dogs

Fantasy dog-breeding: a new variety that fits in your handbag but that will bite your hand off

Careful, he'll have your hand off. Pic credit: SnappyJack, http://www.morguefile.com

I was reading the local free ad newspaper on the train to London the other day and was intrigued by the Pets section.

I’d never realised the extent to which dog owners are now interbreeding their pets to create monstrous new varieties. I’d heard of the Jug (cross between a Jack Russell and a Pug) because I’d met one in a pub. I’ve also met the love child of a French Bulldog and a Pug – not sure what it was called though – a Frug maybe?

It all seems a bit strange, this desire to create new species just because you can. I mean, aren’t Jack Russells or Weimaraners or Dalmations or whatever nice enough as they are, without having to cross them with something else? After decades of creating a pure, distinct variety, owners are now deliberately watering down the individuality of their pets by crossing them with something else. I can’t work out if the owners of these peculiar half-breeds do it because they want to create a silly new dog or just a silly new word.

Here are some of the daft breeds you can get nowadays – the parentage is fairly obvious from the words.

Cockapoo

Goldendoodle

Labradoodle

Springador

Yorkipoo

Jackuahua

Westipoo

Pugalier

I’m not making any of those up – they are all readily available through the pages of the Reigate Friday Ad – and elsewhere, I’m sure.

It got me thinking, if breeders are going to muck about with nature by creating new breeds just for a laugh, why can’t they make ones that are really worth looking at? What if I had too much time on my hands and easy access to horny canines of various breeds, what would I create?

I’d love to try an Akitahuahua. The combination between a Chihuahua and an Akita fighting dog – fits in your handbag but takes your hand off when you try to get your keys out.

Or how about a Graschund (Great Dane and Dachshund)? Ten stone of muscle barely supported on four-inch legs.

Or a Newdle (a Newfoundland crossed with a miniature poodle). A muscular ball of black curls on dainty feet with a propensity to leap into puddles looking for people to rescue.

Maybe a mixture of a special needs Doberman and a Staffordshire Bull Terrier – a Daffy.

Or cross a Dogue de Bordeaux with a poodle and you’d have a Dogpoo!

Mating a Shih Tzu with a Jack Russell would be fun too, because a few months later (or is it weeks – my knowledge of canine biology is rusty), you’d have a Jackshiht – geddit?!!

Even better, bring a bulldog into the Shih Tzu equation and you’d have Bullshiht.

But my favourite fantasy cross-breeding exercise would be a dog crossed with a cat – something you could take for a muddy country walk that would have the intelligence to find its own way home if you lost it, could let itself in through the catflap, would daintily clean itself, scare off intruders but wouldn’t howl the house down if it was left alone while you went to the pub.

Polite greeting overcomes my cynicism about offensive signage

Conversation in the steam room tonight threatened for a while to be almost intelligent, with an interesting discussion about website development, but it descended into its usual levels of inanity when I mentioned I’d been to Climping at the weekend and someone asked if climping was legal, especially in a public place. They all know perfectly well that Climping is a place in Sussex.

Someone then put some aromatic oil on the heater and no-one could decide whether it was eucalyptus or whether it had more fruity, or even floral, overtones – perhaps with a touch of rosemary? They sounded like a bunch of beauty therapists in the fragrance section of a department store.

Rory pretended to read the label and announced that if taken internally it would give the user dark stools; he then left, allegedly to take a stool sample, at which Bill said he should spread his sample over the walls; it wouldn’t make any difference as they were so dirty anyway.

A discussion about the riots, begun on Friday night, re-emerged, this time about the theory that at least some of the burnt-out shops were inside jobs, carried out opportunistically by owners to claim on the insurance or by property developers to make listed sites easily available for redevelopment.

There was some idly childish speculation about whether one of the regular crowd, absent tonight, who had allegedly been seen working out in the gym in tight shorts, was on Viagra. There followed an astonishingly dull debate about the relative merits of the 435 and 405 buses from the town centre, enlivened by Rory objecting to the implications about his seniority of Tim’s suggestion that he (Rory) could use his bus pass on either of these thrilling omnibus options.

I had to leave at this point as I wanted my tea and there seemed no likelihood of the conversation getting more high-brow. But to return briefly to Climping – legal or not – having written previously about the plethora of terse signage telling people what to do and not do in Bristol, I was struck by how polite the signs in Sussex were.

“Please enjoy your visit” urged the sign at the entrance to the beach. Another sign told us this was a “dog-friendly car park” (presumably it likes to pat the dumb chums on the head and give them a biscuit).

Even a sign ordering dog owners to keep their pets on a lead was prefaced with “Polite Notice”; while the sign on the way out of the car park wished us “Safe journey home!”.

A refreshingly different tone from the Bristol signs, the thrust of whose message was “look, stop doing whatever it is you’re doing; now bugger off home”.

Going “dogging” – and an unexpected spelling test

A hilarious moment on Saturday night at a house party attended by loads of local musicians. One of the performers, Keith, known for performing comic songs on the banjo, got up to sing a number called “Dogging”, about a couple who enjoy outdoor sex. The lyrics are very amusing and the audience were chuckling anyway - then unbeknownst to Keith, who had his back to the door, the door swung gently open and the host’s elderly German Shepherd dog wandered in and started sniffing about. Great comic timing – as more and more of the audience spotted the dog the laughter got louder and louder.

Things got even funnier when the host’s Irish Wolfhound – a great shaggy grey giant of a beast – also chose that moment to potter in. Poor Keith, concentrating on the banjo, couldn’t understand why his song was being greeted with such hilarity – OK, so it got quite a giggle when he’d performed it before but was it that funny?

“We were dogging, we were dogging,” sang Keith to gales of laughter as the Alsatian pottered about the room looking for crumbs. “We were doing much more than just snogging!” he gamely continued, baffled by the snorts of laughter as the wolfhound made its way up the room under the table, having a good sniff at the guests’ legs as he passed by.

This was the second dog-related incident of the day: I’d got up on Saturday morning to find the cupboards were bare of cat food. Much indignation among the feline residents at not being able to chow down and get their breakfast, so, amidst much pathetic mewing, I nipped out to the local country store to get supplies.

I’m never at my most intellectual first thing in the morning so I stood for a while at the pet food section trying to work out whether 3 Whiskas packs for the price of 2 was cheaper per pouch than 25% off Felix. I’d just worked out that I was rubbish at arithmetic when a random woman appeared at my side and asked if I knew how to spell “Weimaraner”.

I did, as it happens. “Oh, I thought it was spelled with a V,” she said, “I wondered why I couldn’t find any books about them,” and trotted off happily, presumably to root about among the shop’s selection of books on Building Your First Chicken Coop, How to Breed Guinea Pigs andOrganic Small-holding for Beginners for something on Weimaraners, with a W.

Anyway, no sooner had I loaded up my basket with Whiskas than she was back. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a blue one have you?” she asked. Eh? I must have looked blank. “A blue Weimaraner,” she elucidated. Had my head been on a bit more firmly I might have been able to come up with a witty response along the lines of “No, I had a Brazilian last week”, but like I say I’m never at my sharpest at the crack of dawn so I just gaped half-wittedly. It turned out she was looking for a breeder of blue Weimaraners and presumably had thought there was half a chance of me being one, based on my superior dog-related spelling ability. Wouldn’t it be great if people always thought you were an expert in a subject if you were able to spell it? Imagine the fun you could have pretending to be an anaesthetist.