From Rags to Bitches

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Of all the questions people ask at my classes, seminars and behaviour clinics the one that pops up most is: "How did you get involved with dogs?"

I eventually asked myself the same question and the more I pondered the more bizarre the story sounded. Was it when I met an alsatian charging down the road towing an oven or when I was bowled over by a labrador stinking of sewage?

I started to write these stories down and showed them to a few friends who laughed out loud before suggesting I write a book. I was never sure whether they were ridiculing me or offering me encouragement.

When some of them told me how well their dogs had reacted to the training tips my pals had learned while laughing themselves senseless at my expense I thought I might just do it.

If I could write a book that entertained people while helping them improve the relationship with their dogs it would be a task worth doing. But with so many dogs to train, feed and look after I could never find the time.

I'm not very religious but if there is a God he's probably a knee surgeon at the Spire Regency Hospital for he did spake unto me saying: "Go forth with thy new knee and rest for thou shall not drive for several weeks."

"It's a sign," said Mrs B anxious not to become my chauffeur. "Get that book written."

One cannot ignore the command of God and so the book was born.

Each week From Rags to Bitches will be serialised on wilmslow.co.uk . Here is the first chapter. See what you think. If you enjoy it tell your friends. If you don't ... tell them you did.

From Rags to Bitches
Chapter One: Learning from the Master

"Right, Lad, pull it back as far as thi can."

The muscles in my young arms screamed for release.

"Get thi eye in."

Sweat trickled from my brow.

"At ready?"

"Yes, Granddad," I whispered.

"Reeto, Lad, let her go."

The shaft hissed past the wooden target, over the fence, across the adjoining garden, ricocheted off Wilson's coal shed and lodged itself in Mrs Ollerenshaw's back door.

"Quick, Lad, run inside before anyone sees us."

We bolted pell-mell down the garden path, flung open the door and dived breathlessly into my Gran's kitchen.

"That were a bloody close shave."

"What are we going to say?" I asked fearful of interrogation.

Granddad held a finger to his lips. "Mum's the word, Lad."

"But what about Mrs Ollerenshaw?"

"Say nowt and she'll never notice."

Given the 20-inch arrow protruding from her back door this seemed highly unlikely even to a nine-year old.

Arthur Sample stood a little under five feet six with a small paunch and the ruddy complexion of a gardener. His sense of humour and mischievous smile gave him the countenance of a cheeky schoolboy.

He was my only grandpa and I his only grandchild. He was my real life hero. Had I designed my own grandfather from scratch I could not have faired better.

Apart from making catapults capable of downing a zeppelin and sledges worthy of the Cresta Run he was a master raconteur with a repertoire of adventure stories that kept me enthralled throughout my childhood.

I once sat transfixed watching the River Dane for an entire afternoon after he convinced me a display by the local fire brigade would drain it of water.

If I was stressed by homework or dejected at not having been selected for the school football team Granddad would produce 'The Helmet'.

According to my Granddad he had worn this tin hat when attacking German trenches and the ricochet mark on the brim stood testimony to his valour under fire.

I sat enthralled, all thoughts of rejection erased, as the story unfolded always ending with Granddad capturing ten Germans single-handed.

"How did you do that, Granddad?" I'd ask wide-eyed with anticipation.

"I surrounded 'em, Lad."

No boy ever had a more interesting grandpa. The discovery, some years later, that Arthur actually found The Helmet abandoned in a ditch did nothing to dent my admiration.

I loved that man more than any other person on the planet. Well... except for my grandma, a small white haired angelic Lady who spoke ill of no one. She adored me and I her.

My Nan was extremely deaf following a lifetime working looms in Lancashire cotton mills. I was her official 'hearer' at family gatherings always ensuring she was included in the conversation.

Granddad's proudest possession was a 410 shotgun, which he would clean and oil for hours as I sat with him by the coal fire on dark winter evenings enthralled by his 'hunting' stories.

Puffing on a pipe of Thick Twist he would paint vivid pictures of great expeditions across frozen tundra in pursuit of wild game. Quite where this 'tundra' was I never asked being fairly sure it wasn't Belgium (the only foreign country in which he had ever set foot).

"I'll tell you what we'll do tomorrow," he announced one cold January night as we peeped through the curtains at an enormous moon. "We'll teck that 410 out, it's time tha learned how to hunt. Wi going to need a good dog, mind you."

"Where will we get a good dog, Granddad?"

"Tha's getten one at end o' thy street."

"Have I?"

"Aye that big black un."

"You mean Rex, Mrs. Homes's dog?"

"That's the one."

"But how do we know he's any good, Granddad?"

"He's a Labrador i'nt he?"

"Is he?"

"Course he is. He'll know how to hunt. They're born to it."

Early next morning I knocked nervously on Mrs. Homes door asking if I could take Rex for a long walk.

Despite the sleet and snow she had him lassoed and shoved outside with an eagerness I hadn't anticipated.

"I'll make sure he doesn't get too cold," I said as the back door swung swiftly shut in my face.

How could the owner of a proud hunting dog like Rex be so dismissive?

Something just didn't add up.

Photo: I was obsessed with dogs and horses from a very young age.

Tags:
From Rags to Bitches, Vic Barlow
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