RuthGledhill.com
'Ruth Gledhill may be regarded as a vixen by the establishment of the CofE but she is a very good journalist.' Colin Slee.
'Ruth Gledhill may be regarded as a vixen by the establishment of the CofE but she is a very good journalist.' Colin Slee.
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Page 15
A few days later, the sun is still shining in Richmond so I take spaniel for a quick walk before getting the District Line to work. Blond yummy mummies and their children pass by on the way to school and stop to coo over Feya, who performs her little roll-over trick for them to order. How blessed we are to live in such a civilised place, I think. Another dog approaches, his owner on a lead. He sniffs Feya then attacks her. Only my screams are louder than the jungle-type growls of the terrible fight as this Weimerana-bulldog cross fastens his terrible jaws around the throat of our tiny ruby Cavalier. Neighbours come out to stare. The owner manages to pull off the miscreant. I am reduced to pavement-fouling vernacular rage, and yell at her about calling the police, about potentially dead children in the streets of Kew, about the Dangerous Dogs Act, about the shop that sells muzzles just a mile away or so and why she should get the down there before I get my phone out. I become so scary that the onlookers move to protect the owner of the bad dog. In fact I should indeed call the police, but I have to get to the Pope visit press conference and can't be late for another one, and then I have to go and interview Lord Patten of Barnes who is in charge of the visit. What if the dog kills a child that day? Will that be my fault? The interview with Patten goes well and I get a page lead in the paper. I'm still thinking about the dog when the owner and I bump into each other in Starbucks. She is all apologies and on her way to the muzzle shop. Likewise I apologise for the extremity of my reaction, but explain to her the Dangerous Dogs Act, which she has never read. 'There is nothing the police would like so much as to send to prison a nice middle-class mum from Kew for owning a dangerous dog,' I tell her. What an example that would be. We part friends, and I feel less scared again about going for a walk with the dog in Kew. I suddenly remember the epigram that another local writer, another Pope, Alexander, did for the collar of the King's dog: 'I am His Highness's dog in Kew. Pray tell me Sir, who's dog are you?'
For mongrels know
better than men when wisdom
should determine a fight to end.
Chrissy McVay
July 2010
Off to our local authority swimming pool back in Surrey and even though it is a weekend it is almost completely deserted. Every sign bears an interdiction, mostly in red. Don’t jump, don’t run, don’t dive-bomb, don’t dive anywhere, only dive here. And yes, we were confused by those two as well. The water is icy. On entry to the water, our guest’s nose starts pouring forth a river of snot which dissipates in a greenish cloud around us and him in the cold blue water. Even though a gale is blowing outside, the doors are open to allow the fresh breeze in, ensuring it is just as freezing out of the water as in. There is an outdoor pool and there is one man swimming in it, barely discernible through the sheets of rain. It is my husband. There are almost more lifeguards on duty than there is life itself in the pool, unless you count the tide of germs just released by our young friend’s nose. I guess that the two children and I are among the few people there who have paid to use the pool, most of the other few swimmers being clearly of pensionable age and enjoying free access. How long can this pool survive? Do they care that they have made it such an utterly miserable experience? It cannot be much longer before health and safety rules lead to a sign which says: “No swimming”. I look foward to covering that story for The Times and resolve to investigate private membership of a local club, with a warmer pool. One that allows people to have fun.
