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It’s not often I allow a guest post on my blog, but sometimes other people can tell it better than I can. It’s been a pretty traumatic week at Piddock Place, because Paddy dashed in front of a car on Sunday, and we all thought he’d had it. After a sickening thud on impact, he flew through the air, and landed on his side. It seemed his luck had run out, but after a few seconds, he jumped up and ran into the woods. We all thought it was a last gasp, adrenaline-fuelled effort to get to a place of safety to die, so we were absolutely delighted when, after about 20 minutes, he came running back out of the woods.

Being an intelligent dog, and perhaps realising how lucky he is, Paddy wanted to tell the story in his own words, so here’s his take on the day when he did an impression of James Bond’s Martini, and was shaken, rather than stirred. The pictures in the slideshow were taken just 24 hours after the incident, amazingly. However, it’s over to Paddy for now, and please ignore the bit about the vodka!

“When Mummy said how many people had been worried about me when I fought a car and lost, I thought I needed to set the record straight. I love my Mummy, but she exaggerates sometimes, and gets in a bit of a state. I’ve been told people get like that when they’re old, but don’t tell her I said that, or I might be wishing that car had sent me to the Rainbow Bridge. Mummy can get stroppy when she’s angry, especially when she’s been at the vodka, and she’s given the Russian Standard a right hammering just lately.

The true story – from the horse’s mouth – or rather from my mouth in this guest post, is that it was all Mummy’s fault. Instead of taking Gizmo and I to the orange groves for our daily run on Sunday, she said it would be too wet and muddy after the rain, and as she’d just been for a meal with Uncle Jim and Aunty Joan, she didn’t want to get her best boots mucky. So she and Aunty Glenys decided to take us up to the Ermita in Algorfa. That was also muddy, but not as bad as the orange groves, and Gizmo and I were perfectly happy with that. As long as we get a good run off the lead, we’re not too fussy where we go.

Anyway, this rather tasty looking lady dog was making puppy eyes at me from across the road, so I went over to say hello. Mummy shouted ‘Paddy, come here,’ but she’s always spoiling my fun, so I just ignored her. That was a bit of a bad move on my part, because she wasn’t trying to keep me away from the lovely lady dog – she’d seen what I hadn’t, because love is blind. A silver Peugeot was making its way to Algorfa, and it must have been dead set on preserving my virginity, because it swept me off my feet – literally!

My first thought was that I was a goner, and I was waiting for Saint Peter to open the Pearly Gates for me, because despite what Mummy and Daddy say, I’m a very good boy – well most of the time. When I realised I was still breathing, my next thought was Mummy is going to finish what the car started, because I’d been a naughty boy and defied her, so I cleared off into the woods to give her time to realise just how precious I was to her.

I think I overcooked it a bit though, because when I came back, Mummy was all upset, and convinced I’d gone off to die. Honestly, that’s quite an insult to a big strong boy like me. It takes more than a car to take me out, and she should know that. However, I was quite gratified that there was a search party looking for me, so I trotted up to Aunty Glenys and let her put my lead on – just in case Mummy’s relief turned to revenge. You can never tell with humans, can you?

We got safely home, and instead of taking me straight in and making a fuss of me, Mummy just had to go and tell half the neighbourhood what had happened, leaving me in the car like a spare part. To add insult to injury, one of the local cats was parading up and down the street. I bet the nasty piece of work thought I couldn’t chase her after the accident, but as soon as Mummy opened the car door, I proved her wrong.

Unfortunately, Mummy got in the way, and ended up on the tarmac. Honestly, you’d have thought she’d be grateful that I had made such a miraculous recovery, but no, I was in the dog house, yet again. I’ll never work out how humans tick, if I live to be a hundred.

Sunday was a bit of a rough night, because I couldn’t get comfy, but Mummy was so good, she even put her pillow at the bottom of the bed, because I couldn’t manage to get to where she was, and she could tell I really needed cuddles, as I was quite frightened. Don’t let on to anybody though, or it will ruin my street cred. I market myself as a big, strong, indestructible Super Pup, so let’s keep it that way, shall we?

