy can do is take in atmosphere, and this atmosphere with all it's undercurrents terrified me. I can look back now and see how sad and ridiculous it all was, but at the time I was just plain scared. Eyes was too, that I could also sense. She wore a floor length coloured skirt, and I liked to curl up under it, lying on the folds of fabric which gathered beneath her legs when she sat, the front section hiding me from the world outside. I felt safe under there. I never even noticed that her legs were trembling.



Man, an arrogant little sod to start with, simply puffed up even more when he knew he was out of his depth. The louder he proclaimed his own virtue, the more you knew he was quaking inside. We stayed away from the anarchy of all this most of the time on our travels, but he needed his smoke and therefore he needed to convince the Brew Crew and Punk Squatters who had control of it to sell it to him. And so there we were, Eyes and I, sitting quietly to one side, my nose barely poking out from under my safety curtain, watching them all strut there stuff in the pantomime which is the status battle of the streets until the big wooden doors swung open at 9 o'clock sharp and we all piled inside.

The Root of the Trouble

It will have been noted by the more observant among you that an awful lot of this story so far has revolved around the presence of sickly sweet smoke. In those early days before we left Salisbury I was aware of both Man and Eyes' capacious appetite for it, but familiarity and Eyes' contacts in the town meant that it was just something that was always around, never a big deal, and certainly never lacking. What I never noticed then was that whilst Eyes would indulge quite happily of an evening, Man was toking constantly. The other thing which never raised it's head until we got to Brighton and the supplies ran out, was what would happen when there wasn't any.

I am older now and have taken in more over the years than people would expect for a dog. I know that Eyes never actually needed to toke, just that she liked to...and that she picked it's time and place. She wouldn't smoke pot in the mornings before doing her work. She rarely had anything during the day, only the odd puff amongst friends before retiring to whatever godforsaken hole was home at that particular time. And when there wasn't anything to smoke, it didn't matter. Hash was a pleasure, not a prison. It was an enjoyable thing to do when relaxed, not the only way TO relax. Sure, she was no angel - I later learnt that before I came along she had been tempted down the road of fiercer recreation in the form of Speed and Acid. But it bit her back hard, and by the time I arrived in her life was just one of those mistakes she'd made and learnt from. Maybe that was why she never got herself too deeply "involved" with cannabis on a personal level - certainly the capacity for going overboard was still there, as will be evidenced much later in this tale, but at that time it was as far from a problem for her as you can get.


Well...I say that...but there is such a thing as co-dependancy, and that was what proved to be her undoing. Co-dependancy is when the partner of an addict becomes as wrapped up in an addiction as the user themself. There are many reasons why people fall into this trap. In Eyes' case it became rapidly obvious that fear was the main driver. She wasn't then, and still isn't, a person with a great deal of confidence - despite all appearances to the contrary if you meet her today, but that would be leaping ahead again, so all in good time. It would be a trap she fell into more than once, and one which has shaped as great deal of our lives together as she has learnt to avoid it, and reacted against it in turn. It shapes the way she has relationships now, albeit in completely the opposite direction. It is every bit as insidious as addiction itself, and can lead to addiction itself in an attempt to break free from it's shackles.

But hang on a minute here, I hear you cry. We're talking about cannabis. Pot. Dope. Grass. Weed. That harmless natural plant beloved by all hippys since time immemorial, the antidote to the hard drug bad press. How the hell can anyone get into trouble with a bit of pot for crying out loud? The answer is simple. In moderation, cannabis is - for most people at least - no more damaging than a civilised glass of wine, a quick pint, or a strong cup of coffee to get you going in the morning. But what about when that glass of wine every night becomes a bottle? When that quick pint after work becomes 3 or 4? When you need an entire jug of coffee just to wake up, never mind function? Then you have a problem. And believe me, when it came to his hash, Man had a problem. A BIG problem.

Palace under the Pier

As the sun came up and the grey light of dawn crept into our sleeping place, I could see it for what it was. A stone folly, as found at the end of many beaches and promenades, three sided with doorways on two of those and an arched roof. Just as well the weather was holding, because had it rained we would soon have been soaked.

EYES: A word, if I may.

Maddog is old now and his health is failing. At 13 years, 5 months and one day old, he is doing very well for a dog of his breeding - 13 is generally accepted to be "last legs" territory for Collies, and "dead" for the other breeds in his makeup. In other words, we are very lucky that he is still with us at all.

