Crunchy

The telephone rang.

“Is that Mr Hodson, the dogman?”

The voice was definitely not Cornish; it sounded as if it would be more at home in Mayfair.

“It is”, I replied

“The name is Aspinall, I need you to come urgently, you’ve been highly recommended, I’ve just rescued a dog, very sad case, had a shocking life.”

Mrs Aspinall spoke in those clipped times that indicated that she expected a rapid response  without any further discussion. Regular readers will be aware that despite the vast majority of my clientele being average citizens from a broad spectrum of the local population I had became aware that having solved problems for a couple of the landed gentry my telephone number was probably on speed dial of some of their friends, hence my immediate presence being occasionally demanded. For most of them, I had no problem; despite their wealth and position in society, they were polite, courteous and easy to get on with.

The visit

Mrs Aspinall was a tall, extremely slim lady, immaculately dressed, which was somewhat at odds with the rather odd shapeless floppy hat that she appeared to habitually wear.

“Horse whipped, Mr Hodson, if I had anything to do with it. They should be horse-whipped.”

It was a common refrain.

Hoping to lighten the atmosphere, I murmured with a smile

“Perhaps you should apply to become a magistrate.”

“A MAGISTRATE!!” They wouldn’t have me! By the end of my first week, I would have filled the country’s goals.

“Look at the poor creature, her name is Crunchy.”

“Crunchy?” I queried.

“Yes, she has this habit of grinding her teeth, sounds like she is crunching a piece of wood.”

Crunchy was indeed a sorry specimen of an English Setter.  She was underweight but not eating. Let’s face it, your average English Setters tend to be on the slim side at the best of times. Despite having been cleaned up, her coat was dry and staring, but most alarming of all, she just sat, staring at the floor, showing no animation at all.

Crunchy was not a name she responded to, and in fact, it appears she had never even had a name. She had spent her entire life as a brood bitch. Her sole purpose was to be mated at every opportunity, give birth, raise the puppies and then see them taken away.

“The rescue place said that she was probably around 3-4 years old, but my vet says she is 7-8 years old.”

“Yes, it’s a common story with older dogs; the shelters know that the older the dog, the less likelihood they have of finding a home, so they shave a few years off the dog’s age.”

Despite the comfortable bed with cushions, the vast array of toys, and several bowls of differing food, Crunchy showed no interest in her surroundings.

“Poor lamb doesn’t even respond to a stroke, she doesn’t even want a cuddle.”

I wasn’t sure who was more distressed, Crunchy or Mrs Aspinall

A long job

I pondered the problem, looked at the response of Crunchy to the bed, the bowls of food, the anguish of my client and reckoned that this was going to be a long job, but I needed to make an immediate start.

“Mrs Aspinall, I need a few minutes to decide the best course of action.”

My client made a pot of tea and answered my questions as best she could.

“Mrs Aspinall, it’s just all too much. I understand that you want her to have everything at once, but it’s all so utterly overwhelming for Crunchy. The heaps of food, the comfy bed, the outpouring of emotion, this is what I want you to do.”

“Take the mattress and cushions out of her bed and just replace them with a simple thin towel. For food, try chicken and rice or maybe scrambled eggs. If that fails, put several bowls of food down until she finds one she likes, but only a couple of spoonfuls at a time. The bowels have too much food in them, and it is too overwhelming. Only make two toys available at a time and rotate them until she chooses.”

“Finally, I want you to ignore her, stop the cuddling and stroking, just let her do her own thing, and she will decide what she is able to accept. She has to come to terms with her past; she alone will decide what brings happiness. When she is ready, she will come to you.”

“No, no, no, that can’t be right. She needs comfort and cuddles.”

The lady’s anguish was all too obvious to see

Mrs Aspinall glared at me, and at that moment, my reputation was in tatters.

I waited for a moment and replied quietly.

“Madam, I don’t give this advice lightly, but it is for the best in the long term. What you are doing, unfortunately, is not working.”

Mrs Aspinall regained her composure and nodded.

“If you think that is best, then so be it.”

“It’s like this,” I said.

“Crunchy needs time to adjust. Unfortunately, we don’t know if she will ever return to what we consider normality; only time will tell.”

Progress

I would pay many visits to Mrs Aspinall over the next few months and would receive regular updates on Crunchy’s progress until the day she passed away.

Mrs Aspinall already had a pug called Percy who appeared to accept the introduction of Crunchy into the household with no hostility at all.

Fairly quickly, Crunchy found a food that she enjoyed without any adverse effects. Unfortunately, she took a fancy to chicken and scrambled eggs, but Mrs Aspinall was just so happy that Crunchy was eating that preparing her meals was not a chore; the lady was ecstatic. Crunchy reluctantly accepted a bath, so her personal hygiene was somewhat more agreeable, and she even started to look quite smart. She started to use her bed but refused to enter if there were cushions placed in the bed.

Crunchy finally found a squeaky toy that gave her pleasure but showed no interest in balls, fluffy items or activity toys. Her favourite squeaky toy took the form of an elephant, and I was informed that on the occasion that the squeak failed to function, Crunchy showed signs of great distress. This found Mrs Aspinall driving immediately to the nearest pet shop to purchase a replacement. With no squeaky elephants available, the lady bought the shop’s entire stock of squeaky toys, hoping that at least one would be a suitable replacement. What the store owner thought I couldn’t imagine. It appears that a squeaky cat found favour and peace and harmony was restored. I’m not sure about the peace bit as I’m not a fan of squeaky toys, I find them quite irritating, but Mrs Aspinall had no such reservations, probably because Percy the pug had his own squeaky mouse. Sadly, Crunchy never got used to being cuddled or stroked, but did like being brushed, so a very soft brush was purchased, and this became a daily ritual in her life; she even presented herself each day for her daily groom. Her most enjoyable moments were going for a walk with Percy the pug, although it took many weeks for Crunchy to gain enough confidence to leave the garden.

Fortunately, Mrs Aspinall was a sensible, pragmatic lady and accepted the limitations that were part of her life with Crunchy. She came to terms with the fact that Crunchy just wasn’t happy being stroked or cuddled.

There was never that close bond that most of us have with our dog, but as Mrs Aspinall said, just because it wasn’t a tactile relationship, she had no doubt that the final part of Crunchy’s life was as stress-free as it was possible to be. Compared to her previous existence, life for Crunchy was paradise. Sleep as and when it suited her, no more puppies, a name she could answer to, daily walks with Percy, a squeaky toy and small portions of chicken with scrambled egg three times a day.

Crunchy was to see out the rest of her life with Mrs Aspinall.  She lived another 6 years, which would have made her 13 or 14 years old when she passed away peacefully in her sleep.