Scrap likes all the usual puppy games, but has developed one of his own that I never saw before. Every dog loves the amazing flying machine that people call 'stick', and indeed Scrap will happily settle down with a small bough and shred it to pieces in the kind of methodical frenzy with which he accomplishes the dismantling of random pieces of plastic, his bedding, other dog's bedding, things that smell of Daddy (i.e. his gloves, socks, shoes and anything he handled in the last six months) and areas of carpeting, but he somehow developed a taste for twigs plucked from running water, and now finds he enjoys the sport more than the feasting.
Less than half a mile from the house is a small patch of woodland, squeezed between the footpath and the road leading south out of the village to the local market town. Through this runs a stream that has been more or less in spate for all of Scrap's life. There are twists and turns, falls and pools and shallows, and bridges made by tumbled trees or twisting exposed roots.
Jams of twigs often form at places like this, and build beaverishly into quite formidable dams. Scrap loves to pick these apart, tugging and pulling them on to the shore, and sometimes a long way from the bank to form makeshift piles. Sometimes he enlists my help. Sometimes he gets it when he does not require, and furies of barking and splashing take place, and sometimes we Go Home in disgrace...
All this from a Jack Russell, a dog that supposedly dislikes water. Scrap started out tentatively, but after falling in a couple of times, now wades in without fear after a particularly juicy ramification. If it weren't for the fact that I've still yet to see him out of his depth, I'd assume I'd been sold a ringer....
 |
| Scrappy channels Blondin and steps across the fearsome Treeroot Falls standing only on, well, a tree root |
 |
| Clearing a channel beneath Big Bridge |
 |
| Judging by that belly, he's already been in once, but still our brave lad storms straight back in to tackle a recalcitrant piece of tree ivy |
 |
| It isn't just twigs, you know: Scrap demonstrates his dragging power |
 |
| It doesn't really count until he's hauled every inch of it out of the water |
 |
This may be the origin of it all. Last year, there were several floods, and S seemed fascinated by the fast-running patterns the water made rippling across stony paths, like so many rats. And then he tried to jump on one, and the bow waves around
his planted feet made even bigger ‘rats’, that he would snap at wildly. Sooner or later, his teeth must have closed
around a random piece of tree debris: he had caught his first prey, and was lost to the wild joy of the hunt. |
