Year: 2013

Potentially dangerous Jerky Treats.

With thanks to Cynthia for including me on her recent email.

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FDA seeks pet owner help on dangerous jerky treats

From Associated Press October 23, 2013 8:17 AM EST

WASHINGTON (AP) — The Food and Drug Administration is appealing to dog and cat owners for information as it struggles to solve a mysterious outbreak of illness and deaths among pets that ate jerky treats.

In a notice to consumers and veterinarians published Tuesday, the agency said it has linked illnesses from jerky pet treats to 3,600 dogs and 10 cats since 2007. About 580 of those pets have died.

The FDA’s Center for Veterinary Medicine has run more than 1,200 tests, visited pet treat manufacturing plants in China and worked with researchers, state labs and foreign governments but hasn’t determined the exact cause of the illness, the FDA statement said.

“This is one of the most elusive and mysterious outbreaks we’ve encountered,” Bernadette Dunham, a veterinarian and head of the FDA vet medicine center, said in the statement.

Pets can suffer from a decreased appetite, decreased activity, vomiting and diarrhea among other symptoms within hours of eating treats sold as jerky tenders or strips made of chicken, duck, sweet potatoes or dried fruit.

Severe cases have involved kidney failure, gastrointestinal bleeding, and a rare kidney disorder, the FDA said.

Most of the jerky treats implicated have been made in China, the FDA said.

The FDA has issued previous warnings. A number of jerky pet treat products were removed from the market in January after a New York state lab reported finding evidence of up to six drugs in certain jerky pet treats made in China, the FDA said. The agency said that while the levels of the drugs were very low and it was unlikely that they caused the illnesses, there was a decrease in reports of jerky-suspected illnesses after the products were removed from the market. FDA believes that the number of reports may have declined simply because fewer jerky treats were available.

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That FDA Notice is here.  I have taken the liberty of republishing it in full.

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Jerky Pet Treats

dog laying down

The problem

Since 2007, FDA has received reports of illnesses in pets associated with the consumption of jerky pet treats. As of September 24, 2013, FDA has received approximately 3000 reports of pet illnesses which may be related to consumption of the jerky treats. The reports involve more than 3600 dogs, 10 cats and include more than 580 deaths.

What we are doing

FDA is working with laboratories across the country to investigate causes. To date, testing for contaminants in jerky pet treats has not revealed a cause for the illnesses.

We have tested for:

  • Salmonella
  • Metals or Elements (such as arsenic, cadmium and lead, etc.)
  • Markers of irradiation level (such as acyclobutanones).
  • Pesticides
  • Antibiotics (including both approved and unapproved sulfanomides and tetracyclines)
  • Mold and mycotoxins (toxins from mold)
  • Rodenticides
  • Nephrotoxins (such as aristolochic acid, maleic acid, paraquat, ethylene glycol, diethylene glycol, toxic hydrocarbons, melamine, and related triazines)
  • Other chemicals and poisonous compounds (such as endotoxins).

Testing has also included measuring the nutritional composition of jerky pet treats to verify that they contain the ingredients listed on the label and do not contain ingredients that are not listed on the label. Another area of investigation includes the effects of irradiation and its byproducts.

Find out more.

What consumers can do

Watch your pet closely. Signs that may occur within hours to days of feeding the jerky treat products are decreased appetite, decreased activity, vomiting, diarrhea (sometimes with blood or mucus), increased water consumption and/or increased urination. Severe cases are diagnosed with pancreatitis, gastrointestinal bleeding, and kidney failure or the resemblance of a rare kidney related illness called Fanconi syndrome.

If your pet has experienced signs of illness, please report it to FDA. Once a consumer has filed a report with their local FDA Consumer Complaint Coordinator, or electronically through our safety reporting portal, FDA will determine whether there is a need to conduct a follow-up phone call or obtain a sample of the jerky pet treat product in question. While FDA does not necessarily respond to every individual complaint submitted, each report becomes part of the body of knowledge that helps to inform FDA on the situation or incident.

What veterinarians can do

The “Dear Veterinarian” letter to veterinary professionals explains how they can provide valuable assistance to the agency’s investigation, requests that veterinarians report to FDA any cases of jerky pet treat-related illness that come to their attention and, when requested, that they also provide samples for diagnostic testing by the Veterinary Laboratory Investigation and Response Network (Vet-LIRN), a network of veterinary laboratories affiliated with FDA.

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I just mentioned this to Jeannie who says that while we do feed our dogs jerky treats, she is careful to purchase only those brands that are made in the USA.

Feel free to republish this howsoever you wish.

Picture parade sixteen

When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace.

The last set of these beautiful photographs sent in by John Hurlburt.

If you missed John’s previous sets, then the first set is here and the second set here.

And don’t forget to read the closing remark at the foot of this post.


JH22

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JH16

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JH17

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JH18

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JH19

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JH20

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JH21

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A few days ago, John sent me some more fabulous pictures.  They are of a different style to the last three weeks but still very charming.

The first set of the new pictures from John will be next Sunday, a  week from today.

You all look after yourselves out there.

Saturday smile, maybe?

Well, they say it takes all types to make the world what it is.

A few days ago, a neighbour sent me an email that contained a photograph.

My email response was, “Golly, it’s enough to drive me to drink!  Am I sufficiently brave to make it Saturday’s post!!”

I very rarely use the ‘click to see more’ function in WordPress but the photograph really does seem to deserve ‘the grand entrance’.

Continue reading “Saturday smile, maybe?” →

The book! Chapter Three.

It seems to be taking over my life!

Here’s Chapter Three.  But, in total, I’m close to having written 12,400 words, just a small margin ahead of the need for 11,670 words by Day 7 (I appreciate you will be reading this on November 8th).

So, yes, it’s relentless but while the story line is strong in my head, then it’s not off-putting.

