Many writers have shared their thoughts with the public:

"There is something delicious about writing the first words of a story. You never quite know where they'll take you." - Beatrix Potter

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say." - Anaïs Nin

"Sharing your writing, being enlarged by others' writing, is what makes you feel famous." - Gretchen Bernabei

"Writing is not an amusing occupation. It is a combination of ditch-digging, mountain-climbing, treadmill and childbirth." - Edna Ferber

"Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing." - Ben Franklin

"One must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them, to have the right ones to form themselves into the proper pattern at the right moment." - Hart Crane

"There are three rules for writing. Unfortunately, no one can agree what they are." - W. Somerset Maugham

A Good Mate

It all started when we decided to have a dog. The reasoning behind the decision had little to do with the dog itself, it was all to do with the school counsellor, so it is more accurate to say it all began with her. We had two young sons who were making the transitional change from children to teenagers, with all the hang ups, aggression and mood changes that went with it. The school counsellor, a young enthusiast straight from college who had no children of her own and thus possessed little practical experience, suggested that acquiring a dog could maybe channel the boys’ interests into other directions, away from their present ones of generally getting into trouble and making nuisances of themselves. I didn’t quite see it myself, but caved in when my wife mentioned the idea to them and it was greeted with great enthusiasm. As it turned out, it didn’t work. But that’s another story.

My wife, whose family had remote connections with the gentry, decided that if we were to admit a canine into the house then we weren’t going to have any common riff raff or raggle taggle sharing our household. We would have a recognised breed with a pedigree. Though a mere mongrel myself, I could see logic in the argument, especially if in the future we decided to breed pups, pedigree offspring would have some commercial value where mere mongrels would not. Consequently, we opted for a Border Collie bitch.

We purchased a bitch from someone we knew slightly, she was one of the doggy people who abound at dog trials and dog shows. When the transaction was completed and the cheque was written out, we were treated to a long and involved explanation by the vendor as to why it was unnecessary for us to bother ourselves with such trivialities as the pedigree papers. She decreed it was far better for the original owner, namely her, who had bred the bitch initially, to retain them. I was somewhat puzzled despite hearing this reasoning several times and more than once had to ask her to repeat it. My wife was similarly puzzled and likewise asked for repetition. We still didn’t quite see the reasoning and from the vendor’s reaction gathered that we must be stupid or, at best, slow on the uptake. Nevertheless, we continued to ask questions and finally with much reluctance and a degree of petulance we were eventually and grudgingly handed the pedigree papers.

After attending a few dog shows, at the insistence of other doggy people who then seemed to appear from all directions to give unwanted advice, we became bitten - not by the bitch - and decided to purchase a male Border Collie. This was so we could register a kennel name and breed our own puppies without having to find stud fees to pay for someone else’s dog to service our bitch. After some haggling, we finally completed the transaction after good advice from another dog breeder named Greta, who gave us valuable information and directions which ensured we didn’t select a dog as a mate who was too close in blood lines.

After two or three months of dual dog ownership we noticed the male was beginning to exhibit an excessive interest in the female, by which we deduced she was coming into season. This was casually mentioned in passing to Greta during a telephone conversation, a slip which later rated as our first mistake.

We received another telephone call later the same day. I was at home recovering from a bout of the ‘flu and took the call. There was an excited woman at the other end of the line and being slightly hard of hearing, due to the influenza attack, had some difficulty in understanding what was being said. I must also admit to being engaged in something else at the time and was a little slow on the uptake, which would probably rate as our second mistake.

“What’s she doing now?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What’s she doing? Where is she?”

“She’s not in the house, she’s outside…!” I began.

“Not in the house?” screamed the voice. “Outside where?”

“In the front garden,” I answered, somewhat perplexed at her reaction and the turn the conversation was taking.

“You can’t leave her out there on her own! What if she’s approached by a male?”

By now I was even less clear as to the direction the conversation was taking. Admittedly my wife did, in my opinion, pay far too much attention to the well muscled legs of the young man who lived over the road, especially when he was mowing his lawn, but that was a matter between me and her and no concern of anyone else.

“We’ll be right over. Don’t let her wander about in the open. If she’s approached and something happens it could cause terrible problems. Get her into the house!”

After the caller had gone my wife entered the room.

“Who was that?” she asked as she came in and I shrugged my shoulders.

“No idea!” I answered, absolutely nonplussed. After all, it wasn’t even a weekend and the young man in question had mown his lawn three days ago.

Two hours later there was a knock at the front door, I answered it and found Greta, the doggy woman, standing on the step with three other women I’d never seen before. They had a bag apiece and one of them was carrying a small wooden pallet.

“How is she?”

I didn’t have time to answer before they forced their way in, all breathing heavily as though they had been running. Greta took command at once.

“The back yard is the best place, come on!”

They exited into the back garden and emptied their paraphernalia onto the concrete. My wife, who had just had a shower, appeared with a towel wrapped around her and asked what was going on. I shrugged helplessly.