Anyway, all the best stories have a happy ending, and Aunty Glenys thought a nice run on La Mata Beach and a swim in the sea would help heal the grazes and prevent any infections. I have to admit I went a bit over the top, because I really am glad to be alive. I managed to knock Gizmo over a couple of times, and as usual, he laid it on with a trowel and acted like it was him who had almost died. He’s such a diva, but he’s okay really, and he lets me play with his toys, so I’ll put up with him for now.

There is a downside to all this though. Mummy is blaming herself – although Aunty Glenys is saying it’s my fault. That’s rather unjust, because if Mummy hadn’t been so worried about her boots, and that lady dog hadn’t been giving me the come-on, I wouldn’t have had the flying lesson from the car.

So now, Mummy says I have to do exactly what she says, and not pull, or run off, or get excited, or any of the things that make life worth living. As soon as I try to get in front of her, she makes me sit until she says I can go. That’s torture when you can see the sea, but she said if I didn’t behave, I’d go straight back to the car. And she’s shouting like I’m on another planet, although she does say ‘Good boy’ and give me a lovely cuddle when I do what she wants me to.

So, big thanks to everyone for being so nice, and looking after Mummy when she was so worried about me. But please – tell her to go easy on me now. The thing is, she says she couldn’t imagine life without me, and I feel exactly the same. I won’t admit it to her – and please don’t tell her I said so – but I was really sad at the thought that I’d have to leave her. I know I was a silly boy, and I will try even harder to be good. The trouble is, life is so exciting, and then I forget all my training.“

Tony, two days after the cat-astrophe and still looking bruised and battered.

We were so looking forward to coming to Camping Playa Mazarron at Bolnuevo. It ticks all the boxes – bars and shops within easy walking distance, so Tony can join in with everything, right on the beach, for sunbathing purposes. But the real icing on the cake is the dog friendly beach, right outside the camp site. With the sea, sand and the lovely fresh water stream to go at, and lots of canine company, Paddy’s excessive energy would be contained, and even exhausted, wouldn’t it? Well – maybe.

On arrival day – Sunday, a day ahead of the rally start, but necessary to hear the great live music at The Blues House – I took Paddy for two good long sessions on the Playa Canina. He met some lovely dogs, ran his heart out, and fetched sticks and stones out of the stream and the sea. And he slept the sleep of the totally shattered, never moving from when we got the bed out until Tony and I needed wee wees at about 9.30 on Monday morning. One slight blot on the landscape was that on Sunday evening, Paddy had spotted a tortoiseshell cat on the steps of a neighbouring motor home. Normally, we check with people parked up around us for the cat situation, because as regular readers know, Paddy absolutely detests cats. Chris and Cliff had assured us that they were totally catless, but the pussycat that Paddy thought he saw – and indeed did see – was a local cat that they’d helped look after last year when she had kittens, and she’d come back to thank them, and scrounge a few titbits.

Monday dawned bright and sunny, and I persuaded Tony to accompany me to the Playa Canina. On the way, we spotted one or two of the camp site’s feral cats. Luckily we spotted them a split second before Paddy did, and we managed to remain in a vertical position. It did occasion a few ‘Can’t you control your dog’ moments from Tony, but the trip went really well. Until we got back to base. I had removed Paddy’s lead and harness, and was about to hook him up to the old elasticated tow rope we use as a tether on camp sites when he spotted the grateful tortoiseshell cat at the same time as me. I asked Tony to help me hold him while I clipped the rope to his collar, and he did. Mission accomplished – Paddy is secured, and can’t catch the cat, because the tow rope won’t stretch that far.