Mind you, it is coming out rather auto-biographically!

Crossed my mind that I will need a page just inside the front cover to the effect, “Any similarity between these fictional characters and real persons is entirely coincidental”! 😉

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Learning from Dogs.

Chapter Three

Philip’s drive home back to Harberton was altogether a different emotional experience than when he and Pharaoh had earlier headed off to the obedience class at South Brent.  He just couldn’t get his head around what had happened. Why that one incident had branded Pharaoh as a dog with an aggression problem, why the trainer hadn’t been better prepared, and on and on. But as much as the thoughts kept running around his mind it didn’t in any way alter the fact that he hadn’t a clue as to why Pharaoh had behaved in that fashion, and where next this was going!

Accepting that this was the first time he had ever owned a dog, so he had no experience of being a dog owner, nonetheless his close bond with Pharaoh convinced him that there was no dark behavioural issue that needed dealing with.

Philip turned right off the Totnes to Harbertonford road, into the small lane high-sided with tall hedgerows that dropped down into the village into the village of Harberton.  Less than a mile later he was pulling into the short driveway up to their house and parking in his usual place, next to Maggie’s red Ford Estate.  Leaving Pharaoh in the car, he walked back down the driveway and closed the five-bar wooden gate at their driveway entrance.

Pharaoh jumped down from the Volvo as soon as the tailgate was raised.  The one, small, positive thing was that it wasn’t raining.  Pharaoh sniffed around, cocked his leg against the stone wall that fronted a raised flower bed and skipped up the four stone steps, across the gravel in front of the house and waited for Philip to open the front door.

“Is that you guys?” Maggie called down.  “How did it go?”  She added, “I wasn’t expecting you for another hour or so.”

Philip took off his raincoat and hung it up on the hooks at the rear of the hallway.  He walked up the wooden stairs that led from the level of their front door to the living room on the first floor.  Pharaoh had already settled himself in front of the black iron wood-stove in the corner of the room, hogging the warm glow that flooded out.

“So how did Pharaoh get on?” Maggie was keen to know.

“It was a disaster, Maggie.” Philip took a deep breath and continued,  “Pharaoh lunged at another dog and the trainer concluded he was an anti-social dog with a problem with aggression. We are not welcome to return to her class.”

He sighed. “Still can’t get my mind around it but it’s fair to say I’m gutted!”

“What are you going to do?” Maggie enquired.

Philip eased himself down on to the settee. “Haven’t a clue just now to be honest.  Want to sleep on it, give it a couple of coatings of thought, and just see what tomorrow brings.”

“I’m sure it will be alright, Philip.”

He mused on that last remark of hers.  As much as he was so fond of his dear wife, Maggie did seem most times not to engage emotionally with him.  Over his years of being a mentor specialising in helping those running their own businesses, and being on the receiving end of counselling from time to time, there was no doubt that people rarely opened up to their deeper feelings without a little bit of an empathetic nudge.  He reflected on how simple yet how powerful was the question, ‘Tell me how you are feeling just now?’

Maggie had left the living area and climbed up the steep, wooden stairway that lead to their third-level mezzanine floor.  This was where she worked for many hours of the day painting her miniature paintings that, Philip willingly admitted, were much in demand.

However, he would have so longed to sit close to Maggie on their settee as the Winter afternoon headed for twilight.  He would even have settled for the offer of a cup of tea!

He must have been radiating some form of sadness, some form of angst, for Pharaoh softly raised himself from the fireside carpet and came across to Philip and gently rested his jaw across Philip’s right upper leg.  No other way to describe that other than unconditional affection. A simple, yet powerful, gesture by a dog for a human.  The contrast between Pharaoh recognising that Philip needed a hug, doggie fashion, and Maggie missing Philip’s need was stark.  Oh well!

 

Philip awoke on the Sunday, a little before eight in the morning, and despite the weather still being poor with low grey clouds scudding overhead and the threat of rain ever present, he shaved, dressed, made himself a quick breakfast, grabbed Pharaoh’s leash, the keys to the Volvo and headed down to the front door.    He had left Maggie asleep in their bed, presuming that she would know where he and Pharaoh had gone when she awoke.

Pharaoh, of course, immediately guessed it was walking time, despite it being earlier than usual.  He bounded out of the front door down the few steps to the driveway and waited expectantly for the Volvo’s tailgate to be opened.

Twenty minutes later, Philip was walking Pharaoh down the grassy edge-line of the large twelve-acre field to his left, dark hedgerow to his right, the woods less than a couple-of-hundred yards ahead of them.

This tiny paradise deep in the heart of South Devon meant so much to Philip. Cut off from people, phones, the internet and all the consumerism of modern life, this was the place where he could restore some form of mental balance.  He often wondered about what these lands could tell if only the ancient pastures and woodlands could voice their histories.  The woods were known to be very old and when James was bidding for them, he only managed to win them by a nose from the Woodlands Trust who were going to preserve the woods for evermore.

But James and his Dad had done the job just as well.  The woods were still unchanged from long, long ago.  All that James had done was to convert three acres of the top grassland into a large bed for the planting and harvesting of Eucalyptus trees. There was a ready market for the trees in the floristry trade.

In the Springtime, the woods were glorious. The mix of larch, ash and old oak tree species that can only come from years and years of being left untouched were full of Bluebells.  The dainty blue flowers practically covered the ground beneath the acres of trees.  Goodness knows how many years that had taken.

Pharaoh, released from his leash, bounded off to check out once more whatever it was that he checked out each time they came here.

Philip, meanwhile, slowly worked his way into the depths of the woods.  The sound of a long, steamy, locomotive whistle suddenly echoed through the trees.  That was not uncommon as the line of the Dartmouth Steam Railway at this point ran alongside the quiet waters of the River Dart, sandwiched between the edge of James’ woods and the river.

