Tears for a Tinker (37 page)

JIP

I
will stop now and take my dogs for a walk. Remember Brigadoon, my monster yellow Labrador with a bottomless pit for a stomach, and wee broon Jake, my
twelve-year-old mongrel?

I’ve always loved mongrel dogs; they seem less inclined to catch diseases that thoroughbreds are prone to. Worms are got rid of by chewing grass and discarded sheep wool.
Ticks don’t pose problems, and if they smell a heaty bitch off they go. If they manage to find their way back, well, that’s fine, but if not, then get another one. No, mongrels are,
like the mangy mutt in ‘Lady and the Tramp’ their own masters. Take a wee while out from your day and journey back with me to the flats, because it was here I got conned into giving Jip
a home.

Davie’s Uncle Jimmy seldom visited us. For one thing, the stairs up to our flat were far too numerous, and for another, Jimmy only had time for cutting trees and horses. But I am not
speaking here about nice old Uncle Jimmy—no, it was the tiny white puppy he brought upstairs with him, and deliberately failed to take away. I must say it had the most beautiful, cute face in
the entire world, according to Johnnie and Stephen, who took it into their room to play with while I made Jimmy some tea. After he had finished it, he said he had a lot of work to do somewhere, and
off he went. It took a minute to sink in that the ball of fluff my boys were frolicking with on their beds had been forgotten. I called out to Jimmy, but he didn’t seem bothered, so I called
again, ‘Uncle, you forgot the wee dug!’

With a wave of his hand he set off down the road in his truck. Now do you ever get the feeling that you’re being conned? Yes, and so did I that day. The kids were over the moon with the
dog, but I knew it was cruel keeping one in a flat. ‘No, that pup is going to Uncle Jimmy,’ I sternly told the boys, who replied, ‘Oh Mum, why? He’s nae bother, we’ll
walk him.’

‘Oh, nae doubt when he’s a puppy you’ll even take turns letting him share your beds, but what happens when he’s older, a big dog? And that’s another thing, we
don’t even know how much growth’s in him. No, the jugal goes back, that’s an end to the matter.’

The wee white ball of fluff moved his round head from side to side, and I could feel my icy heart melt. However, I had to be assertive. If I gave in now while the boys were nine and ten, what
would I be like later on when they towered over me, telling me, their mother, what to do? No, I was the boss, and when I said no dog, I meant no dog!

Teatime brought the true head of the house home. I gave him that ‘you better speak to your kids about a certain animal’ look, as I pointed to what was belly-up at his feet.

‘Hello Daddy,’ they said, clambering over him with pleading eyes and whining voices, ‘can we keep the dog?’

‘Ye wee bisoms, I thought I said no! Now get your hands washed for tea, and if I hear another word there’s a box of raspberry icecream staying in the fridge.’

The boys at that moment would have forfeited ice cream for the rest of their lives if I had relented.

Davie, who I must admit looked a little guilty about his Uncle’s visit and the left-over dog, said, ‘Jess, my wee darling, I forgot to tell you that I got the pup last time I went
down to Nottingham with Uncle Jimmy.’ He’d done a job woodcutting a week or two back, and at that stage the pups were too young to remove from their mother. ‘Uncle Jimmy promised
to bring the one I chose up with him when he came back. I was going to tell you, but I didn’t think he’d bring it here until I had spoken to him. Sorry.’

‘Oh well, that makes everything hunky-dory! I have a jugal plus three weans in a top-floor flat—great!’ For the rest of the day I was the bogey man; avoided like a plague.
However, you all know me and my mongrels, and that night before sleeping as I listened to my kids playing with the pup, I kind of decided to keep it. Next morning a tray was brought into my bedroom
with a cup of hot water that slightly resembled tea, and burnt toast. I shall never forget them standing there at the foot of bed—Johnnie with a pair of pyjamas far too small for him, Stephen
clutching his favourite toy, a big yellow tonka truck, and Barbara squeezing the breath from the pup. They had discussed its name while preparing my breakfast, and to this day I have no idea how or
why they decided on the name Jip.