We knew that, but with Paddy’s pathological hatred of anything feline within sight, he either hadn’t worked out the logistics, or decided he was going for it anyway. Tony being 83 years young, his reflexes aren’t as sharp as they were, and he failed to see the potential for disaster that I, in a Mystic Meg Moment of clarity, was only too aware of. He should have got out of the way as soon as the tow rope was in place, like I did. Paddy launched himself at the tantalising tortoiseshell, in the process wrapping the elasticated tow rope around Tony’s ankles. As the tow rope whipped his ankles behind him, Tony put out his left arm in a futile attempt to avoid imminent disaster. While the arm hit the gravel ahead of his face, saving the ruination of his film star good looks – or at least that’s what he calls them – there was an inevitable coming together of glasses and gravel. It all resulted in a bit of a bloodbath, not helped by the fact that Tony is on warfarin to keep his atrial fibrilation under control.

Being the caring lot they are, our fellow motorcaravanners converged from all directions. And because most of them are retired, with various life skills and professional qualifications to their names, we had somebody qualified to administer first aid when Tony – predictably – failed to follow sensible advice and head for the nearest hospital. Paul Spear happened to have a handy syringe – don’t ask why – and with the help of some iodine and water, he managed to flush out the half a ton of gravel that had embedded itself in the wounds. His wife Penny – justifiably proud of her husband’s felicitous administrations – suggested we should rename him Florence. This didn’t go down to well, and a domestic was narrowly avoided since Paul’s main consideration was the wellbeing of his patient. I did try to pour oil on the troubled waters of marital harmony by saying he couldn’t be another Florence Nightingale because he didn’t have the legs for the stockings, but apparently it was the wrong thing to say.

With Tony patched up and resting, we thought the drama was over, but what a mistake-a to make-a! Next thing we knew, Paddy – who had been moved out of sight range of the tantalising tortoiseshell – was going ballistic at a black cat that had the temerity to come within half a mile of us. Said black cat was followed by a Dutch couple with a washing up bowl in their hands. It was making noises, which is pretty advanced, even for a washing up bowl from the local Chinese bazaar. It turned out that the cat had decided to give birth to her kittens in the Dutch couple’s motor home, and then gone for a bit of rest and recouperation while the babies were sleeping. The new mother couldn’t have imagined what she had let herself in for by heading into Paddy’s territory, but he let her have it with both barrels, and no way was she passing this way again, even to get back to her babies. However, the Dutch couple were determined to facilitate a reconciliation, hence the tour of the camp site with the washing up bowl. We suggested maybe they needed to take the kittens back to their motor home and let Mama Cat find them.

What was intended to be – in the words of our hosts Geoff and Brenda Balshaw – ‘a relaxing rally, with stuff to do, and also plenty of chances for peace, quiet, and exploration’ was rapidly descending into a

Paddy enjoying the rally – which is more than Tony is doing!

disaster of apocalyptic proportions, so we had to do something to persuade Paddy that informing the whole camp site – all 650 pitches – that there was a cat nearby was not a good idea. He’s not keen on water applied directly to his person, although he’ll happily frolic in the sea, the salt lakes near us and any other water that is fairly predictable. Someone suggested that a spray bottle, filled with water and aimed between the eyes every time he barked at a cat might restore peace and tranquility, so I trotted off to the local Chinese bazaar and bought the instrument of torture. And it’s working. Two days later, at the sight of a cat, he just growls, I pick up the spray bottle, and he cowers. I’m not proud of putting him through that, but needs must. And if any of my readers have a husband they want rid of, I’m happy to rent Paddy out, minus the spray bottle. As long as there are plenty of cats where you live, and there are no first aiders on hand. Rates subject to negotiation.

It’s been an eventful week for Paddy. Now he’s catching up on some rest

As another week draws to a close – how they fly as you get older, or is it just because I’m enjoying life? – there are, as usual, a couple of Paddy-centric incidents that merit sharing. well, three actually. Unfortunately, there are no pictures of any of them, but I’ll do my best to paint a picture with words for you.