The line, running between Paignton and Dartmouth, had been a victim of Government cuts, the so-called Beeching cuts, back in the late sixties but had been rescued by the newly formed Dart Valley Railway company and operated successfully ever since.  The chuffing sound of the black steam engine, the rising of smoke and steam into the damp, valley air, a train consisting of three cream and brown passenger coaches, so perfectly matched the sense of earlier times, for the railway had been completed, if Philip recalled correctly, way back in the mid-eighteenth century.

The rear of the last coach, sporting a pair of the red-lensed oil lamps, disappeared from sight around the bend of the river bank. Philip returned to his thoughts.

When he had woken this morning, he was pretty certain that the judgment of Pharaoh was utterly wrong.  Then shaving, as he looked at the reflection of his face in the mirror, always a good time of the day to make sense of stuff, the ‘pretty’ part of his notion ‘pretty certain’ washed away as simply as the shaving foam washed from his face.  Philip would stake his life on the fact that Pharaoh was not an aggressive dog!

Nevertheless, as he stood under the trees, he had to admit that Pharaoh had acted in a way towards that Pit Bull that, at the very least, appeared to be anti-social.

What to do?

Then it came to him.  Pharaoh needed to be observed with other dogs in a less stressful situation than that of yesterday’s obedience class.  How about walking him on Dartmoor.  It was a Sunday morning, not unreasonable weather for the time of the year, and there would be plenty of walkers out with their dogs on the Moor.

He called Pharaoh back to him, snapped the leash to his collar and walked back to the car.  As he hoped his mobile phone was in the glove compartment.  He stood outside the car for better reception and called home.

“Maggie, it’s me.  Hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Hi Philip, no, was just making myself a coffee.  Where are you?”

“Over at James’ woods. Couldn’t sleep.  Kept thinking about this business with Pharaoh.  So ended getting up earlier than usual and taking Pharaoh for a walk.”

Philip added, “Maggie, I’m going to take Pharaoh on to Dartmoor and see how he is with other dogs.  Bound to be plenty up there.  Will be back in an hour, two at most.”

“OK Philip.  Give me a ring if anything changes.”

As he rang off, an idea came to him.  An idea prompted by that view of the River Dart a few minutes ago.  He had always meant to find the source of the River Dart.  He knew it was somewhere up on Dartmoor but in all his years of living in South Devon he had never taken time to find the spot.

He would first go to Dartmeet, the place where the two branches of the young river meet, hence the name.  It was a favourite place for walkers as there were lovely pathways along the river banks.  When he and Maggie were getting to know each other, they had enjoyed Summer walks and picnics in the Dartmeet area.

In fact, this was turning out to be a brilliant idea as the back road from Staverton, across the A38 and on up to the Moor more or less followed the course of the River Dart.

He started the engine and reversed carefully out of the field entranceway into Sandy Lane.  He loved driving along these narrow Devon lanes, always no wider than a tractor and trailer.  What fascinated him was that when two cars or other vehicles came face-to-face, each driver seemed to know instinctively who had the closest grassy lay-by or field entrance behind them.  There was never any argy-bargy about the issue.  Except, that is, during the Summer months when some visitor to this part of the world tried out one of the lanes, or got lost.  Then it was a case of stepping out of the car and saying to the other driver that you think the passing place is closer to them than it is to you.  As often as not, simpler just to reverse back rather than suffer the ire of a tourist who wasn’t so hot at reversing in a narrow country lane.  Philip early on in his Devon days had learnt to reverse using his wing mirrors.

He smiled in recollection of the day when he came bumper-to-bumper with a woman driver who simply couldn’t reverse her car.  Almost immediately that time, another couple of vehicles had pulled up behind him so there was no choice other than the woman’s car had to be reversed.  She was adamant that she couldn’t do it.  But agreed to Philip sliding into the driver’s seat and reversing the car for her.  Luckily only about three-hundred yards back.  The other drivers had been very patient, indeed seeing the funny side of the situation.

Sandy Lane became Cabbage Hill leading them to the bridge over the A38, still busy as usual. Practically every square inch of the land either side of them was cultivated or cropped grassland.  Yes, it was very rural.  Yes, it was a very ancient part of South-West England.  But all about them, the intensity of the agriculture, a very modern phenomenon, was unmistakable.

Once over the A38, the lane ran around the left-hand flanks of the village of Ashburton, just off to their right, and then at the top of Bowden Hill, the narrow road headed more or less directly, or as directly as any Devon country road ever did, towards the South-Eastern flanks of Dartmoor. A few miles later, at the start of Newbridge Hill, just a quarter-of-a-mile from the tiny hamlet of Poundsgate, the road forked. Philip started the turn to the left and noticed out of the corner of his eye a sign hanging from a tree at the start of the right-hand fork.  It read: ‘GSD Club of Devon Meet – This Way.’

He braked to a halt and reversed carefully back the few yards to the start of the junction.  He had never heard of the German Shepherd Dog Club of Devon.  This had to be investigated.

He took the right-hand fork and within moments the lane was running through heavily wooded land.  They must be within the edge of Dartmoor, he speculated, because it was well known that the lower flanks were heavily forested; all protected woodlands, thank goodness.

Five minutes later, there was a further sign pointing the way to a private lane.  He slowly and carefully drove up the lane and, almost immediately, saw a professional sign: Angela Stokenham – Felsental German Shepherds. Dog Aggression Specialist.

Philip just didn’t know what to think, what to feel, just what on earth was going on.  He was not a believer in the traditional religious sense but also didn’t label himself as an atheist.  Tended to use the term agnostic when relevant to so describe himself.  He had experienced much in his approaching sixty years to know that having some form of spiritual attitude seemed to make sense to him.