I take the half-couple for a walk on the green, and a large black puppy attacks her. To this dog, which looks like a Rottweiler, it is clearly a playful game. His owners cannot control him and he is not on a lead. I pick up the Cavalier and try to walk away. He follows, leaping up and trying to grab her with his mouth. His teeth make contact with my clothes. Brought up in vicarages bordering farms, and in the blood of the hunting field, I realise I must stand stock still and wait for the owners to retrieve their delightful pet. The woman talks accusingly at me: ‘Is your dog in season?’ I tell her Feya was spayed months ago. I receive no apology as they finally manage to get the enormous puppy back into their car and drive off. A few days later, a small girl is mauled by Rottweilers and it makes headlines around the world. I do not understand why it is that children are not allowed to run or jump at a swimming pools, while adults are allowed to walk around on public pavements with killing machines. If health and safety rules are going to go mad, they should go mad in the right places. Until I became dog owner as an adult, I never realised what the world of dogs and their owners was like. In Britain, I fear, we are like Americans with their guns. It would probably be easier to ban swimming at swimming pools than regulate dog ownership as it needs to be regulated. The Iran Sharia council went a bit over the top when they comminated all dog ownership, but it is time we had another look at this aspect of our national life. I pick up a new book and start reading. It is ‘The Slap’. One of the consequences of the present health and safety confusion is that we are not allowed any more to regulate things for ourselves. Kicking other people’s dogs, like slapping their children or even just telling them off for being rude, is now forbidden. Not that I think it shouldn’t be of course. But a better way must be found to help adults to keep their dogs and children under better control. And parents should be allowed to decide when it is safe for a child to jump or run at a swimming pool, in order for the child to be facilitated to develop that judgement for themselves. The Tories have promised to sort it all out. Have they any idea, I wonder, exactly what it is they are taking on.
September 2010
For mongrels know
better than men when wisdom
should determine a fight to end.
Chrissy McVay
July 2010
Off to our local authority swimming pool back in Surrey and even though it is a weekend it is almost completely deserted. Every sign bears an interdiction, mostly in red. Don’t jump, don’t run, don’t dive-bomb, don’t dive anywhere, only dive here. And yes, we were confused by those two as well. The water is icy. On entry to the water, our guest’s nose starts pouring forth a river of snot which dissipates in a greenish cloud around us and him in the cold blue water. Even though a gale is blowing outside, the doors are open to allow the fresh breeze in, ensuring it is just as freezing out of the water as in. There is an outdoor pool and there is one man swimming in it, barely discernible through the sheets of rain. It is my husband. There are almost more lifeguards on duty than there is life itself in the pool, unless you count the tide of germs just released by our young friend’s nose. I guess that the two children and I are among the few people there who have paid to use the pool, most of the other few swimmers being clearly of pensionable age and enjoying free access. How long can this pool survive? Do they care that they have made it such an utterly miserable experience? It cannot be much longer before health and safety rules lead to a sign which says: “No swimming”. I look foward to covering that story for The Times and resolve to investigate private membership of a local club, with a warmer pool. One that allows people to have fun.
I take the half-couple for a walk on the green, and a large black puppy attacks her. To this dog, which looks like a Rottweiler, it is clearly a playful game. His owners cannot control him and he is not on a lead. I pick up the Cavalier and try to walk away. He follows, leaping up and trying to grab her with his mouth. His teeth make contact with my clothes. Brought up in vicarages bordering farms, and in the blood of the hunting field, I realise I must stand stock still and wait for the owners to retrieve their delightful pet. The woman talks accusingly at me: ‘Is your dog in season?’ I tell her Feya was spayed months ago. I receive no apology as they finally manage to get the enormous puppy back into their car and drive off. A few days later, a small girl is mauled by Rottweilers and it makes headlines around the world. I do not understand why it is that children are not allowed to run or jump at a swimming pools, while adults are allowed to walk around on public pavements with killing machines. If health and safety rules are going to go mad, they should go mad in the right places. Until I became dog owner as an adult, I never realised what the world of dogs and their owners was like. In Britain, I fear, we are like Americans with their guns. It would probably be easier to ban swimming at swimming pools than regulate dog ownership as it needs to be regulated. The Iran Sharia council went a bit over the top when they comminated all dog ownership, but it is time we had another look at this aspect of our national life. I pick up a new book and start reading. It is ‘The Slap’. One of the consequences of the present health and safety confusion is that we are not allowed any more to regulate things for ourselves. Kicking other people’s dogs, like slapping their children or even just telling them off for being rude, is now forbidden. Not that I think it shouldn’t be of course. But a better way must be found to help adults to keep their dogs and children under better control. And parents should be allowed to decide when it is safe for a child to jump or run at a swimming pool, in order for the child to be facilitated to develop that judgement for themselves. The Tories have promised to sort it all out. Have they any idea, I wonder, exactly what it is they are taking on.
September 2010