‘Well, good morning Jip with snowy coat and black eyes—welcome to the Smith household. I hope your stay with us will be a dog’s life.’ What else could I say under such
lovable pressure? He became the fourth member of our family, and the best pal of every bairn who lived in the flats. Thankfully he never grew so big as to be a problem.

Each morning before breakfast, and, I may proudly say, without protest, the boys took turns walking him. Barbara was still too young to do it, and I far too busy. I had a part-time job with
Morrison’s Academy, a big private boarding school in the upper area of Crieff. I was allowed to take Barbara with me until she was old enough for nursery school, which was a great help. I
cleaned in Knox House, a girls’ boarding-house, and since it was a school, during holidays I was able to be at home for my ever-dependent, growing family. Davie had a succession of jobs,
sometimes on building sites, but when a position came up as a wood-cutter on Drummond Estate, owned by Lady Willoughby de Eresby, he jumped at the chance.

It was about Jip’s ninth month when he let us know he’d a love for chasing rabbits. We had been for a drive down along the Broich Road. Davie suggested taking a walk to the river
through farmer Simpson’s fields. Well, the first rabbit he saw, he took after it like a hare—what a stride on him. The lads, along with their father, whooped and shouted, while Barbara
and I, who had no stomach for such wildness, went down to the river to watch some mallards and visiting goosanders swimming quietly in and out of the bullrushes.

Jip the wonder dog hadn’t caught his prey, but according to my menfolk he gave it a run for its life. However, although the dog seemed to have calmed down after his chase, he was still
riled, and as Davie picked up speed on our road home, did Jip not spy a bunny on the verge. Before I could do a thing, he dived out of the half-open car window, hitting the gravel on the road with
devastating results—half the skin on his jaw was hanging off, one eye-ball hanging by a thread. The vet’s bill was so big I had to write and ask the electricity board if they’d
allow me to pay the next year’s account by instalments. In addition to the cost, it took a lot of nursing before Jip was fully recovered, and he had the scars to show for it.

At that time a beast with short stumpy legs and a long powerful spine was terrorising all the dogs in Crieff; he went by the outrageous name of Ganga. Many times he went for Jip, but our lad
could run faster than him, apart from once when the beast gave him a terrible hammering. He tore lumps off him. We tried our best to keep the dogs apart, but one day, with his battle scars still
hurting, Jip took off. I still remember neighbours screaming that Jip and Ganga were into each other for the kill. I half expected to be black-bagging our dog, and he appeared at the door with
blood dripping from his white coat, but it wasn’t his blood, it was Ganga’s. From then on there never was another fight between the pair, just a growl and a snap.

Well, he grew through his first years, like any playful young dog, along with all the local youngsters. Whenever the lads, of whom there may have been around ten, ranging in age from nine to
thirteen, took to exploring fields and hillocks around Crieff, Jip went along for adventure. They taught him to hunt rabbits, and by goodness could he chase the poor wee bunnies (so my boys
excitedly informed me) from bush to burrows. He wasn’t a killer, though, and I mind a time when Stephen came home, cheeks reddened, hair all over the place, bursting to tell me about his
wonderful dog.

‘Mum, honest, see that dug, he’s the greatest wee thing. Dae you know whit he done the day?’

‘Tell me, son, before these stovies go stone cold.’

‘He wis chasing a rabbit, right, and me and my pal could hardly keep up wi’ him, ’cause he wis going sae fast in an aroond the burrows.’

‘Stephen, son, what burrows?’

‘The ones roond the back o the Knock.’

Now, folks, the back of the Knock happens to be three miles from the flats, and I had told Stephen many times that was too far away. What if something went wrong? I scolded him, but in his
eagerness to tell me about Jip he ignored the fact that I might ground him for disobeying me.

‘Listen, Mum, this will please you. We lost sight o’ the dug, right, and searched and better searched, but couldnae find him. I wis panic-struck, Mum, honest, ’cause I mind you
telt us o’ your wee foxy Tiny, and him getting stuck doon a burrow, and Granddad digging him oot, and him near deid whin he wis fund.’ My son took in a great big breath, and went on
‘I thought Jip might be deid, when all o’ a sudden we hears this squealing, a rabbit squeal. So we ran ower tae where it wis, and ye ken this, Mum, that dug had caught a baby rabbit,
but instead o’ biting it and shaking it and killing it, he held it doon wi’ his paw. Mum, he didnae have the heart tae kill a wee yin. Now, Mum, whit dae ye think o’
that?’