Thus, was it just serendipity that had brought him here or what! He drove slowly into a yard surrounded by many pens and buildings, stopped the car, and stepped out.  He was aware of the sounds of barking coming from a number of directions.  All Shepherd barks would be his guess.

The click-clack of a metal pen gate being closed caught his attention.  He looked to see a woman turning to check that the gate latch was closed and then turning his way.

“Hallo, can I help you?” the woman called. “If you are here for the Club meeting you are about three hours too early.”

She walked towards him.  Despite the grubby blue overalls that she wore, bottoms poked into a pair of red rubber boots, she exuded an attractive warmth.  Her thick, auburn hair bracketed a pleasant face with little makeup.  Philip noticed a blue and black necklace, close around her neck.  He surmised that this was a working lady who was still in touch with her femininity.

“Hallo, sorry to arrive unexpectedly like this.  I was on my way to Dartmoor to walk my dog, chose to come the back roads from Staverton and happened to see the sign for the GSD meeting.”

Philip continued, “By an amazing coincidence, I have my German Shepherd in the back of the car and just yesterday at the South Brent obedience class, he was accused of being an aggressive dog and we were told not to return.”

“My name’s Angela and perhaps I shouldn’t say this but Debbie Longland, I assume that’s the class you went to?” Philip nodded, “Well just let me say that you could do a great deal better.”

“I’m Philip, Philip Stevens and the dog in the back is Pharaoh, born last June. We live at Harberton, just to the South-West of Totnes.”

Philip was quiet for a few moments, then said, “Look I was on my way to the Moor to see how Pharaoh behaved with other walkers and their dogs.” Continuing, “Almost exclusively, I have been walking Pharaoh over at my nephew’s woods at Staverton.  So I haven’t been getting him accustomed to other dogs as I should have been.  Would there be any chance of you assessing him and offering me some proper guidance?  I’m a first-time dog owner.”

“Yes, of course.” Angela replied.  “That’s what I do here.  However not even going to suggest you letting Pharaoh out now, too much going on, and just not the best circumstances for him.”

Angela took a small spiral-bound notebook from her overall pocket, opened it and looked through a couple of pages. “Can you and Pharaoh come here, say eleven in the morning, next Wednesday?”

“Yes, without any difficulty. Is there anything that I should bring with me?”

Angela responded, “No, just Pharaoh’s usual leash.  Oh, and you might want to give him a good walk before you get here.”

She added, “That’s fabulous, I will see you both in just three days time.”

“Angela, thank you.  I can’t wait for you to meet Pharaoh.  Oh, and good luck with your meeting this afternoon.”

With that Philip turned and got back into the car, started the engine, swung the car in a tight circle and drove carefully out of Angela’s yard.

Glancing in the rear-view mirror, he saw that Pharaoh was looking at Angela and realised that there hadn’t been a peep from him while he had been speaking with her.  Philip wondered if Pharaoh had been picking up the vibes of their change in fortunes.

Wednesday would reveal all.

3,020 words. Copyright © 2013 Paul Handover

A counter-intuitive view of the illegal drug trade.

An insight into drug cartels.

This was a recent talk shown on TED Talks by Rodrigo Canales under the title of ‘The deadly genius of drug cartels.’

As the TED page explained:

Up to 100,000 people died in drug-related violence in Mexico in the last 6 years. We might think this has nothing to do with us, but in fact we are all complicit, says Yale professor Rodrigo Canales in this unflinching talk that turns conventional wisdom about drug cartels on its head. The carnage is not about faceless, ignorant goons mindlessly killing each other but is rather the result of some seriously sophisticated brand management.

Rodrigo Canales wants to understand how individuals influence organizations or systems–even those as complex as the Mexican drug cartels.

It really is worth the viewing.

The book! Chapter Two.

Words after words after words!

The completion of the draft of Chapter Two, very much a draft you’ll find, brings the total words to-date to 4,730.  That’s not counting Chapter Three that is more or less finished at around 3,000 words and Chapter Four, three-quarters finished at 1,650 words.  For a grand total as at the end of the 5th November of 9,380 words!  So a little over 1,000 words ahead of the game until tomorrow, the 6th, comes and I’m then 600 words behind the curve.

So, trust me, the 1,667 words required each day is relentless.

But I’m enjoying it! 🙂

So here is Chapter Two and tomorrow, Thursday, I’ll give you wonderful readers a break from The Book!

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Learning from Dogs

Chapter Two

Days slipped into weeks with young Pharaoh settling down so perfectly well.  Philip was fortunate that just a little over five miles away his nephew, James, had thirty acres of land near Staverton, of which fifteen were woods.  Even better, the entire property surrounded by a stock-proof fence.

So almost from day one, Philip would put Pharaoh into the back of the Volvo and drive across to those secluded acres for an hour or so of exploring all the smells that Mother Nature could offer.  Indeed, by the end of October it was a routine that each of them looked forward to.  Pharaoh would busy himself in ways that only a dog can do, totally lost in his world of these trees.  Philip would settle himself down on an old stump and just let his wonderful dog have the time of his life.  That dog was becoming such a great companion and his already deep bond with the young Pharaoh and the dog’s clear devotion in return to him fed some very deep emotional needs.

This yearning for a dog, specifically for a German Shepherd dog, had links back to very early times in his life.  Way back to 1956 when he was just eleven-years-old.  That Summer when his father had offered to look after a nearby couple’s German Shepherd because they had to travel to Australia and would be away for six weeks.  That late Summer having the dog so quickly settle in at home, so quickly the dog allowing young Philip to play with it, stroke it, cuddle up to it.  Having Boy, for that was the simple and straightforward name for the dog, sleep in his bedroom.  It was instant love for Boy by Philip.  Those six weeks had been precious beyond description resulting in them becoming a life-long, unforgettable, enchanting memory.  So deeply linked to the event that was to change Philip’s life forever. For just six weeks after he turned twelve his father died suddenly and unexpectedly at night; just five days before Christmas.  The pain of his father’s sudden death in such contrast to the purest love he had felt for Boy, such extremes of joy and sorrow, would haunt Philip for decades.