Last Friday, my friend Joan and I were enjoying a trawl of the clothes shops and spending a few Euros. When we got back to Piddock Place, and I’d given Paddy his share of cuddles, Tony said, ‘Paddy has a present for you outside.’ Since Paddy doesn’t have any pocket money, and even if he did, it would be stopped most weeks for misdemeanours of one kind or another, I wasn’t exactly looking forward to my present. My instinct was right, because there, on the terrace table was a black rat. Like Monty Python’s parrot, it was extinct, it had ceased to be, it was an ex rat. It was very dead, and Paddy was the murderer.

A couple of days before, Tony had seen a rat in the under build, but he couldn’t risk putting poison down. Although we could put it out of Paddy’s reach, if he’d caught a poisoned rat, he too could have been extinct. Clearly it was a very considerate rat, because it only decided to come out to play while I was out. It was so friendly, it climbed on Tony’s foot and was about to run up his trouser leg when Paddy spotted it. Maybe he thought the rat was going to hump Tony and he didn’t fancy the resulting offspring, or perhaps he thought Daddy was about to be done to death and he’d lose the main source of treats. Either way, he grabbed the rat, and ran off with it. First of all he smashed it on the gravel, then he threw it up in the air a few times, catching it expertly as it descended. Happy that the threat to Daddy’s life and health and Paddy’s treats was eliminated, he ran off to play and left Daddy to deal with the fallout.

Of course, I was proud of my brave boy, but I was also worried that he might have got something nasty from the rat. I really shouldn’t have Googled ‘Are rats dangerous to dogs?’ before I called our lovely vet Madeleine, because I couldn’t see him lasting the day. As I prefer my dogs living and running around  rather than gaining posthumous awards for bravery, I asked if I should bring him straight round, but she said as he hadn’t been bitten by the rat or eaten it after the kill, he’d be fine. She did suggest we wormed him though, just in case it had passed any parasites on.

So we breathed easy, and on Sunday I sat watching the Remembrance Sunday service from the Cenotaph. Although I was in my dressing gown still, I stood for the two minutes’ silence and Paddy, bless him, stood alongside me, just as immobile as I was, apart from giving me the occasional sideways look as if to say ‘When does this new game get interesting, Mummy?’

It got interesting just as they played the Last Post and the camera panned across the crowds. Call me psychic, but as the black busby of a Grenadier Guard – or whatever Guard it was – came into view in the bottom right hand corner of the screen, I had a feeling of impending doom. The top corner of the busby looked suspiciously like a cat to me, and if I thought that, so would Paddy. My worst fears were realised as he launched himself at the TV, hackles raised. Disaster was averted by two lucky chances. The coffee table absorbed most of the impact of 32 kilos of flying pooch, and as the TV was anchored to the wall, it stayed vertical. Just. Howver, the rigid bar holding it to the wall got bent a bit.

Fast forward to Tuesday, and once again cat is on the menu. Paddy’s last walk at night is to a small patch of waste ground just down the road

Okay, they don’t look much like cats here, but when you’re a cat-obssessed dog, and all you can see is the rounded edge in the corner of the TV screen …

from us. He loves going there, because it’s part of a disused quarry, and he can do his Wall of Death run around it to get rid of the last of his energy before bed. As a bonus, there are usually a few rabbits to chase, although thankfully his rabbit catching skills are way behind the rat catching success rate. Once he’s finished, he comes back to me and sits on the pavement for me to put his lead back on for the walk home.

He was sitting there as good as gold, when he looked to the right and saw a big white ball half way up the street. No, it wasn’t the Super Moon come to Earth, it was a big fluffy cat, sitting looking at Paddy. Neither of them remained seated for long, and at some point, the cat must have squared up to Paddy. Although there was no sound and no blood, when I called Paddy back he had a mouth full of white fur. I tried to find the cat to give it back once I’d taken Paddy home, but understandably, it was nowhere to be seen.

So, it’s been a pretty eventful week as far as Paddy is concerned. There’s certainly never a dull moment with him around, even if I have gained a few more grey hairs!

Guards image credit: Pixabay