Given the above, it is unrealistic now that he will fulfill his aim and finish telling his life story for himself. He simply hasn't got long enough left. I do not exagerrate (sp?) when I tell you that he has cost me more in vets' fees in the last month alone than the house in which we live costs me in mortgage payments. Just this morning I forked out yet another £110 for his various drugs, dressings, creams and special foodstuffs. He eats like a king now, as he is under vet's orders to be spoilt rotten and fed "whatever you can tempt him with". So far today we have managed to get half a tub of Liver Pate, half a homemade (by one of his many friends) caramel slice, several tuna and mayonnaise sandwiches and a few mouthfuls of actual dog food down his now spectacularly scrawny neck.

He has a neurological problem in his spine, which has left his back legs extremely weak. An ear infection in his right ear has alerted us to the presence of a tumour which makes his balance iffy to say the very least. He has such advanced muscle wastage that he is skin and bone, a condition which results in the appearance of pressure sores, which he then chews into gaping wounds, which in turn have to be cleaned, creamed and dressed twice a day. He is on a cocktail of medications to help him enjoy his last days as best he can, all delivered wrapped up in wafer thin ham. Preferably honey roast. We did not expect him to last the summer, hence the lack of postings to his blog - it has simply been too painful to look back on his youth when every week I have expected to come home and find he has passed in my absence. That said, it is now late August and he is still tottering on. So maybe we need to think about getting him out to do his business once the weather is too cold to leave the back door permenantly open, after all.

Reading the above, it would be understandable for you, the reader, to consider me cruel in keeping him going at all. In fact only a few weeks ago, when what turned out to be the aforementioned ear infection was causing him acute distress, we actually got as far as paying for a vet to come out and put him to sleep. Those few hours, thinking my first love would be leaving me forever, were some of the most heartrending I have ever experienced, and when it turned out we could help him after all the £250 bill was merely a relief. The point, though, is that when it is time I know I will have to let him go, and I am prepared to bite the bullet and do it. But that time hasn't come yet.

He still scarpers down the road every time anyone leaves the gate open. He still barks for attention and hauls himself across the garden when he needs to "go" - unless you leave him with a dogsitter (in the form of my husband's nephew) for a few days in which case he feigns incontinence. To go into too much detail about his other little geriatric escapades would be to spoil his story for those who stick with it to the end...Suffice to say there's life in the old dog yet. This morning he sat bolt upright in the Landy on his way to the vet with the biggest erection he's had in years. Of course, the second we stepped through the surgery door his legs went everywhere and he looked a mess as he collapsed in a pathetic looking heap by the counter. He then suddenly managed to summon enough energy to haul me across the car park on the way out again, pausing to stick his nose up a very unimpressed young Rottweiler's bum on the way past. Draw your own conclusions. His heart, at least, is still strong - in every respect.

I shall step back now, for as long as he is still here he can speak for himself. I'll return when he finally says his last goodbye. In the meantime, you can rest assured that there never has been, and never will be, a dog as loved as Maddog.

Slow Boat to Brighton

Travelling by bus is never the most efficient way to get from A to B, but since I had no idea where we were going, or how long it should have taken, who was I to complain?


As we boarded the first leg of the journey, abandoning bags in the luggage rack by the door and climbing the stairs to the upper deck, anticipation ran high. JD had one seat, with Man behind. Eyes took the seat behind that and I sat alert in her lap, watching the road to the South Coast go by. As the day wore on, we wove through villages and along country lanes, until eventually the view became more urban, and the smell of salt was in the air. Noses twitching, we climbed down and out, into the bright sunshine and holiday bustle of Portsmouth, with it's Naval harbour and seafaring spirit.



Thinking we had arrived, I relaxed and prepared to stretch and run as I was set down on the pavement and water was poured into bowls. The sound of ferries drifted in from the water and I started to wonder what this new place would have in store for us, casting around for people and dogs who were, if not familiar, then at least of our kind. There were none to be seen, so maybe we would have to get out of the bus station to find them, in which case what were we waiting for? Why, after all the time it took to get here - 2 hours seeming a lifetime when you're a pup - were Eyes and Man not raring to go? Nothing was happening at all, we simply moved ourselves and our bags from one stand to another and sat down again. What was the point of that?


The point became clear with the arrival of another bus. We clambered on once more and this time, feeling somewhat misled by the idea of this travelling lark, I curled up and dozed, the rocking of the suspension lulling me away into my own thoughts.



I have no idea how much time had passed when we eventually got off, but I do know that the sun was low in the sky and the shadows were lengthening in the afternoon sun. Worthing is a penshioners haven, but for us it was home for the night. At the end of the prom was an old folly, and it was here that blankets were rolled out and dog bowls filled. I fell asleep in my usual place inside the sleeping bag, sniffing the sea air and wondering what tomorrow would bring. The answer, although I didn't know it then, was the bright lights of Brighton.