Philip was conscious that he was leaving it a little late to sign up for dog training classes but in many ways Pharaoh was learning naturally and rapidly from both Philip and Maggie.  He would listen intently to what was being spoken in the house.  He had quickly learned the meaning of ‘Sit’, ‘Stand’, ‘Lie down’ and a host of other more complex communications.  Within just a couple of weeks Pharaoh knew that when Philip said to Maggie, “Guess I better take Pharaoh for a walk!”, the dog would get so over-excited that Philip quickly amended saying the word ‘walk’ to spelling it out ’w-a-l-k’.  But within days of that change Pharaoh had learnt that spelling out the word didn’t change the intention, and the over-excitement returned.  Nevertheless, the time for training was now if Philip was to take Pharaoh anyplace where there would be other people and dogs.  Plus Pharaoh was rapidly losing his puppyhood and growing into a significant male German Shepherd.

Philip rang Sandra and she recommended the South Brent Dog Classes just a few miles away from home. So that first Saturday afternoon in November, grey clouds spilling down from the moors, a hint of drizzle in the air, Philip drove West out of Totnes along the Ashburton Road.  Pharaoh instinctively new something was up despite him so frequently being put in the back of the old Volvo Estate every time he was taken for walks.

The road meandered out of Totnes through green country hills where the sheep population far outnumbered humans.  Totnes itself was surrounded by hills and dales as well as acres of green grasslands, the latter so closely cropped by sheep. Every fold in those hills seemed to hold either an ancient wood or an even older village that still felt so strongly connected with the long-ago settlements that preceded these havens.  Names such as Berry Pomeroy, Stoke Gabriel, Dartington, Asprington, Harberton, Diptford, Rattery, Littlehempston; such echoes of times long gone. Philip mused about the history of Totnes, the ancient legend of Brutus of Troy, the mythical founder of Britain, first coming ashore here.  Presumably, he pondered, because the town is at the head of the estuary of the River Dart and the Dart is one of the first safe anchorages along the Northern coastline of the English Channel, up from the South-West tip of Cornwall. In fact, set into the pavement of Fore Street in Totnes is the ‘Brutus Stone’.  It’s a small granite boulder onto which, according to that legend, Brutus first stepped from his ship, proclaiming, ”Here I stand and here I rest. And this town shall be called Totnes.”  Philip pondered that the likelihood of the legend being true was pretty low.  But it was a great tourist magnet!

Just six miles later, Pharaoh still sitting erect intently watching the passing cars, Philip drove across the flyover that spanned the main Exeter to Plymouth road, the A38.  Seemingly always busy, whatever the time of day, or day of the week, the speeding cars were throwing up a road spray as the drizzle had now deteriorated into a steady light rain.

Philip turned onto the B3372, that meandering country lane that ran into South Brent.  He had been told to watch out for a five-acre field to the right just before entering South Brent; that was where the classes were held, come all weathers!

The open field gate and half-a-dozen parked cars made the location obvious.  Philip drove carefully in, parked on a gravel parking area, leaving some distance from the smart, white Ford van to his right-hand side, and turned the engine off.

The ignition key had hardly been dropped into his coat pocket when Pharaoh erupted into a frenzy of barking. Thirty yards away a cheerful Cocker Spaniel was being walked across to the gathering group of dogs and respective owners and this clearly had triggered the barking.

Pharaoh’s nose was pressed up against the tailgate glass, his whole body tense, ears erect, tail straight out.  This was a dog in attack posture.  The sound of barking was overwhelming in the confined space of the car.

“Pharaoh! Shut it! Quiet!”, shouted Philip.

Pharaoh stopped barking but was still quivering all over, giving every indication of wanting to jump out of the car and beat up the Cocker Spaniel.

This was not what Philip had anticipated; far from it.

Philip swung his legs out of the car, stood up and closed the door.  He better find the person in charge of the class and get acquainted with the routine.  The rain was typical for Dartmoor!  Fine rain that seemed to have a way of working its way through the most tightly buttoned coats.  He pulled his coat collar up around the back of his neck and walked across to where a group of people were standing together, perhaps half of them with dogs held close to them on leashes.

As Philip approached the group, a woman, perhaps early middle-age, her dark-brown hair spilling out from under a leaf-green felt hat, caught his eye.  She walked over to them, her blue jeans tucked into black Wellington boots.

“Hallo, you look like a first-timer?”

“Yes, that’s correct.  Name’s Philip. Philip Stevens from Harberton together with my German Shepherd, Pharaoh.”

“Well welcome to the class.  My name is Deborah Longland and I’m the instructor around here.  Call me Debbie; most do!”

Philip quickly guessed she was an experienced and supportive coach.  Just something about her that way.

“Was that Pharaoh that I heard barking a few moments ago?”, Debbie asked.

“Yes, first time he has behaved like that.”

Debbie was looking across at the Volvo. “Strong, male German Shepherd, I don’t doubt. Not uncommon at all,” she replied, continuing, “Leave him in the car until I have the first class underway.”

Debbie went on to explain, “We have the regulars walk around that grass area over there with all their dogs on leashes.  This gets them settled down.  Then we reinforce the usual commands, as you will see.”

Philip looked to where Debbie was indicating.  The nearest corner of the grassland that must have been three or four acres had an area that showed clear previous signs of dogs and owners walking round in a wide circle.

“After that, in about twenty minutes,” Debbie continued, “then we will bring Pharaoh in with, perhaps, just two or three other dogs, and see how he behaves.”

