We few, we happy few. South London-based working cocker spaniel owners, I mean.
We meet up on Tooting Common most days to exchange tips for cocker crisis management. The dogs play together as we have our group therapy sessions. Cydney’s best friends are Betsy and Mable, both black with white bibs like her, and then there’s Rusty the roan, who is the veteran of the bunch.
These animals are not indigenous to south London, but then who is? At least mine gets to go to the country every other day where she flushes stray partridge to her heart’s content.
She has learnt to trot alongside the horse and once a fortnight we go to Long John the spaniel trainer for gundog classes.
But she has to put up with a bit of city life as I have not yet been able to mastermind my move to the country on a permanent basis.
She’s not happy about this. She hates traffic and looks askance at cars speeding on residential roads. She loathes walking in a straight line on pavements.
I once took her to Clapham and she was so disgusted she sat down in a shop doorway and refused to move. I had to carry her home.
She refuses point-blank to leave the house after dark. When I try to encourage her out of the door, she looks at me as if to say, ‘I’m not getting mugged by a slobbering great bull mastiff that’s been hung by its jaw from a tree. And look at that stinking great fox by the wheelie bin. Is someone going to put a bullet through its head or am I expected to take it on myself?’
But her pain is nothing compared with the rest of the south London working cocker community.
They lollop around Tooting Common by the ‘natural play space’ — that’s local authority speak for playground — trying to pretend they are on to a decent scent when really all they can smell is cans of Red Bull and Tennent’s Extra, which are to be found each morning generously strewn about by the local ‘yoot’.
These impeccably bred little dogs, of extremely high intelligence and refined tastes, are about as out of their element as it is possible to be.
In fact, Lambeth Council really ought to come up with a strategy to counter their alienation from society. Perhaps it could offer them a natural play space.
Mostly the south London cockers make the best of things, but every so often one of them just loses it.
The other morning I was walking Cydney when I found Mable’s owner sitting on a bench with her head in her hands. Mable had gone awol. She was running around in circles, every now and then stopping just long enough for her owner to approach and then, when she was within ten feet, darting off again.
She had been doing that for five hours. Her owner had had to ring her boss and cancel going to work.
She had been home twice, the last time coming back with a big bowl of food. As she poured her heart out to me, Cydney contributed to the proceedings by wolfing down the dog meat from Mable’s bowl.
Her owner looked down at the empty bowl as if all hope had receded. It was clearly incumbent on me to catch Mable.
I approached the spaniel and blew my whistle. I did the fast succession of pips that Long John uses to call Cydney in. Mable looked at me quizzically then decided she wasn’t interested.
I tried the stick technique, only to be used in emergencies. Don’t try this at home unless you are a good aim. I picked up a stick, got within striking distance, called Mable in, then when she ignored me threw it at her.
She leapt into the air like a Premier League goalie, caught the stick in her mouth and ran off with it.
The owner was sitting with her head in her hands again. I rang Long John. ‘Quick, you have to help me, there’s a cocker on the loose on Tooting Common and no one can catch it. I’ve sort of given the owner the impression I can do something. But it’s not responding to any of the usual things.’
Long John told me to tell the owner to lie down on her side and stroke the grass. Then she had to call Mable while pretending she was holding another animal.
As the owner lay down, Mable stood looking quizzical again. Then she walked towards her. Then she darted off and ran around in a circle that got bigger and bigger until she had disappeared over the horizon towards Streatham.
The owner lay motionless on the grass. I fear she may still be there.
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