Bad dog Steve

Steve was really a victim of the Cold War. At that time the British armed forces were numerous, spread about the world and moved at short notice often for long periods. Steve’s owner was a Royal Airforce officer who was sent to Germany. The dog problem was resolved by an Army officer agreeing to look after him. A few days later he was moved onto us, so he had had no chance to have a settled life, particularly as I was in the Royal Navy and also moved frequently.

We first saw him sitting outside a kennel, looking magnificent, but very dejected. He was a tan coloured Bull Mastiff, on the small side but still larger than a Boxer which was the reason for his present lodging. A couple of days previously he had been brought to the house for the first time, as he emerged from the car the long term resident Boxer rushed out of the house and attacked him. This was a mistake. As it was evident that it would be impossible to keep both dogs in the house Steve was relegated to the kennel.

The following morning the Boxer was having his stroll around the garden when he unwisely strayed close to the kennel, Steve launched himself like a torpedo from inside, hit the boxer amidships with his huge head knocking him over. Before they were separated Steve had managed to get the whole of the Boxer’s head in his mouth. It was then evident that the two dogs could not live at the same address and that a divorce was essential.

That was when we were asked if we would become the guardians of Steve, feeling sorry for all, including the humans, involved we agreed. That was the beginning of several exciting months of dog “ownership”.

Our car at that time was a small FIAT, we set off on a two hundred mile journey with Steve and our minimal luggage on the folded down rear seat. We had taken the precaution of obtaining some dog sedative from a vet before leaving, but Steve was not fooled by our attempts to disguise it in food for after eating he would quietly spit out the pill from the side of his mouth. He also showed a profound dislike of horses, there were some on the roads at that time, and whenever one appeared he would make serious attempts to escape from the car and attack them. This was tiring, but not as exhausting as his frequent attempts to join us in the narrow confines of the front seats by jumping over our shoulders onto our laps.

The next day my wife was covered with large paw shaped bruises. We realised that it had been a mistake to feel sorry for the previous owners.

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