More interested in Rolos, rashers or Rachmaninov than in rat catching
‘HE’Sa jack russell, isn’t he?’ The man we bumped into early the other morning on the High Street in Our Town was clearly impressed by The Pooch.
‘ That’s a lovely little fellow you have there,’ said the chatty stranger as the object of his admiration tugged on the lead and licked at a mysterious stain on the pavement.
‘ They are great little ratters, those jack russells,’ was the cheery man’s parting remark as he pottered off in one direction while I was hauled off the other way by our ever eager hound. Great little ratter? Ha! The Pooch could not distinguish between a rat and a Rastafarian. The Pooch would not know a rat if it jumped up and bit him on his cute wet nose. The Pooch is more interested in Rolos or rasher rinds or rare recordings of Rachmaninov rhapsodies than he is in rats.
There was no cause to call our chance acquaintance back and put him straight on the inept rodent rousing capabilities of our pet. Easier to let the man remain in ignorance of the fact that not all jack russells are great little ratters.
The Pooch is the exception to the jack russell great-little-ratter rule. Yes, he goes through all the motions of energetically exploring each nook and cranny that we pass as we patrol the ditches of the Medders Manor estate. But as yet no rat has ever been discommoded or disturbed, let alone dispatched.
The scent of a rat somehow never shows up on the spectrum of smells which grab his attention. When it comes to confronting other animals, The Pooch prefers to engage with species which pose less of a threat to his wellbeing than nasty old rattus rattus.
He makes a great show, for instance, of cornering hedgehogs, barking hysterically as he circles his prey, like a war party of Apaches lighting upon a covered wagon full of settlers crossing a prairie in the Wild West.
The Pooch at least has the good sense not to attempt taking a mouthful of prickly hedgehog hide before he is pulled away. And the hedgehog is well served by the instinct which prompts him to curl up in a ball until the war party has been withdrawn.
Then he straightens himself up and scuttles off into the undergrowth, leaving his tormentor with the territorial bragging rights – and also with an infestation of fleas. Hedgehog hoppers must be the itchiest blood suckers in creation.
Our not so great-little-ratter is also a demon for chasing cats. The local wild cats treat his attentions with disdain. They more than match him for speed and, if cornered, are quite prepared to lash out with unsheathed claws, giving them the edge in close quarter combat. Most of the time, however, they are happy to taunt him, looking down from the secure dog-proof height of a wall or of a shed roof.
One other cat is less confident in her dealings with The Pooch. His bullying tactics have unfortunately driven our beloved, long serving pet moggy away to find more peaceful accommodation elsewhere. She had suffered enough torment, ousted from her favourite cushion and unsettled by The Pooch’s insistent desire to harass and badger her.
Though she had many years of seniority, she was too passive to pull rank on the puppy-come-lately. So now, she continues to reside in the locality but seldom comes closer to Medders Manor than a branch up in the old oak tree. From the safety of this elevated perch, she occasionally meows a plaintive greeting before disappearing back to whichever neighbour she has persuaded to give her house room and Kitty Kat.
Young Persephone and I particularly miss her, convinced that there is no comparison between petting a dog and stroking a cat. The feline has a softness which a cheeky-chappy canine can never match, though The Pooch loves snuggling up with us on the couch for an evening in front of the television, belly up and snoring like a grampus...
It was I, not the dog, who chanced upon a rat the other day. The intruder was nosing around the compost bin. The Pooch sauntered over when I called but showed no interest in mounting a chase.