Bertie the Boxer

For many years my life was irregularly crossed by a boxer dog called Bertie. Just as everything else in my life was going swimmingly well when I didn’t have a care in the world and my career was going smoothly; who turned up but Bertie. He was the perennial canine bad penny. The grit in my eye. The fly in the ointment.

Maybe I should start at the beginning. One morning I arrived at my office at around 7.45 am ready for my first client of the day who was due at 8.00 am. This particular morning there was a problem. Tied to my door handle was a boxer dog and attached to his collar was a luggage label with the inscription “My name is Bertie”

My mind wandered briefly and I was transported back to the days when I read stories to the children. It was the luggage label that did it. I seem to recollect a certain Paddington Bear with a luggage label who when found was in possession of some marmalade sandwiches. Sadly the individual who had abandoned this dog had not thought to furnish any details and there was no packed lunch.

I had heard of babies being abandoned in cardboard boxes outside hospitals and churches but never an abandoned dog outside a dog trainer’s office. So as not to disappoint my 8 o’clock client I swapped Bertie with my dog Zena I put Bertie in the cage that was inside my estate car and kept Zena with me. I rang the local RSPCA centre which fortunately was close by and asked them to collect Bertie which they did. I requested to be kept informed of what happened to him and didn’t have long to wait.

Within a week Bertie had acquired a new home and his new owner had assured the staff that she would be bringing Bertie for training.

Enter Samantha

Samantha had personality. She was young, bubbly, very enthusiastic, had long blonde hair, a perfect figure and the one thing that any heterosexual male would have instantly noticed, the shortest mini skirts ever made. Talking to Samantha it became obvious that Bertie came complete with a number of problems. The usual issues of pulling on the lead, not coming when called and jumping up, coupled with a voracious appetite for anything he considered edible.

Bertie was the archetypal Boxer of those days, happy, mostly bent in the shape of a banana, little stump of a tail constantly wagging, all in all, a delightful pet. The only drawback of any boxer is their penchant for never going around anything but through it.

We started with walking to heal and then moved on to coming when called and jumping up. Now as I said Samantha was a nubile young lady who chose to wear micro-mini skirts, In fact, her appearance would have been enough to make a Buddhist monk hang up his robes. This presented a slight problem. In order to make Bertie sit it required Samantha to lean forward. My blood pressure rose rapidly but I assure you that I did not suggest making Bertie sit more than was necessary despite the temptation. Such was my professionalism that I wondered if a second career beckoned as an anchorite.

As the weeks passed it became obvious that Samantha was totally smitten with her new canine companion. He could do no wrong even when he had completely messed up. It wasn’t that Bertie was a complete reprobate it was just that Samantha didn’t have what it took to show any level of control or discipline. To make matters worse it was almost impossible to be cross with Samantha. No matter how I approached the subject of Bertie’s bad behaviour and her failure to deal with it she looked at me with her baby blue eyes and promised faithfully that she would mend her ways. It was hopeless. Bertie continued to pull on the lead, he only returned when called if and when it suited his convenience and as for jumping up he was a master of the art, add to all this his penchant for eating anything whether it was edible or not this was not Hodson’s greatest triumph. After many weeks I suggested that Samantha take a break and see how she got on. The idea being that Bertie’s behaviour would deteriorate so badly that Samantha would be forced to instil some discipline into her errant hound. No, that didn’t work either.

Regular Chaos

Samantha and Bertie continued to enrich each other’s lives for many years. Chaos was a recurring theme and we were all dragged into the maelstrom that was Samantha and Bertie’s life. My friends in the local constabulary will testify that Bertie was reported missing on a regular basis. He was taken to the local police station so often that he was able to make his own way there if he was lost. According to the desk sergeant, he threatened Samantha with dire consequences if she didn’t keep Bertie under control, all to no avail. Like me and others, even the long arm of the law failed to impress the irrepressible Samantha.

As for me, phone calls kept me up to date with Bertie’s misdemeanours. Not only did he continue to plague the constabulary but my advice was sought so often that Samantha always sent me a very generous gratuity at Christmas. Bertie’s criminal behaviour was reflected in the size of my annual present.

Some years it was so large that I am sure I could have settled the UK national debt.

Amongst his yearly wrongdoings were jumping out of the garden, digging under the fence, and as a result of his enthusiastic attempt at landscaping the garden had the appearance of a  battlefield. Removing Samantha’s underwear from the laundry basket and eating it was a regular occurrence. He caused floods by opening the door that led to the pipework under the sink which he managed to put his teeth through. One day he decided that he wanted to be in another room so he managed to make a hole in the stud wall. Chewing the furniture was done so often that the local second-hand furniture shop did a roaring trade with Samantha. I did on one occasion suggest she bought shares in the business! Opening cupboard doors and eating the contents happened with monotonous regularity

Not only was he infamous amongst the guardians of law and order he was a frequent visitor to the local veterinary surgeon who had lost track of the number of times he had to deal with the result of Bertie’s demented appetite. He administered enemas at regular intervals. On one occasion he surgically removed two pairs of knickers, years later a pair of tights, and finally cleared a blockage caused by unidentifiable matter, the result of Berties horticultural activities

As for me, I accepted that whilst Samantha and Bertie were around life would never return to normal.

Bertie was around 12 years old when he made his final trip to the vet. He had been diagnosed with a tumour. It was inoperable.

Many years later I happened to meet up with the veterinary surgeon and a policeman, both of whom, like me had their lives disrupted by the misadventures of Bertie. We all agreed that despite the frustrations and the chaos that Bertie brought into our existence we all missed him and his delightful mistress the mini-skirted Samantha. In unison, we all raised a glass to the boxer dog who had brought mayhem to all our lives.

The one and only Bertie. RIP