One Christmas, back when I was a kid, my parents got me a long fishing pole rod thing. Not for fishing (of course!) but because I was into making terrible films and the thought was I could put a GoPro on the end of it to get a ‘crane’ shot – This was long before the whine drones filled the sky.
Eager to test out my new ‘toy’ we took the canoes out onto the canal and, in the tropical waters of the Twixmas period, the camera fell off into the water. Some would think that’d be the end of it. But with my dad being the kind of dad he is, I soon found myself diving over the side of the canoe to retrieve the silvery smudge at the bottom of the deepest part of the canal.
The water was cold but as I dived in, head first, the camera came within not quite grasping distance of my fingers. It was here that I realised my mistake: I was still wearing a buoyancy aid. Cruelly remembering its purpose, the BA hauled me back up to the surface. Coughing and spluttering I was dragged back in the canoe. Scout, our dog, was going mental. He’d been sharing the boat with Dad and myself and this was clearly the most exciting thing he’d ever seen. He leaped and bounded all over the boat unable to sit still while I sat shivering in the bottom of the canoe.
About two weeks back now Scout had to be put down. He’d had a good innings, a month shy of 15 years, which is not bad for a little Poodle. However I’d be lying if I said it didn’t come as a bit of a shock. These words have taken a little bit of time to come together, so please excuse this departure from this blog’s regular schedule for this extended epitaph. (Scout loved canoeing so that’s how I’m justifying it.)
After years of pestering from my brother, my parents finally relented and we brought home a little black ball of fluff, cradled inside an A4 paper box. He soon grew, chewing anything and everything in his path, including at one point a wall. We named our little ball of fluff Scout, although I’d often refer to him affectionately as ‘trouble’. Both names were very fitting.
Scout became a regular occurrence down the canoe club (BCCC) often accompanying my dad in an open canoe. He could frequently be spotted with two paws up on the bow of the boat doing his best impersonation of Kate Winslet in Titanic.
Scout’s other favourite games included nabbing at the water while you tried to paddle, or even better jumping between different boats! He was never a graceful swimmer – looking more like my grandma trying to keep her hair dry – but this never seemed to deter him or reduce the regularity that he (and any unwilling participants) would end up in the drink!
Like any dog Scout loved walks, comically big sticks, escaping the garden (such an apt name), barking at people on the street and just barking at anyone who came to the front door.
Trouble, did not enjoy going for a run. The one time I tried it, Scout gave up about half way round and decided to walk with a more sedated family.
For Scout digging up the dead pigeons the foxes would stash in the garden was considered a delicacy and the sign of a particularly good day. Afternoons and evenings were spent snoozing on the sofa, while demanding eternal belly rubs (He’d paw and grumble at you if you dared stop). Eventually he’d fall asleep occasionally twitching his little paws and ‘harrumphing’ at whatever he was chasing in his dreams, you know, classic dog stuff.
The last time I took Scout out he’d been staying with me briefly up in Nottingham. I took an open canoe out from the NKC and we (or rather I) battled a pretty disgusting headwind up the river to nearly the suspension bridge. A pathetic number of miles compared to my usual outings, but that wasn’t really the point. Scout was just excited to be out in a canoe with me again. Bounding about as if he was a pup again, pulling his usual tricks. At one point I thought he was even going to try a transfer into McIntyre’s K1. Thankfully I remembered to grab a few photos of his greying face looking fucking majestic.
“It’s weird how music peaked when I was most emotionally vulnerable”. I got the sad news while I was up in Manchester – visiting friends and, ironically, seeing a band called Pup (hence the title). The quote which can be attributed to my good friend Andy was made while we were discussing the band’s latest album in relation to their first two. Weirdly their new album “Who Will Look After The Dogs?” seems to be hitting hard all of a sudden.
I got that camera back in the end. I took off the BA and plunged into the cold winter waters again. I was bloody freezing. But, as we paddled home, Scout kept me company.
Scout, and all his trouble, will be sorely missed.
River Stench 