The Prologue (or Me and the Fluffies)

Frankie Howard, the star of a 1970s comedy series ‘Up Pompeii’,always started each episode with ‘The Prologue’. It was often a lot of nonsense totally unrelated to what followed. Let’s hope I can do a little better.
December 2015 was a bleak,wet and windy month in the Northern Lake District. I arrived there aged 10 weeks escorted by my new owners, R and B (Rhythm and Blues), two geriatric leftovers from the post war era. The rain continued for weeks and weeks and life was grim each time we stepped outside. Mud, mud and more mud and much of it came back into the house on me.
Our abode was in deepest countryside,surrounded by fields, woodland, a couple of large ponds and the inevitable cows, sheep, deer, birds and other sundry species of wildlife. As one-dog owners with no family, my socialisation involved being dragged round on my lead to shops, cafes, pubs, banks, in fact anywhere ‘dog friendly’ where I could be exposed to noise, people and busy roads. This led to puppy classes followed by obedience classes where I, not wanting to be too big-headed, was quite a star.
It all sounds idyllic you might say. Two and a collie living in the country. So where’s the catch?
The catch dear readers is ME. Highly excitable and apt to chase anything that moves. Cars, sheep, rabbits, deer, bikes, joggers. The list goes on. Of course She was hugely disappointed as She had visions of us frolicking over the fells together with me off the lead having a whale of a time.
Not so.
The Great Dodd Day brought her up sharpish. I must have been about a year old or thereabouts. The mountain in question is a huge grassy, featureless hump of doom and gloom offering zero inspiration to both man and beast. The middle section is aptly named The Great Moss and sure enough it is a squelchy, marshy morass of soggy peat and bog guaranteed to ensure wet feet and paws. Yet surprise, surprise it is one of her favourite hills. Hard to believe as we trudge up the long grassy three mile trod to the summit, my umbilical red lead firmly in Her grasp. Save for the odd fluffy (sheep)or two there is silence and that’s why She loves it.
But wait for it. Just when I am in a semi comatose state putting one paw in front of the other she bursts into song. A sort of Ramblers’ version of Julie Andrews with hiking boots and a dog but without the high notes or the glamour. Luckily we are well out of range of human and animal ears. Or so we think.
The descent is where it all goes wrong. She is starting to relax. The big climb is over. She is thinking of that first cider in the pub. There are no fluffies around. So hey ho let’s let him off the lead. Give him a run. Great I think. About time. And the joy of the release has me roaring around like a spring chicken. Suddenly a few metres away two fluffy white heads pop up out of the undergrowth followed by two bodies and spindly legs. Sheep!
I look at Her.I look at the sheep.
– Leave!
– I said LEAVE!!
– LEAVE…LEEEAAAVE!
I look at Her again then back at the sheep. Not a chance. I’m off and away on the chase, loving every second. Far away in the distance I hear Julia Andrews tranformed into a raving banshee and the hills are alive with shrieking and screaming and whistling. Only on the distant horizon do I turn for home.
Panting with exhileration I reach Her, now a quivering wreck, shaking with emotion and tears streaming down her face. Relieved to see me but a purple anger rising up in the cheekbones. Speech comes eventually
– Oh Alfieeee…good boy
Big hug.Yuk!
– Oh Alfieeeee..you came back!
Bigger hug. God I feel sick.
– Here’s a treat
Yum. That’s more like it.
I assume that is for coming back, not running away! She looks round furtively. We are completely alone. Nobody saw me commit my sin. I hear Her breathe a huge sigh of relief. My lead is clamped back on and we march in a strained silence down the fell. Not a note is sung.
I know then that my sheep chasing days are well and truly over.