Behaving Badly. Isabel Wolff

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СКАЧАТЬ its head. I lifted up its ear flaps and looked inside. Embedded in its left ear was the broken-off end of a child’s knitting needle.

      ‘Jesus,’ I breathed. Holding the dog firmly, I gingerly removed it, then held it up. ‘This is why he bit your daughter.’

      The woman stared at it, mutely. ‘Oh. Well…as I say, she was playing with the dog, wasn’t she? She was just playing. She’s only five.’

      ‘But can you imagine how much that must have hurt?’

      ‘He still shouldn’t have bitten her though, should he?’

      I felt my jaw slacken. ‘What else was he supposed to do? Write her a solicitor’s letter? Ring the RSPCA? He’s a dog. He did what any dog would do.’

      ‘Yes, but—’

      ‘There isn’t a but! That’s dog behaviour. If we annoy them enough, they’ll probably bite. What would you do if someone stabbed you in the ear? I imagine you might react!’

      ‘I want it put down,’ she insisted, jabbing a bejewelled finger at me. ‘It’s my dachshund and I want it put down.’

      ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘I won’t. I refuse to murder your dog,’ I added politely. She looked extremely offended at that; and she said in that case she’d take it to another vet’s. But I was one step ahead. I calmly pointed out that there was absolutely no need to ‘try her luck elsewhere’, because I’d be more than happy to keep it myself. She hesitated, then, giving me a look which combined hostility with shame—an unusual mixture—she left. She’d never even told me the dog’s name. So I called him Herman. Herman the German. That was four years ago.

      The saddest thing of all was Herman’s distress at her departure—he whimpered inconsolably after she’d left. He might not have felt quite so upset if I’d been able to apprise him of the awful truth.

      ‘Don’t waste your tears,’ I told him. ‘She didn’t deserve you. You’re going to be a lot better off with me.’ Within a week Herman seemed to think so too, for he seemed grateful for my care and we’d started to bond, and we’ve been pretty inseparable ever since. But it was saving him from a premature end which got me thinking seriously about changing career. I’d already noticed how, in most cases, it isn’t the animal which has the ‘problem’, it’s the humans—and I realized how interesting it could be working with that. A week later I went to a lecture given by a vet who’d retrained as a behaviourist, and I decided that that was what I would do too. I’d still be working with animals, just as I’d always wanted, but without the relentless pressure and stress.

      I had no serious financial commitments then, so I used my savings to go back to school. I went to Edinburgh for a year—with Herman—to do an MSc in Animal Behaviour, and I had a fascinating time. We didn’t study only companion animals, although that’s a large part of it, we studied many other species as well. We learned about primate behaviour, about farm animals, and birds, and deer; and there were lectures on marine animals and zoo animals too. I’ll never forget the things we learned. That polar bears are always left-handed, for example, and that chickens prefer pop music to rock. That if you chat pleasantly to a cow it will yield more milk, and that when a cat hisses it’s imitating a snake; that ants practise a form of agriculture, and that ravens are as clever as chimpanzees.

      When I left I came back to London and began running a behaviour clinic three times a week from a vet’s practice in Highgate where I’d once worked. I was amazed at how quickly word got round, and I soon had a steady stream of dysfunctional Dobermans and stressed-out Siamese. I began to get good results. I did home visits too, and I set up a website where people could ask for my advice, free of charge. Then, just over a year ago, I got this big break.

      I was contacted by a TV researcher who asked me whether I’d be interested in being an expert on a new series called Animal Crackers; so I was screen tested, and got the job. They’d been looking for someone young, knowledgeable, female, and telegenic, which people kindly say I am. Not that I’m glamorous; I’m much too short for a start, I rarely wear make-up, and I keep my fair hair in a boyish crop. But I think I came across well because I felt confident—I knew what I was talking about. I’d do two sections in each programme, in which I’d analyse the problem then return ten days later to see whether my advice had worked. There were some very interesting cases—a police dog that was terrified of thunder, and a cat that went berserk when the TV was on. There was an irritable iguana—it was having romantic problems—and a pony which refused to be caught.

      To my surprise, there was quite a buzz about the series. Someone wrote an article about me in the Mail, describing me as ‘Miss Dolittle’, which was just plain silly. I do not talk ‘to’ animals—I merely think like them—and there was a similar piece in The Times. But the exposure brought in new clients, so I decided I ought to have my own premises—which is how I found St Michael’s Mews…

      From outside I heard the crunch of tyres on the cobbles as a car pulled up. There was the soprano beep of central locking, then rapid tapping.

      ‘Mir-an-da! It’s only me-ee.’ I slid back the chain and opened the door.

      ‘Wow!’ Daisy’s large brown eyes were shining with enthusiasm. ‘What a great place!’ I’ve known Daisy for fifteen years—we shared a flat at Bristol—and what I love about her is that she’s always upbeat.

      ‘This looks so great!’ she repeated as she came inside, cradling Herman over her left shoulder like a baby. ‘It’s spacious, isn’t it? And so light! Your builder’s done a fantastic job.’

      ‘He has.’

      ‘And the mews is gorgeous.’

      ‘It is.’

      ‘It looks rather friendly.’

      ‘It seems to be. The aromatherapist and the osteopath have already introduced themselves, and the others all smile.’

      ‘I’ve always wanted to live in a mews—lucky you. You’ll feel safe here,’ she added, tucking a hank of glossy dark hair behind one ear. I nodded. ‘And is that Herman on the plaque?’

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘He’s been dying to see you again—haven’t you, Herman? Say hello to your mummy, poppet.’ Herman gave me a baleful stare.

      ‘Hello, Herman,’ I said, as Daisy put him in my arms. ‘Have you missed me?’ The two tan points above his eyes twitched and pleated into a deep frown, then he emitted a grumbly sigh. ‘He’s cross with me,’ I said as I cuddled him. ‘It’s all the disruption. He’ll come round in a bit. I’m sorry I neglected you, Herman,’ I added quietly. ‘But, you see…the thing is,’ I felt my voice catch, ‘…things have been a bit tough.’

      ‘Are you okay?’ asked Daisy softly. I nodded, but Herman’s foxy little face had blurred. ‘Now don’t worry, Miranda,’ I heard Daisy murmur as I sank onto a chair. She unzipped her bag. ‘You mustn’t worry because even though it’s all been horrible and you’ve had this awful, awful shock, I just know you’re going to be fine. Isn’t she, Herman?’ she added brightly, as she pushed a tissue into my hand. I pressed it to my eyes, breathed deeply a few times, then felt my panic subside. On Herman’s face was his habitual expression of exaggerated anxiety. It made me suddenly smile.

      ‘Thanks, Daisy.’ I blew СКАЧАТЬ