Just a walking the dog.

Just a walking the dog.

It was the night before Christmas Eve. Cold, frosty and dark.

In the pub a farmer friend turned from his pint of bitter at the bar and saw me warming up near the glow from the open fire.

" Ther's still a pup left't the farm, if you want one."

Then, not waiting for a response he turned back to talk to the landlord.

My last border collie came from him the same way many years ago and he knew it had died some time ago.

As I left I answered, "Thanks, but I'm not sure at the moment, I'll talk to my wife and get in touch tomorrow."

I walked up the pitch black village punctuated with glittering Christmas tree lights and it began to snow.

I love walking but since the loss of my last dog I had not done quite so much despite promises that I would. I felt alone and somehow exposed without her when walking and the joy had gone.

My wife was split 50/50 on whether or not to have another pup with all the potential for mess and havoc.

The decision was to be left to me.

As you read these notes you will realise as much as I did then that if I so much as got into the car with a view to going to see 'the pup left't the farm' all thought of saying 'no' would have already melted as quickly as the snowflakes that had settled on my face coming home from the pub.

Christmas Eve came and the inner struggle grew and grew.

Eventually.

"It's no good, I'll have to go and have a look at the pup at the farm."

"Just a look."

My wife said nothing, she didn't have to. She just looked at me out of the corner of her eye.

I parked the car in the muddy stack yard. The working relatives of the pup all descended on the stranger and jumped up in greeting. Just as well I had old clothes on. (In case I might have to pick up a dirty puppy, but you realised that didn't you? No sense of any commitment -no not at all.)

"The pup's shut in the hay shed at the moment, to keep it out of harm’s way."

He pointed to an old black painted shed. The door planks had rotted at the bottom and looked like a set of rotten top teeth waiting extraction.

Then in the black gap at the door bottom was thrust a white streak with a shiny eye either side.

I could tell by the way that the face rocked from side to side that there was a tail in the darkness behind somewhere wagging for all it was worth.

The latch on the door clicked open and an explosion of straw and black and white fluff fell out. The black and white fluff ran at me licking and peeing in ecstasy, as though I was its long lost mother, freshly returned.

Well, what would you do?

I took her home sat her on an old sheet and she never bothered - the trust seemed immediate.

Walking down the front path with the head sticking out of the sheet I felt a bit sheepish.

The pup was very dirty so we had to wash her in the bath and towel her off.

Next was the difficult of a name.

"It will have to be something connected with Christmas." said the good lady, softening slightly now.

Then came the suggestions, "Christmas"

"Noel"

"Holly"

"Mistletoe" etc, etc.

Nothing seemed to catch the right feeling of the overjoyed bundle.

Then it clicked.

"MERRY".

Living where I do on the North Yorkshire Moors it is imperative that my dog can be trusted to behave itself when in the close proximity to other animals. Particularly the sheep and lambs that are free to graze the road sides and the village generally, at will. Not being a qualified trainer of dogs I can only go from the experience of owning five previous dogs. Not all at once that is, one after the other. Many people have personal preferences as to dog or bitch. I certainly don't want to preach, you must follow your own heart when choosing a dog. Then I have always preferred bitches mainly because of their temperament, especially when babies or children are around. Also when other animals are about they tend to be more benign than dogs.

From being a pup Merry has daily walked on the moors with me (and the sheep). To start with always on a leader then gradually released for increasingly longer time periods. All dogs make mistakes and if possible need to be told at the time; otherwise it does more harm than good. She has become 'bomb proof' with sheep which are the most gentle of creatures. Because she is a border collie and from a local farm she has an in built subconscious knowledge of how to react with sheep. From her earliest days she would lower to the ground and move around the side of any sheep. Looking back for instruction, for the entire world as if she was a trained sheepdog. Certainly without any prompt from me or any experience picked up from her unfortunately dead mother.

Now had come the time to try cows, not quite so placid. We have to enter the field that the cows are in and walk the path, which is a right of way, through what the cows feel is 'their' field. The cows are not used to people in 'their' field.

Today the game is improved by the fact that there is a bull in the field as well. I happen to know this particular bull, almost personally, he is nice and docile - I wouldn't expect you to try this with any old bull in a field.

I let Merry look at the cows through the gate then put her on a leader and with a deep breath opened the gate and walked as normally as possible up the path. The cows lift their heads and appear to communicate with one another without sound. They all start to look our way. The young bullocks think this is a great hoot and start prancing about as if they have just come to the party. They tear down the field towards us with the older cows picking up speed behind them. Merry is showing signs of fright. Her tail is down and her body trying to flatten. I start to think of the town in Spain where they let all the cows run through the streets in mayhem. I am looking at the fence now. I couldn't jump it but I could just about fall over it at a pinch. I must remain calm. The packs of cows seem at full flight. The young bullocks are first to apply the brakes and skid on the wet grass before veering aside about a cow's length away. The following herd of curious cows turn. Their hooves cutting grooves in the soft earth. At the top of the hill is the Bull. He hasn't moved.

The cows mill around in our proximity and I keep walking, not looking behind at them. I can hear them sniffing and snorting and smell their warm earthy breath. They slowly lose interest and wander back to their grazing in ones and twos. Merry and I continue up the hill to the top gate. We go through and I let her off. She flies around excited, tail in the air. Fair Chuffed! We showed them didn't we?

That was the first time and the worst time. I repeat the walk daily and Merry increases in confidence (so do I!). Now we can walk through them with Merry off the lead and they take no notice. However, it should be noted that by now we all know one another well. If we went into a field of fresh cows we would almost certainly have to start again.

