"GYPSY! DON'T EAT MY COOKBOOK!"

Let me make clear at the outset, that my heading is from a cry addressed to our Jack Russell terrier, 'Gypsy Rose' (sometimes 'Gyppertiflibbet'), on the occasions when she has taken a liking to dining on a "livre de recettes", usually the one that has just been purchased. Milady has quite a few of these volumes, some purchased merely to read and learn, others in the hope that her husband (myself) will be inspired to follow her example and maybe actually cook the evening meal once in a while, without recourse to constant questioning and panic when all appears to be descending into chaos and charcoal.

 

Gypsy pretending not to notice anything.

For my part, I too, enjoy browsing through recipes from the likes of Rick Stein and Nigel Slater, but as yet have failed to rise to the challenge. I used to threaten my 'speciality'; sandwich a la confiture, the confiture in this instance being marmalade, although yer actual French for marmalade sandwich is sandwich marmalade, however, this is usually met with at least a raised eyebrow - judgement having been passed. In desperation to avoid the gallows or more likely a life sentence, I have made notes of a surefire recipe for salmon fillets which is simple and effective, and with a side order of tenderstem broccoli and a sprinkling of parmesan, it is a delight to cook and convinces Milady that I am saveable after all - for an hour or two anyway.

But back to the 'wretched animile' of my title. Terriers are independent-minded creatures, preferring to dominate and set the agenda, rather than obey any human dictates. Drop your guard for a nano-second and your free will has been snatched from your feeble grasp. However, Jack Russell terriers are also noted for their fierce loyalty. Once 'under the paw' they will loyally exploit your every weakness and induce guilt with claw-like precision. On occasions - as when you steel yourself against canine manipulation - these small dogs can feel slightly wobbly, and experience a loss of confidence. On such occasions they resort to one of two ploys, guaranteed to re-establish the status quo.

The first option is to turn their back on you and sulk, inducing sympathy from other parties in the room; in my case, Milady can usually be counted upon to jump to Gypsy's defence, uttering such reproaches to me as she deems appropriate in the circumstances - often along the line of "do not treat the little darling in such an offhand manner." The little perisher (not a 'darling' in my book), then seizes on the admonishing tone of voice to recognise victory in the offing, bounding to the battlefront once more with renewed vigour. Milady also encourages me - should I utter any complaint - to 'stop whining'. 'It's all your own fault really. Just be a man!'

The second option is to work on the object under attack (me), by turning on the charm, beginning with the 'How could you be so cruel' look. By now this works straight away with me, as small Pavlov has now trained me so thoroughly, that I bow to the inevitable and submit to this higher power without question. 

 

Going through stage two (persistant imitation of a smoke alarm); stage three (jumping at my thighs, claws extended); stage four (jumping onto my lap - if seated, obviously - and staring unblinking into my eyes with steely determination. I suspect hypnotism and thought transference are being subliminally induced here.)

Life with a small dog is never dull. It can range all the way from "Awww! Look!" to "I'll murder the little horror!" This last is what happens when she decides to see if your latest livre de recettes, is in any way edible.

Postscript: Gypsy Rose eats almost anything. Tissue paper, candlewax and any particularly revolting thing on a pavement or footpath are favourites. At least she is not as bad as one of her predecessors, who ate a jellyfish and had to be rushed to the vet for an antidote to the sting. At least, not yet!