An observant reader will have noticed that while my attention to puppies has greatly increased (and well done me, because we are in such dire need of more internet based puppy loving) my attention to politics, news, and current affairs in general has badly waned.
So today I have to write about a more political puppy. His name is Freddie. He has no current plans to run for office, but will run for food if given the opportunity. I have only known him for a few days but I feel more strongly about him than I do any politician in Britain. If Mr. Cameron were to help Freddie I would vote for him sooner than you can say, ‘Your-environmental-policy-makes-your-own-logo-blush’. (As to Clegg’s catchy line, “To make blue go green you have to add yellow”: sorry Nick, not if it’s a really pathetically weak yellow which sold out one of its core support groups and consequently no longer has any political power as it’s not going to be voted back in, duh.)
Ahem. Sorry. Still quite bitter. Back to Freddie: at about 5am the other night I was woken by drunken voices on the street. I was ready to bury my head under my pillow when I heard the (quite badly slurred but still heart-stopping) words, “I don’t want to leave him. He doesn’t look much older than a puppy. He’s all on his own.” I was out of bed and down the stairs so fast that it’s a wonder I even managed to grab shoes and a coat to put over my pyjamas. Huddled up against my neighbour’s front door was a shivering dog no bigger than a terrier, with a fox-shaped face and short black fur with one white paw, who had his tail firmly between his legs and was growling defensively at his drunken companions. That low, scared growl was enough for me; sleep could wait, there was no way I was leaving this dog.
He wouldn’t let any of us near him, and the well-meaning but seriously inebriated antics of my fellow dog-lovers was frightening him to the point of biting them. It took me an hour of slow movements and soft voices before he was eating gently out of my hand, licking my fingers, huddling up to my legs and letting me stroke him. Even then I didn’t want to risk touching his collar, so dialling the mobile number on his tag took a while and went straight to voicemail. It was 6.30am before a lady walking her dog recognised Freddie and told us the name of his owner and the house on my street where he lived. She also told us that Freddie’s owner wanted to re-home him as he was aggressive to people and dogs alike. When his owner answered her door, she took no notice of Freddie, and told us that she couldn’t make him come inside the previous evening. Thinking about it makes me sick to my stomach because not only was he small enough to pick up with ease and had shown me that he would only bite when he was scared and was otherwise very affectionate, he responded eagerly to food so could have been enticed in.
I can hear him barking now, and I just want to go and rescue him from what appears to be an owner whose lack of love has become neglectful, but I have called the RSPCA and unless there is another instance of obvious neglect there is nothing they can do. I can only hope that his current owner intends to re-home him with someone who will give him the love he deserves. But every time he barks I want to ring her doorbell and tell her that I’ll take him and find him a new home myself.
I wish he will be as lucky as Marmite, a far better connected cat, who has been taken in by some of my best friends because they don’t think she has a home. My wonderful friend Charlotte has been feeding her every day and wherever she came from and whatever she’s been through, she’s now a very happy and loved creature.
Maybe I should take up spying as a hobby. Freddie is going to have a happy ending if I have anything to do with it.
(Oh, and I promise that unless there are extenuating circumstances, the subject matter of my next entry will have fewer than four legs.)