Then adding, “Once the first class is running, I suggest you give Pharaoh a bit of a walk around the far part of the field.  Get him adjusted to the environment.”

“Oh, I presume Pharaoh is settled on the leash?” Debbie added as an afterthought.

Philip replied, “Yes, he’s fine on his lead.  In fact, he walks well with me despite no formal heeling lessons.”

Debbie came back at him. “Shepherds are incredibly intelligent dogs and I can tell just from the way you speak about him that the two of you are very close.  Catch you later, must dash now.”

Philip went back to the car and reached in to the rear brown, pseudo-leather bench-seat and picked up Pharaoh’s leash.  It was a handsome affair, even if was just a dog lead.  Sandra Chambers from the breeding kennels had recommended the type, a leash that had two length settings.  More importantly, the supple, heavy-duty leather leash had a hand loop just six inches up from the snap catch.  This allowed Philip to hold the leash in his left hand with Pharaoh having no freedom to be anything other than close to Philip’s left leg, the recommended arrangement for walking a dog on a lead. Right from the first moment that Pharaoh had been taken across to James’ woods, Philip had taught Pharaoh to ‘heel’ on the leash as they walked the grassy track down to the woods.  It wasn’t long before Pharaoh would obediently remain close to Philip’s side without any pulling on his lead, even with the leash at full length.  But how would it be today?

Philip leaned over the back of the bench-seat and clipped the lead onto Pharaoh’s collar before slipping back out from the car and closing the side door.  He walked around to the tailgate and inched it open; sufficient to slip his arm inside and grab the leash.  With his other arm, he raised the tailgate to its full extent.  Pharaoh sat on his haunches just staring at everything.

“Pharaoh, down you get, there’s a good boy.”

Pharaoh dropped down on to the grass and looked up at Philip. It was clear that this was all very unfamiliar territory, for the first time in his young Shepherd’s life.

Philip gave him a couple of quick commands. “Pharaoh, stand! Pharaoh, heel!”

With that, Philip stepped, left foot forward, and Pharaoh was right on the mark.

It was a walk of a couple of hundred paces to get them to the far corner of the field.  The ground had risen in their direction and now when Philip had Pharaoh sit and they looked back across the field and beyond to the rolling South Hams countryside so typical of South Devon, the view, even with the light rain, was so comforting; so homely.

Despite a lifetime of living in so many places, both within the UK, and overseas, this part of Devon felt so strongly connected to the person he was, that this was his home, where his roots were.  That Acton, his place of birth in North London, just happened to be a technicality in his life’s journey.

Before they knew it, the first group was leaving the walking area and it was time to experience Pharaoh’s first obedience class!

They waited just to one side.  Debbie came across.

“Philip, do you know what Pharaoh is like with other dogs?”

“No experience whatsoever,” he replied, continuing “We live over at Harberton but I have access to private woods at Staverton.  Pharaoh is walked there most days. So I have never walked him in a public place and have no intention of doing that until he’s been properly trained and assessed; by you, I guess.”

“OK, let’s take it cautiously.  Walk Pharaoh into the centre of the exercise area, have him sit, hold him close to on his leash.”

Debbie was quiet in thought for a few moments, unaware, it seemed, of the rain water that looked as though it were soaking into the crown of her hat.

“We have many dogs here today, although no Shepherds. I will ask a few of the owners to walk their dogs, dogs I know well, one at a time in a circle about you and Pharaoh, coming in closer each time if it all runs to plan.”

Philip walked Pharaoh to that centre spot.

“Pharaoh, sit!” He did so without hesitation.

A black, female Labrador and her owner, a gent wearing a black, full-length raincoat over brown hiking boots, the gent’s right hand carrying a wooden walking-stick, detached themselves from the group of dogs and owners and commenced to walk obliquely around them.

Philip reinforced his instructions to Pharaoh. “Pharaoh, Stay! Sit, there’s a good boy!”

Debbie was thirty feet away watching the proceedings carefully.

“Tom,” Debbie called out to the circling gent, “Come in just a few feet and continue circling Pharaoh.”

So far, so good.

“OK Tom, that’s fine.  Going to move on to Geoff and his dog.”

Tom and the Lab returned to the owner’s group and a younger man, perhaps in his late twenties, came across with a smaller, creamy coloured male dog.  To Philip eye’s the dog looked like a Pit Bull or a Pit Bull mix.

The dog was a far less settled creature than the Lab, and Terry, for the name of the dog immediately became clear, was prompted several times to heel.

Terry and his owner approached the circling zone.  Pharaoh started to bristle, the hairs on the nape of his soft, brown neck lifting in anticipation of something, something only known to Pharaoh.

“Pharaoh, sit,” Philip voiced sternly as he noticed Pharaoh’s rear quarters just lifting up from the wet grass.

As Geoffrey and Terry circled around the rear of Philip and Pharaoh, Pharaoh squirmed his body and head so as to keep an eye on this other dog.

Then it happened!

As the Pit Bull arrived off to Philip’s right side, about eight feet away, Pharaoh sprang at the dog.  It was not entirely unexpected by Philip but even so, even with Pharaoh being held at short rein, the jump practically dragged Philip off his feet.  He had no idea that Pharaoh had such power in his legs now.  He was just a little over four months old!

“Pharaoh, No! Come here! Come back!” Philip combined shouting angry commands with dragging Pharaoh back to his left side.  Pharaoh begrudgingly obeyed but continued barking fiercely, standing erect on all four legs, lips curled back exposing his fangs and teeth; indeed everything about him signalling to the Pit Bull that Pharaoh was a deeply unhappy animal.

Debbie signalled to Geoff to retreat from the area and, as quickly as Pharaoh became upset, he settled down and squatted back on his haunches.

Debbie walked across to Philip.

