A LADY AT LEISURE
‘He met his match when he once tried to cram a hedgehog between his jaws, but most things are fair game for this canine crook’
A lady at leisure I
WORDS FIONA ARMSTRONG ILLUSTRATION BOB DEWAR
have to admit it, Barra has taste. First it was my furry slippers. Then it was my velvet hat – my favourite, of course. And now it’s
the luxury cashmere top I’d just treated myself to for Christmas. Having nice things isn’t always appreciated
by the chief ’s dog. Barra, a cocker spaniel, is black and white and adorable-looking, but he likes to carry things around in his mouth. And once they’re in there, well, you’ve just got to have a chew, haven’t you? As a puppy he made swift work of destroying
things, including my mother’s best wool- lined boots. On one visit, after waxing lyrical about how cosy they were in winter, and how she’d never known a better pair, she made the mistake of leaving them on the kitchen floor. We returned from the garden to find the place looking like someone had been shearing sheep. Try explaining to a non-doggie person that he didn’t really mean it. As the years went by we thought he’d
grow out of it. He didn’t, despite our trying all sorts of wheezes to wean him off his horrible habit. Buying soft toys does help a bit, but they last two minutes frankly, and can cost almost as much as the cashmere. Actually this licking,
lifting, chewing lark is
getting worse: he’s now pulling clothes from
coat hangers and leaping up to see what can be snaffled from worktops. It might be a tea towel, a cushion or a pair of gloves. He has even been spotted with my leather-clad kindle in his slobbery chops. He met his match when he once tried to cram a hedgehog between his jaws, but most things are fair game for this canine crook. And so I enter the kitchen at breakfast time
in a fury: ‘Just look what your dog has done to my lovely new jersey!’ The chief barely looks up from his porridge and paper. He mutters some- thing mildly unsympathetic about not leaving it on a chair, and looks down again. ‘Well, you’ll just have to buy me a new one!’ I say crossly, and stomp out, feeling like a harridan. It reminds me of the joke that was told as I
prepared to speak at the annual dinner of the male-only Dundee Angling Club. As from last October I have had the honour of being the only woman ever to address them in their 151- year history, and the president introduced me thus: ‘Gentlemen, please welcome broadcaster and writer Fiona Armstrong. Fiona travels all over the world in her job and has just returned from making a film in America. ‘While she was there, she visited an Indian
reserve, where she met a handsome Indian chief in buffalo hide and feathers. By his side was the most beautiful Indian squaw, with long bronzed limbs and dark plaited hair. “Oh, who is that lovely lady?” Fiona enquired of her host. “That lady is my wife,” the chief said proudly. She’s delightful, Fiona thought, and wondered what she was called. The chief must have been reading her mind, because he laughed and said. “Oh, she has a very good name. My wife, she is called Three Horses.” I’ve never heard that one before, thought Fiona, I wonder where that comes from. “She gets that name,” the chief continued, because she always goes ‘nag, nag, nag”.’ So my New Year resolution is to stop carping.
Live and let live. But with the MacGregor’s ancient and much-loved Aran jersey the latest Barra casualty, I think there may be a tightening up of dog monitoring in this house.
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When your dog starts eating his way through your wardrobe, taking nibbles out of all your best clothes, it’s time for drastic action: point him towards your husband’s jumpers instead
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