I thought if my son didn’t eat his stovies he’d die of hunger, and told him so. After he’d sufficiently filled his belly I told him that no dog would kill baby animals, because
there was no point. No eating in them, son, I told him to his disappointment. Better to come back when the prey has grown.

Next day, while they were up Callum’s Hill, another beauty spot by Crieff, the same thing happened, and when Stephen came home he was adamant that Jip did not kill baby rabbits because he
hadn’t the heart to. So I let him believe what he wanted to. He has always been an animal-lover, has our Stephen, but I remember a time he got it wrong.

We’ll leave the Flats now and go back to Monteith Street to continue. I was coming home from work one day, when a massive black crow fell at my feet. The poor bird had obviously been
stunned by flying into telephone cables above. I could see it was still breathing, and thought if I put it in a safe place it would recover and then fly away. So when I got home I duly laid it
between two lilac trees in my garden. Stephen, on his way home from school, saw the bird in the process of stretching its wings. Now I’d reared my children never to let an animal
suffer—if you think it’s in serious pain then put it out of its misery. So on seeing this crow, he thought it was dying, lifted a garden gnome and killed the poor bird stone dead. I
hadn’t the heart to tell him the bird was recovering, and would probably have flown off.

Something that Mother Nature insists on, is ‘multiplying’, and always at the back of my mind was the question, when would Jip take off after that smell? Wee Tiny did it; many was the
time Daddy left him to find us, rather than us trailing the streets in search of him. He was usually sat waiting at some poor body’s door for a poke at the bitch inside. So, being close to
nature myself, I waited. And just as I thought, after his fourth year, the bisom’s senses kicked in and he was off. My kids were beside themselves with worry, wondering if he’d been
kidnapped or murdered. It didn’t matter how many times I told them he would be trailing a bitch, and when he was finished he’d come home. When he did come home after his first conquest,
he was bedraggled and slept for hours curled up behind the settee, avoiding my very angry foot.

It became so common, this trailing, that our boys forgot about Jip, taking their mother’s attitude, which was that if he comes home, good and well, and if not, that’s the way it
goes. However, may I say my tinker attitude to dogs wasn’t acceptable in mainstream society. It was annoying to have a pesky dog hanging around one’s house. People with bitches in heat
were followed by these droves of sex-starved dogs warring with each other for a sniff at their pooch, and who could blame them for objecting. Tinkers just allowed nature to take its course, and
either sold pups or drowned them; there wasn’t a problem. With me being a thoroughbred tinker, that’s all I knew.

I can hardly bring myself to share this next escapade from Jip’s life with you, but my sons insist that I do.

Lizzie lived somewhere in Crieff, with her beautiful toffee-brown boxer bitch, and boy what a cracker! Everybody spoke about this creature; dog lovers said there had never been such a gorgeous
boxer bitch, and that she should be proudly shown in kennel clubs etc. Her owner mentioned that when the time was right she was going to have her sired with a boxer having a pedigree the length of
a policeman’s leg. One day I met a lady whilst out shopping who asked me if my dog had been sniffing about Lizzie’s bitch, because there was a dog pestering her, which coincidentally
was white, and if Lizzie caught this dog she said she’d shoot the devil. It seems the poor woman had every right to be annoyed, because one day, rather than leave her boxer who was coming on
heat at home, she’d taken her to Perth in the car. There were several dogs of different breeds hanging around the house, so rather than have her and her neighbour’s gardens trampled by
slavering dogs she thought it best to keep the bitch with her. Now the distance between Crieff and Perth is seventeen miles; it’s a busy road, but it does have a speed limit of fifty miles
per hour. Lizzie saw something in her rear window as she made to overtake a tractor—a white dog running behind her car. She began increasing her speed, trying to shake off the animal, but it
too increased its speed. Becoming more and more incensed, she pushed her foot hard on the accelerator, watching her pursuer in her rear-view mirror. At last he gave in and stopped, but that may
have been because of the flashing blue lights of a police car overtaking him on the A85, on their way to apprehend a speeding motorist.