“I’m terribly sorry to say this,” Debbie said quietly to Philip, “but I think you have a German Shepherd with an aggression issue.”

“Until you get that sorted, I just can’t take the risk of Pharaoh coming to these classes.  Under the circumstances, I’ll waive today’s training fee.”

With that Debbie returned to the other owners.

Philip was gutted.  Utterly shocked to his core.  The dog that meant so much to him had been rejected.  That rejection was as much his rejection as it was Pharaoh’s.

2,692 words Copyright © 2013 Paul Handover

The book! Chapter One.

So far, so good!

Yesterday, I offered you, dear reader, my foreword, as it were.  It was a fictional account of the coming together of man and grey wolf that over many thousands of years led to the domesticated dog that so many millions of us know and love.

Yes, it’s fiction but it’s not entirely improbable.  I say that because on the 20th May this year, I wrote about a meeting with a Grey Wolf that had been born in captivity yet not born a tame creature, far from it.  The post was called Musings on Love and included this picture of that Grey Wolf, Tundra.  The picture was taken by me just a few moments before I received a gentle lick on the face.

Wolf meets man.
Wolf meets man.

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Moving on.  This is Chapter One set some 30,000 years, give or take, after Omo reached out to those injured wolf cubs.  Bet she had no idea what she started! 😉

Once again, all feedback welcomed.  Your support, as conveyed yesterday, is incredible.  Thank you so much.

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Learning from Dogs

Chapter One

Philip stood very still as Sandra approached with the golden-brown puppy in her arms.  The puppy was an exquisite, miniature version of the fully-grown German Shepherd dogs that were on view elsewhere about Sandra’s kennels.

It was unusually warm this September day and Philip had unbuttoned the cuffs of his blue-white checked cotton shirt and folded his shirt sleeves back above both elbows.  Sandra offered the young, male puppy to Philip and he took it tenderly into his arms and cradled the gorgeous creature against his chest.  The pup’s warm body seemed to glow through its gleaming fur and the moment of contact was pure magic.  As Philip’s bare forearms touched the soft, sensuous flanks of this quiet, little creature something registered in Philip’s consciousness in ways that couldn’t be articulated but, nonetheless, something as real as, perhaps, a rainbow across the hills.

This first contact was a strong experience for both man and dog.  For even at the tender age of twelve weeks or so, the tiny dog appeared to sense that the human person holding him so longingly was deep in thought; far away in some remote place, almost trying to bridge a divide of many years.

Philip sat very carefully down on the wooden-slatted bench behind him so he could rest the beautiful animal in his lap.  The puppy was adorable.  Large, over-sized ears flopped across the top of a golden-brown furry head.  That golden-brown fur with countless black hairs intermingled within the tan flowed across the shoulders morphing into the predominantly cream colour of the pup’s soft, gangling front legs.  That creamy fur continuing along the little creature’s underbelly. The puppy Shepherd dog almost purred with contentment, his deep brown eyes gazing so intently into Philip’s deep blue eyes.  Puppy eyes starting to soften, maybe just a hint of eye-lids starting to close.

Philip had never before felt so close to an animal.  In a life time of more than fifty-nine years including cats at home when he was a young boy growing up in North-West London, and a pet cat when his own son and daughter were youngsters, Philip had never, ever sensed the stirrings of such a loving bond as he was sensing now.  As the young puppy seemed to be sensing in return.  This was going to be Philip’s dog, without a doubt.

“So, Sandra, tell me again what I need to know about raising a German Shepherd?”

Sandra Chambers, her grey hair turned up in a bun behind her head, brushed the dog hairs and the biscuit crumbs off her navy-blue overalls and sat down alongside Philip on the bench.  Sandra had seen hundreds of prospective owners over the more than forty years that she had been breeding German Shepherds up here on Devon’s Southern Dartmoor flanks.  But Philip was not typical of those hundreds of others.  First, he came on his own despite admitting that he was married.  Uncommon for a married couple not to chose a dog together. Then Philip, a good-looking, well-dressed, thoughtful man, that Sandra had guessed was in his late 50’s, had mentioned never previously owning a dog yet there was no question in his mind that this, his first dog, had to be a German Shepherd.  Sandra had counselled Philip that Shepherd dogs were wonderful, loyal companions but at the same time were incredibly strong animals; both physically and wilfully.  The commitment to properly and fully training a Shepherd dog was not to be underestimated.  A powerful, male Shepherd dog had the potential to kill a cat or a smaller dog in an instant, even to attack a stranger.  Training a dog such as this German Shepherd was without question.  Even more so in the case of the pup that Philip so fondly held as both the pup’s parents were from the very finest German bloodlines.

But despite Philip being such an unusual first owner, Sandra couldn’t miss the remarkable way that both Philip and the puppy had connected.

Sandra explained, “Well we’ve discussed his feeding needs, so that’s a big step.  At first just care and love him so he quickly registers that your home is his home.  Shepherds are very bright, very instinctive animals.  Just look at the way that he is watching your face just now!”

“Once you have him home, Philip, start into a routine in terms of potty training.  Let him out into your garden in his puppy harness so that he can sniff around.  As soon as he takes a pee or a dump reward him with kind words, a rub between his ears, even a small biscuit.  He will very quickly learn to potty outside.”

“You know I’m only a phone call away if you have any queries.”

Thus it was on a warm, sunny day in the first week of September, 2003 Philip drove the twenty miles from Sandra’s kennels in Bovey Tracey to his Harberton home just a few miles West of Totnes.  The little pup quiet as a mouse curled up on a blanket inside the puppy carrier placed on the passenger front seat; the passenger seat-belt around the front of the carrier; just in case!

