My dog Toby died last Sunday and I've been a bit down in the dumps this week. He was only a little fellow -- a Shih Tzu -- but had been a faithful companion for 14 years and brought me much happiness. Like anyone who has had a pet for that long, I'm going to miss him desperately.
I've had many yard dogs over the years who were all great fun, but Toby -- or "To-Bee" as the Thai members of our household called him -- was the only dog that had house privileges.
When we got him, he was just a few months old and like a little ball of white fluff. I even bought a dog basket for him to sleep in, tastefully decorated with bones and teddy bears. Of course he slept anywhere but that basket. Maybe it was the teddy bears that put him off.
He briefly showed some interest in squeaky toys, although I probably had more fun with them than he did. Unlike the yard dogs, Toby wasn't content with just eating the scraps and leftovers of my meals. It was canine cuisine for him or, to be more specific, things in tins with silly names, like Woofy, Doggo and Chummy. And despite his diminutive size, Toby always seemed to have the appetite of an elephant.
Toby was also a very good listener and never contradicted me … well, not a lot. He also acted as my alarm clock. On countless occasions I woke up to the sound of him banging his paws on our bedroom door demanding to be let in. I did not always fully appreciate this, especially when I fancied a lie-in. And the door is still covered in paw marks.
I will miss those morning calls.
Paws for thought
Toby even wrote this column once. It was one of those rare weeks in Thailand when there was nothing of interest in the news. One Friday I was staring glumly at the blank laptop screen when Toby started licking my toes. So I thought, why not? Let him have a go. So on Feb 21, 2010, PostScript readers were treated to the diary of a long-suffering hound, with Toby recounting his life in the Crutch household.
I must admit to having been influenced by reading about George Bush Sr when he was in the White House. He had a springer named Millie and, as befitting a "First Dog", Millie was so intelligent she wrote Millie's Book: As Dictated to Barbara Bush. It turned out to be a best-seller and even outsold the autobiography of Bush Sr.
So, in memory of Toby, I'm reproducing a couple of items from Toby's Tale: As Dictated to Crutch seven years ago.
Morning has broken
"I always know when the nai is surfacing in the morning as I hear all this wheezing and his creaking bones as he totters down the stairs. I keep out of his way to start with in case he is in a bad mood. He's usually OK once he's had his first cup of tea. That's when I go over and lick his toes. I have to do this every morning. He thinks it's kind of cute and shows I'm loyal. But his wife doesn't agree. 'Toby's only doing that because you've got smelly feet'," she tells him.
"The main reason I stay with him is the food. He's a real softie. When he is having a meal all I have to do is sit there forlornly, look pleadingly with my big brown eyes and maybe offer a little whimper for special effect. He falls for it every time."
Party pieces
"When we have guests he expects me to perform the breakdancing routine, when I'm supposed to lie on my back wiggling about. I feel kind of stupid. The best way out is to nip someone's ankle or piddle on the floor. That quickly puts an end to proceedings.
"I get my revenge, though. My favourite is what I call 'the door game'. I bark outside the front door so he lets me in. Then I walk straight to the back door and bark for him to let me out. Once I'm out I bark at the back door for him to let me in again. Then I bark at the front door to get out. It's great fun. He gets real mad."
Barking mad
So that's what Toby thought of me.
A couple of Christmases ago, on the internet I came across the old novelty song of the Singing Dogs performing Jingle Bells or "Jinger Ben" as we call it in Thailand. I thought I'd give Toby a Christmas treat and played it for him, half expecting him to join in. He briefly wagged his tail but then rolled over and went to sleep. I think he preferred Pink Floyd.
For the curious, the lyrics go something like this:
Ruff, ruff, ruff
Ruff, ruff, ruff
Ruff, ruff, ruff, ruff, ruff.
The Singing Dogs also recorded Three Blind Mice but the lyrics weren't so good.
Wet nose time
On that note I would like to wish everyone a splendid festive season and may all your Jinger Ben experiences be just the way they should be … splendidly out of tune. And if you have a dog, please give him or her a hug -- they really deserve it.
Contact Postscript via email at oldcrutch@gmail.com