“Where’s Fido?”

“In the back yard,” my wife answered and there was a loud shriek.

“Not with Katrina?”

“Well …yes!” she answered. “I left them to get on with it.”

“But what about the risk of injury to Fido!”

"Well he managed all right this morning …!” my wife began but it was lost in the hubbub of panicking doggy women. With squeals and cajoling they attracted the two Border Collies over and two of them grimly seized the bitch, while the other two placed the dog in a grip reminiscent of a wrestling hold.

We watched in perplexity as the two groups of women grimly came together, there were angry yelps from the bitch and equally angry growls from the dog. One of the combatants emerged and rummaged in her bag, returning to the fray with a glint in her eye and a jar of Vaseline in her hand. The group milled around with grunts and gasps, before they all separated and the two canines ran off.

“Fido is a small dog, too small for Katrina,” said Greta authoritatively. “We shall have to give him a hand.”

“A hand?” I exclaimed. “What exactly…!”

They ignored me and I was left with my mind grappling as to exactly what they had in mind. One explanation did occur to me, which reminded me of a joke I’d heard the previous week, but I dismissed this as impracticable.

They produced the pallet and the two dogs were apprehended once more, the bitch was stood by the pallet with her rear end towards it, and the dog was pushed into a standing position on the pallet. Then the whole performance began again, but I gathered they met with the same lack of success as before as they all straightened up and had a mid patio conference. The pallet was the point of discussion, it was a questionable asset because it tended to skid on the concrete with possible disastrous results for Fido.

“Can we borrow your spade?”

“My spade?” I was thunderstruck, what on earth did this wretched woman want with a spade? I had visions of her lining up the dogs one behind the other and then hitting Fido on the rump with it, like a cricketer describing a drive through mid off. My entrails curled at the prospect and the thought of it caused my eyes to water.

“We’ve got to dig a hole.”

“A hole? Why in Heavens name do you need…!”

“For Katrina to stand in.”

“Good God!” my only emotion at this point was one of relief that it was dogs we were trying to breed and not camels or elephants. I watched in bemused silence as Greta dug out a small trench in my dahlia bed and then stood the startled Katrina in it. The long-suffering Fido was then manhandled into position, together with the pallet as it was considered possible his rear paws may sink into the loose earth. After three or four minutes of wrestling Greta stood up and beckoned to my wife, who was still wrapped in her towel, to approach the scene of the action.

“Have you ever had any suspicion …” she lowered her voice and looked over her shoulder, she seemed to be looking in my direction “…any suspicion at all that he may be impotent?”

As she drew my wife well away from me, she addressed her in a husky whisper and I wasn’t sure from her demeanour who she was talking about. I adopted a casual posture and leant against the wall of the garden shed with my thumbs in my belt, a posture that, according to a magazine I had bought recently from the newsagent and which my wife had immediately thrown out, denoted masculinity and virility.

“Good Heavens no! He was fine this morning.”

The subject of the discussion was still in doubt; the reply could still apply equally to me or the dog. I cleared my throat noisily and lowered the pitch of my voice as I did so. Greta ignored me.

“Now as I recall, he had that other bitch over in Canterbury last week didn’t he, was he all right then?”

The conversation was tending to stray into somewhat questionable territory although this comment did seem to clarify the situation a little and identified the subject of her remarks. I heard my wife agree with Greta.

“Well, he does seem to be very …er…uninterested now.”

“Yes, I can’t understand it.” Greta shook her head in puzzlement. “He does seem to have a very effective bulb!”

Really this was getting beyond the pale. I defied a male of any species to perform when he was being pushed and prodded from all directions, lifted up, pushed down, stood on moving pallets or loose earth and having his sexual organs examined, handled and pushed into position by a quartet of officious females. I had severe doubts regarding my own copulative performance if I was endeavouring to attain a sexual climax, if these women invaded my bedroom, smeared me with Vaseline, moved me into alternative positions, stood me on pallets and pointed me in the right direction, all the while closely and clinically examining my accoutrements. No matter how complimentary their ultimate findings and comments, I would say my performance could be very scratchy to say the least.

“Why don’t you let him go ahead and do it in his own time,” I suggested.

This was treated with the utmost contempt, four women stared at me haughtily and I retired suitably withered. I did have another comment on the edge of my tongue, to the effect that the canine species had managed to survive well enough throughout the ages without any human assistance, why should they need it now? But as I looked around them they all regarded me coldly and I thought better of it.

The four sex workers retired to the kitchen with my wife for a cup of tea and a Council of War, then my wife returned to the bathroom to get dressed. After half an hour of theoretical talks and five cups of tea, Greta grimly rose to her feet.

“We must persist,” she said grimly. “Katrina will be off the boil tomorrow. We must ensure the mating takes place today.”

I turned from the window with my hands in my pockets.

“I don’t think you need bother,” I said in a voice tinged with triumph. “I think they’ve managed without any help!”