Lastly, the two legged animal. My father always said that it was good experience for a dog to be taken into the local pub. This was not a difficult lesson for me to carry out. It does work well though. Merry soon adapting to the sounds and smells of fresh herds of the human animal and adapting to their complicated behaviour patterns.

Even though they are performing much stranger rituals than a bunch of curious cows and never as docile as the sheep. Merry finds a way to fit in correctly.

It can be quite depressing for some people when the clocks go back. Snow is already starting to fall on high ground in Scotland. This is the season of mist and mellow fruitfulness, or something like that.

It is to me like every other season. Dazzlingly beautiful.

However, Merry loves it now because it is cool. Not cool in the Hippie sense, but for her the now insulating coat is not too hot. She tears about around our back garden as if a soul possessed. Flying up and down as fast as she can. I know that she is in desperate need of a long walk. By that I mean a walk that is unrestricted both for her (and me).

The rain that comes with October fills the beck with a full flow that we have missed all summer. The moist decaying leaves are pulled down by the now active worms for an autumn supper.

A thousand types of fungus start to rise from the earth like aliens. Merry shows absolutely no interest in them at all. No scent of food value for her there.

Through the drizzle, flocks of Field Fare arrive almost unnoticed and graze over vast areas of moorland old pastures. They break the acres of cobwebs that are never seen until the dew picks them out at this time of year,

The squirrels appear to be very bold. Dashing about and forgetting where they put the last bit of food. In the fields it is now the time of potato picking. There are not any heavy crops in the moorland valleys.

We head past the last house in the village then down the old packhorse trod. Merry bursts away in an initial joy of freedom. At full tilt she looks to one side to see if the farm dogs are looking through their gate and they are. She does the same thing every time at this point. After a while she stops and looks back to see how far I have got. This is something that she does repeatedly through any walk.

Oh - Oh, in the distance I can see a couple of walkers coming this way. They have a dog with them. Merry is still young and I haven't yet managed to stop her 'greeting' people when she sees them coming. It can't be pleasant if you are not a dog lover, to have a muddy dog jump up at you and start licking any exposed flesh. She is improving now but I can tell that at this time she is too far ahead of me to take any notice this time. She sees them and is off like a shot. Thankfully they are dog lovers and greet her happily as does their dog. They tear about happily. I offer my excuses and we exchange a few pleasantries. Both dogs happily separate this time and we press on. It's pointless scolding her now as she has already forgotten the incident. Next time I'll have to get to her before she sees them.

We turn to walk home and the sun comes out, belatedly, low in the heavens. Somehow this golden light makes the green of the mosses appear a deeper and richer green than any green I have ever seen. The streaming beams make the remaining leaves even Golder. What had been a dull drizzly day has suddenly evaporated and been replaced with magic. Both the dog and I walk slowly home with spirits lifted not wanting the show to end.

Fed up with fiddling with my old car and not being able to find what was rattling I struggle out from underneath. Merry has been under with me most of the time and is sufficiently bored to have gone to sleep.

We decide a walk is in order. When we get back the answer will easily be found, I'm sure.

Merry hears the leader rattle and is at the garden gate before me. Soon there will be little time left to walk in the evenings. Still, it's afternoon just now and a windy one at that. The first two gates on the way Merry jumps clean. Then looks back at me impatiently.

The countryside is starting to look past its best now and Merry looks up at the busy chirps of Swallows assembling on the electricity wires. I wonder what she is thinking about. It can't be thoughts in English, obviously. It can't be thoughts in barks - that just doesn't seem right somehow. It must be in pictures in her mind. Yes, that must be it. But then, does she actually worry? No, surely not. Though she's not too keen on the cows in the field. Also, come to think of it - there are a couple of dogs we pass that she is not too keen on either. Her tail goes down - so does her head when we get near to their patch. Even though they might not be around at the time.

We're coming to the end of a bit of stone wall. Merry knows that there are rabbits just round the corner of it. She stalks up to the end of the wall and peeps around. Yes, there are loads of them and they scatter in all directions. Merry would absolutely love to chase one of them. White tails bobbing everywhere she can't make up her mind which one to go for. Then they have gone. She has missed them all and she looks back at me as though it was my fault. Well, maybe it was. Maybe they saw me before they saw Merry. One thing for sure she has absolutely zero chance of ever catching one as they can easily turn on five pence even at full speed. She, meanwhile, goes careering into the distance with brakes all squealing. By the time that she has turned the rabbit is long gone. It would have shot down its hole, spoken to the other rabbits in the warren and be at the hole exit smiling back at Merry, I'm sure.

We sit on a big old piece of gritstone rock and admire the view below. Through tears brought by the strong wind. Merry has all the appearance of enjoying it as much as I do because she is looking into the distances. And, down there near the old gate to the bridle path is a patch of field mushrooms. There'll be a fresh lot up in the morning - I must remember to come up before breakfast.

We walk on along the bridle path with Merry traversing from side to side. She must cover at least five miles to each one of mine. It suddenly occurs to me that the light is fading. Yes, and we are still walking away from home. We turn and head back. Through the beech wood the bats are just starting to flitter. What was an inviting wood in daylight is now becoming a scary Disney cartoon in the increasing dark. The black branches above like arms stretching out to us.

Merry does not feel any of my trepidation at all. Rattles from birds beginning to roost hold no fear to her. Neither do approaching scuffles from sheep in the surrounding bracken. Still, I feel easier when we are out into the open where a beautiful sunset greets us. Merry sits down and you will never tell me that she isn't enjoying the sight.

Then we head for home away from the ghosts of the night with thoughts of Ham and Eggs on a plate and Dog Food in a dish