A few weeks ago a small gang of hardy Brits were in Germany for a large Landesgruppen Show. The evening before the show we were all sat around the table having too much to drink and swapping stories. During the conversation and banter the subject of a long departed dog came up. One of our party said that the dog was from a very famous kennel in Germany, imported into the UK and had a blood disorder. Also that Sheila Rankin owned him. There was much debate about the male as some of us thought that Sheila’s dog was actually imported with an A stamp hip status, but it turned out that his hips were in fact no good and they scored very high under the UK scheme.

 

Anyhow this got me thinking about a few tales that I knew of and I thought I had better commit them to paper BEFORE the old grey cells go! So here are a few of my favourite tales.

 

The first one concerns a breeder from the UK who now lives on another continent. This fella has many, many tales linked to him, but my favourite concerns his somewhat, suspect approach to finding homes for puppies. He was having some work done on his kennel block and house. He found out that he had a huge gang of hangers-on. Amongst this gang was a very good tradesman. The “god” worked his worshippers like a good old-fashioned showman. He actually invites the tradesman down to see his building work. Shows the guy around and sure enough he takes the bait and offers his services. Our tradesman works his fingers to the bone for day’s even weeks. He travels to the place on a Monday stays a few days and then goes back to his loving family. Finally the work is finished, but the “god” is not around. Off around the world once again! Our tradesman, calls, leaves messages etc etc. This was in the days before email. He skilfully avoids our man at the shows so eventually our tradesman, with much earache from wife, I hasten to add, sets off to confront “god” on his own doorstep! Where is my bloody money? He shouts! A bit of a commotion followed. No money was forthcoming. So eventually as he can see that he is losing the battle, our tradesman and shepherdite decides on another course of action. He tells “ god” that he wants a pup then? Well “god” thinks about it for a while then agrees. OK, says “god”. These are by such and such a Champion. These are by this VA and those are by that VA. Our man cannot believe his luck, so after all this time he is finally going to get something for his troubles. He decides that one particular pup takes his fancy and tells “ god” that he is having this one. “god” as cool as you like then says ok, but you now owe me £250 because that puppy from that mating is worth that much more than the work you have done to the place. Our tradesman blanched, but he did actually pay. Can you believe the nerve?? His wife was not amused, but he kept the puppy.

 

Our 2^nd thingy concerns a dog, who in his day was a very good dog. Anyhow, another showgoer was working in this area of the UK for a period of time. Being bored in a hotel of an evening, the traveller got in touch with the local club and asked what night training was on? Tuesday if you fancy it come down. So armed with directions off goes the traveller on a regular basis to the club. Eventually the club invites our traveller to judge a Match Night. Great for the younger dogs and keeps our traveller off the streets. Anyhow the big night arrives and the Match Night begins. Everything is going just great, when the clubs superstar arrives and the individual starts. Teeth fine, construction good, etc etc. Then our traveller checks the testicles…… after carefully counting again and again. Having a good old feel, the traveller cum judge calls the owner in and whispers, your dog has 3 balls. Horrified the owner and handler check and sure enough he had 3 of the bloody things. Now 1 is not enough for us is it? But bloody 3??? It turned out that the male had 1 ball for a long time, so it is assumed that they had the second one put in, this night or sometime just before the 2^nd real one dropped. Bet that was a bit of a squeeze? Nice ending though, the dog became a champion.

 

Another favourite involves a long departed dog. His owner was having a rare old time showing the dog and it was winning very well wherever he went. This day he handed the dog over to the handler and off he popped. The handler was practising his art when the dog got something in his ear. The dog shook his head, as you would imagine, as he shook his head something flew out of his mouth. The handler looked and looked again. A tooth had been dislodged and it was now taunting the handler from the ring just behind the judge. Our handler picked up the offending dental part and took the dog over to the owner to tell him the bad news.

The owner effed and jeffed and said, not again, bloody glue is useless. I told her it wouldn’t work. Anyhow the owner then shoved the tooth into the hole from where it had sallied forth and the dog completed his individual to everyone’s delight.

 

Another ditty concerns a caring father who was trying to get handling chances for his son. A mate of mine had a lovely dog. He was doing a bit of winning at the time. The father of the son. approached, let my son handle your dog. He will do a great job for you, he wont let you down. My mate looked and wondered, after all the lad was not that big and the dog was strong. It turned out there was a shortage of good handlers so my mate agreed. The show was inside, so my mate handed over the dog and gave last minute instruction to our aspiring handler. Tips handed out my mate then ran around the ring and nipped into the toilet to get out of the way. The young handler tried to settle the dog and started to walk his charge around the ring. Gaining in confidence he started to relax, which was really his big mistake. As the duo started to gait the dog either smelt or sensed that my mate was in the loo with that instead of cornering he exited stage left and joined my mate in the bog. Yep my mate, his dog and the handler still attached in one fairly small toilet. I can’t remember if he won that day.

 

Finally for this part of Urban Myths and Legends. We had attended Preston and Fylde Champ show. The venue was Osbaldeston Riding Centre near Blackburn. We had done well, I seem to recall. Saying our goodbyes at the end of the show, we set off home. It was October and it was dark. So we set off down the M6 then joined the M61. Lesley was smoking. It was horrible weather and she did not want to open the window too far when getting rid of her fag. Blowing a gale she opened the window to throw out her fag. To a lot of abuse from me and another passenger she quickly shut it after throwing out said cancer stick/coffin nail. You may guess that I don’t smoke. After a while a smell started to waft through the car getting stronger, but very hard to identify. Then it struck me, the smell was the smell of burning hair. A quick check revealed that none of us was alight so it must be the dog. I pulled onto the hard shoulder and decided to investigate. Lifting the tailgate I could actually see the glow in the dark. My bloody dog was on fire! Luckily she was also fairly thick and hadn’t realised. I got soaked, the cars were roaring past and my dog was on fire. I managed to hold onto her with one hand and remove the smouldering vet bed with the other. Luckily, because it was raining so hard the blaze was soon put out. Les now lets all cigarettes burn down before throwing them out of the window.