Philip and his wife, Maggie, had anticipated that them getting a dog was more or less inevitable and the garden fencing around their village home had been double-checked.  Philip closed the wooden, five-bar gate behind him and drove the short distance up their gravel drive and parked the car.  He opened the passenger door and lifted the puppy carrier out and set it down on the warm grass.

A soft, wet nose lead the rest of a puppy’s body out of the carrier, cautiously sniffing and smelling the blades of grass. He padded across to a small tree, squatted and pee’d his first pee in his new home.

The front door opened and Maggie came down the front steps, slipping a beige jacket over her shoulders, brushing her long, blond hair back across the jacket as she did so and walked up to them.  “So you got him, then!”

She crouched down to be at the puppy’s level.  The dog, his eyes glistening with curiosity, came over to Maggie and sniffed her outstretched fingers.

“Oh, he is rather cute. Did you have difficulty choosing him?”

“No, not at all.  Sandra only had three puppies that were available just now and this little lad seemed to bond with me, and me with him, in a way that just wasn’t echoed with the other two puppies.”

“Plus, you know I always wanted a male Shepherd and the other pups were both females.”

Maggie stroked the young dog along his furry back. “What are we going to call him?”

Philip responded without hesitation. “Pharaoh.”

1140 words Copyright © 2013 Paul Handover

That book! In the beginning.

Well I’m underway!

Last Thursday, I announced that I had decided to participate in National Novel Writing Month.  Or NaNoWriMo as it is more familiarly known.

It’s clear that to achieve the goal of 50,000 words by the end of November, it must be all about writing; writing flat out.  Any distraction from writing will make it impossible to maintain the average of 1,670 words a day for 31 days!

So just warning you that as I publish each chunk of the book here on Learning from Dogs don’t expect anything like a polished result.  Given the miracle of actually completing the 50,000 words then December will be the time to edit, refine and polish.

Mind you, any feedback good, bad or indifferent would be fabulous to have from you.  OK, enough said, on with the show!

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Learning from Dogs

In the beginning

Omo stirred, aware that she had heard a sound. Somewhere out there in the deep night. Somewhere not far outside their cave. Jogod fast asleep next to her. Omo could see from the light of the fire that burnt at the entrance of this ancient limestone cave that Jogod had one arm across the skins that covered them. Like the early tribes before them, before they arrived and took their tribal lands, living and sleeping in a cave without fire would offer easy pickings for the many animals that preyed on them.

Even so, Jogod’s arm still cradled the small club he had used the previous day when out hunting.  Just in case creatures decided to try their luck this cold Winter’s night.

There it was again. Some creature in pain. The sound was the sound of whimpering.

Omo shook Jogod’s arm. He was awake instantly. It was instinctive. Their survival, as with all the members of their clan, depended on always being alert to danger.  Always keeping ahead of the many wild beasts that wouldn’t, and often didn’t, hesitate to feast on them; on the unwary, or on the sick, or on their young. Another reason for the protection of their cave.

Omo had her hand over Jogod’s lips to prevent any sound coming from him. There it was again, that whimpering sound. Possibly the sound of a very scared small animal. Perhaps more than one animal.

The darkness of the night outside, their cave surrounded by the dark forest, made it impossible for Omo and Jogod to leave the protection of their group. Nothing for it but to wait for the sun to rise, light up the sky and shine down into the forest.

They sat back-to-back in their cave, their bedding skins about them, each listening. Each trying to identify the animal from the sounds. A faint night-time breeze stirred, the gentle air wafting across the cave entrance. The breeze carried a familiar odour. Jogod picked up the scent of wolf! Not an uncommon odour because the wolves were constantly shadowing the group, drawn by the smells of their cooking, hoping to find a scrap of meat, a bone, a piece of skin. But Jogod smelt only young wolf. That was unexpected. Unexpected because the young wolves were always within the safety of their wolf pack.

Slowly the blackness of the night sky gave way to a hint of pale from the edge of the land from whence the light of the day always came. The paleness spread and became half-light. Further into the cave, as each of the other members of their hunting pack stirred, Omo, almost silently, touched each one on the shoulder or arm and motioned to remain perfectly quiet. Each of them in turn smelt young wolf, heard the whimpering, waited for more light.

Soon it was time. Time to search out these young wolves. Jogod and Omo, with Gadger and Kudu.  Gadger and Kudu, both experienced tribe elders, especially when it came to dealing with the wolves and other animals who ate their peoples.  All four of them fanned out and, as quiet as that night-time breeze, slowly followed the scent upwind.

It was not far to go. As they closed in on the sound, it became clear to them that not only were there two young wolves, but most likely one of each gender.  They all knew from past experiences how the sounds of a male wolf, even a young animal, sounded so differently from that of the female.

Then they saw them.  Just a few strides away two young wolves perhaps of age only two or three passings of the moon; four at most. The two young creatures had been attacked by an unknown predator; the rest of their pack must have abandoned them. Nature was so cruel at times.

The tearing of their small bodies was clear; dried blood all over their fur. The two frightened young animals quietened down as the hunters came up to them.  There was nothing that could be done for them. The young wolves must be left because it will only be a matter of time before more predators will arrive to take advantage of an easy kill.

But Omo had come forward and was crouching next to the shivering creatures. These two young wolves were utterly exhausted. Too tired to move, to try and flee from these humans who always tried to attack them and their packs. Yet Omo was speaking quietly to them and deep in the heads of these tiny animals so, too, was some instinct talking to them. Omo was not coming to harm them. This animal who walked on two legs, who made sounds like no other animals in the land, who so often was such a deadly threat to their wolf-packs; this time something was different. This animal was going to help them.

Omo’s arm slowly reached out and the fingers of her hand drifted across one of the tiny heads, the gentlest whisper of a touch of finger on fur. The whimpering stopped. The two frail cubs instinctively knew they were safe.

874 words. Copyright © 2013 Paul Handover