I am looking after a couple of my furry friends while their “mum” is away at the Geraldton Writers Festival. Pip is a miniature pinscher and Harry … well, I’m not too sure about Harry. He is long bodied and short legged, like a dachshund, but he has the head of a terrier and the woolly coat of a poodle or a bichon frisé. Let’s say his mother married below her station, and leave it at that. (The pic, courtesy of Wikipedia, is of a Real bichon frisé.)

We all know that the highlight of a dog’s life is walkies. Just mention the word, no matter how sotto voce, and Harry and Pip will appear within seconds, bouncing like rubber duckies in a turbulent bath. Little as they are (neither one stands more than 20 cm at the shoulder) they need a lot of exercise, and they keep reminding me of the fact. There is much excitement and chasing of tails – one’s own and others – as we make ready for our outing. Mini-pins have tiny necks and can often slip their collars, so Pip must wear a harness. No matter how often I apply a harness to her tiny personage, I almost always have to sort the complicated structure of straps, rings and buckles several times before we are ready to go. The picture (courtesy of Wikipedia) shows what minipins look like. Pip is just like the tan one on the left!

This harness business seems to have an effect on Harry’s libido. As a neutered male, he should be uninterested in sex – but I suspect he harbours a kinky bent because the sight of the harness on Pip’s back seems to make him randy. Pip tries to tell him that she is a decent, well-brought-up young lady who will have no part in such shenanigans, but Harry is undeterred. He always tries his luck at least once.

Finally, we are kitted up with leads, harnesses, poo-bags, mobile phone, door keys and the essential doggie treats. Sometime I almost think the treats are main reason my little friends are so keen on walkies! But perhaps not. There are some lovely walks nearby. My favourite is a stroll down to the old oval in the early morning. Nestled in a wide triangle formed by the junction of two waterways and surrounded by native trees, the oval is a slice of nature within the sprawl of suburbia. A short walk down a gentle slope and we are in the bush. The oval is seldom used now, but one can imagine that in the olden days locals would have gathered here on Sundays for a picnic and a genteel game of cricket. There is something very English about this area – it was settled by free immigrants, not convicts, and it shows in the gracious architecture and the numerous parks and reserves. The photo, of course (where would we be without Wikipedia) is of a Real Dachshund, which Harry resembles not all all except in length.

This photo (Wikipedia again!) is, of course, of a Real terrier! Apart from his woolly white coat, Harry actually does resemble this one about the head, golden eyes and all.

Although the main road is only a few hundred metres away, it might as well be on the other side of the country. There is no sound of traffic, and apart from a few early morning fishermen and the odd rowing crew out for a training session, there’s rarely a soul in sight when we reach the bottom of the hill. Even so, it’s a rare morning when we don’t meet other canines and their humans. This would be fine but for the fact that Harry and Pip between them have the biggest Napoleon complex this side of St Helena. It’s most noticeable when they are on the lead, but even off the lead they can’t be trusted not to chase any pooch, big or small, that comes within fifty metres. Yesterday they chased off what looked like a Husky, and they definitely have it in for a rather large Dalmatian that we often run into. One day they will pick the wrong mark and get eaten, but they don’t seem to have considered this possibility. On the streets I’ve learnt to cross the road at the first sight of a canine silhouette on the horizon, but when we go to the oval there is often no escape. Sightlines are good and there’s plenty of open ground to give chase. And give chase they do, loudly.

Tiny as Pip and Harry are, there is no way I can keep up with either of them once they get some speed up. And I get no warning. From a standing start to full speed ahead takes them about .05 of a second. I waddle along after them, calling their names and cursing the wombs that bore them, with no effect whatsoever. The rapid take off seems to demand that they sacrifice hearing for speed, and they are deaf to my calls. By the time I catch up with them their quarry has usually fled, tail between legs, with the two canine Hell’s Angels hard behind. Panting, I arrive to find the victim quivering at its owner's side and gazing down in horrified disbelief at the miniature terrorists. I offer humble apologies while trying to get leads on the two struggling dogs, then flee in disgrace. But do Pip and Harry care? Silly question.

Harry is addicted to chest scratches, and is much given to lying around on his back in case a willing scratcher should pass by. In fact, he sometimes falls asleep waiting! He is going to obedience classes but I don’t think he’s realised that the classes are supposed to be preparation for Real Life. Still, I cling to the expectation that one day he and Pip will both come when called, no matter what the circumstances. I must admit, though, that this probably is a forlorn hope. The terrible two are having too much fun saving the area from all other furry four-legged creatures. This week, the oval; next week, the entire state of WA!

My little black and tan friend Freddie is an energetic fellow. He loves to play and go walkies. He's also very keen to share my food! At four years old, he is still youthful, and he therefore has two speeds - full on and sleeping. He sleeps a lot, but as soon as he wakes up he's on the go, non-stop.

Now, I do not, by and large, walk - unless I have to. I think it has something to do with the fact that as a non-driver, I see walking as a means of getting from one place to another rather than a form of recreation. Freddie's owner Anudhara, on the other hand, is a lithe, leggy lady who loves walking, so Freddie's used to being exercised for a good hour every day. I explained to him that he would be short-changed with me, and he didn't seem to mind, so we've been been taking a reasonably fast half hour walk each day. Since Kwinana is about as well known to me as Timbuktu, we've been taking a slightly different route each time so that I can familiarise myself with the area. Two birds with one stone, so to speak. I was feeling quite proud of my initiative.

Nice idea, Satima, except that yesterday we got lost. Not terribly, terribly lost, you understand, but just a little bit lost so that we were walking for an hour instead of thirty minutes. Up hill and down dale we wandered, until we finally found a familiar street name and headed for home. But our adventures weren't over. There was stranger danger in store.

I should explain that Freddie's main ambition in life is to kill and eat a cat. So far, he has been spectacularly unsuccessful, since critters of the feline persuasion are generally far faster on their feet than little terriers, and what's more, they can climb. As a consolation prize, therefore, Freddie has decided that a German Shepherd might serve his hunting ambitions just as well. The fact the his ancestors mainly hail from north of the Humber and were therefore of rather short stature as dogs go does not faze our hero. Every time he sees an Alsatian - or, indeed, any other large dog - he breaks into a frenzy of barking, leaping towards the offending beast and dragging whoever is on the other end of the lead forward with him.

So of course yesterday, while I was already exhausted from unaccustomed excercise, we had to meet an Alsatian. Freddie had already made moves against the odd cat, with his usual lack of success, so he was determined not to let this opportunity pass. It was with great difficulty and not a little terror that the other dog walker and I managed to keep the pair apart.

Cross at being deprived of his prey, the gallant Freddie started up again at the sight of a distant Pomeranian. Forewarned being forearmed and all that, I prudently crossed the road and crossed my fingers that no other four legged being would come over the horizon. I was lucky - no more beasties of any description put in an appearance. I'd hate to see Freddie with a horse.

Freddie is good company. In his quieter moments, he loves to sit still and be brushed from head to toe. But not for long. To keep in training for the real thing, he has a toy cat to play with. Like any terrier, Freddie loves to hold one end of the prey while someone else - in this case, me - tugs on the other. I couldn't film with one hand and defend my end of the cat at the same time, but I did film a little of Freddie's cat-killing technique while he practised on his own.
Today we returned to a familiar route that involves only known dangers. And we didn't get lost, either. Forget adventure - a turn around the local park and a stroll alongside the golf course is a far safer bet.

Update on the WIP:

Six thousand words in three days. Two chapters to go. (Looks like I'll go over the target.)