HAWKSMOOR - A Progress Report

So, the decision stood: the dog had to make a living, he's seven-month-old after all.

For starters we had the local school fete with a 'splat the rat' competition and a dog show. Best looking dog, dog most resembling owner, you know good traditional stuff.

The judge was our local butcher; he always had had a dog, so he knows his way around the canine world. The stewards were from the Star & Garter Home; the secretary works part time at the Poppy Factory.

It was a scorching day.

The school band played String of Pearls in double time, the air is full of sausage scent, Hawksmoor has a new lead and Katie, my Samoyed, barks her head off, she is fond of milling crowds.

Hawksmoor gets entered into puppy class; our butcher greets this with derision: 'Dog's the size of a donkey, can't be a puppy, mate. That's a full-grown retriever!'

Hawksmoor gets this forlorn look in his eyes and drags Judith over to the village oak.

Glancing sheepishly into the air, he tries to lift one leg against the oak and almost falls over.

'See, it's a dog puppy, can't even take a proper pee, yet', says I to the judge.

Judith has decided to take him into the ring herself. She had walked him on a lead for 25 minutes this very morning waving biscuits in the air all the way.

'Piece of cake', she whispers to me, 'look at all these other mongrels, no training at all'.

I had to stand somewhere in the background, Katie, the Samoyed, kept barking and Hawksmoor, who is after all HER dog, wants to stay in spiritual and physical contact with his canine superior, preferably at all times.

Katie and I settle down, hers is a burger, I get the pint.

Judith stands in the ring and puts on her lion tamer's expression. Hawksmoor either lolls on the grass, makes himself heavy when being pulled back up into a vaguely upright position or jumps to his paws by his own volition when there is a chance to take a sniff at the five pound Bichon Frise next in line.

The Bichon bites him in the paw.

Katie has finished her burger and resumes yapping at regular intervals (I'm here, where are you?'). In the middle distance Hawksmoor's head swivels, like R2 D2's.

Judith wants to get away and out of there. Now it is her turn, Hawksmoor follows the Bichon Frise leaping like a billy goat. They run out of paddock.

A large bloke, probably the head master, body checks them, preventing dog, mistress and Bichon Frise under foot from spilling over into the packed ranks of spectators. The Bichon looks a tad shop soiled. Ring craft standards are decidedly low around here.

Meanwhile, the judge has shown the red card to a few contestants (fighting, defecating in front of the judge, running off without permission, that sort of thing).

The field is whittled down to eight contestants.

The little pointer with the silver chain lead and a handler carrying a chamois leather cloth to keep the pointer shiny with wins. A very small and very clean poodle gets second and Hawksmoor, the golden retriever, comes third.

Judith collects the badge, holds on with both hands and follows him like a water skier follows a powerboat, grazing the village oak on the way.

Katie greets her dog with enthusiasm, Hawksmoor goes woof, a little girl drops her soft ice and starts to cry. Judith gets a Diet Coke; Katie gets the soft ice.

Judith is not amused. 'Only Third?! Third! His father is a Crufts champion. Third?!, and look at this crummy little badge. Third, I cannot believe it'.

Hawksmoor looks happy enough; he liked the Bichon Frise. Katie wants to go home, the Rugby starts in 20 minutes.

We put this one down to experience.

'This dog is untrained and I cannot hold him when it comes to it', says Judith. 'You must train him and you must show him, Jens. After all he is your dog and you are heavier than him'.

'I have no intention of becoming a Hawksmoor handler', I cried.

What to do? As usual when I do not know what to do with the dog, I give Jacqui a call. Poor woman never gets to settle down, eat her supper and watch 'Eastenders' in peace. There is always some hysterical puppy owner on the line.

Telling Jacqui one's plight is a reassuring experience, she calms you down: 'So, Jens what happened'? - (see above).

'This was not a bad thing, you will have to train him up and the lad will be ok. You will enjoy this, Jens, the Windsor Show is coming up, you will enjoy that too'.

After a long to and fro, we reach a compromise: I will provide the dog, Jacqui will look for a handler.

I am content.

I will drive Hawksmoor over to Windsor (driving is no problem, I've done that for years, finding Windsor is easy, the big castle above the grounds is a dead give away) and someone else will take over responsibility for the dog. GREAT.

First we had to get him into a presentable state. He looked fit enough, and so he should, after all he is young and swims in the Thames amongst the geese a lot.

He looked a bit matted and had a yellowish hue to him. The solution was to send him to 'Canine Creations', Katie's hairdresser in Feltham. Katie has been going for years.

For Hawksmoor this was a first. How they loved him! It was 'cute doggie this and sweet little boy that'. When I collected him three hours later, he had changed almost beyond recognition.

He was as clean and shiny as he had been on the day he was handed over to us.

He had also acquired a fan club: the ladies at 'Canine Creations'. 'We want a picture of him to put on the wall'! So Hawksmoor will go up next to a poster of Jane Keeling's big white poodle, good for him.

The great day arrived. We zoomed down the M 25, Hawksmoor smelling of perfume, his locks gently quivering in the breeze. We made it to the show ground, this was a busy place; we had to park a long way off next to a people carrier full of Cairn Terriers. They were yapping worse than Katie on a bad day.

Hawksmoor was not phased at all; he is used to plenty of yapping at home. We shambled along amongst the Range Rovers and Toyotas, me tripping over him and cursing haksvfg, him nosing all these other dogs and the trees and the butterflies and the crisp packages.

In front of the entrance I started fumbling for the ticket, with Hawksmoor bounding amongst the sentries, who were all wearing bowler hats. The bowler hats were new to him; I should have taken him to the City first, so he would have been prepared for this kind of experience.

Just inside the gates we were intercepted by a calm looking lady, who gave me a passing glance only and proceeded to look Hawksmoor up and down in earnest.

Hawksmoor did not mind, he is fond of women who pay him attention.

'Are you from London?' the lady asked me. 'Is this one of Vinnie's puppies?' I nodded twice. 'I am Penny, I will show this dog for you'.

I thought, this is good, finally someone makes a decision and seems to know what is going on here.

I handed Penny the lead and Hawksmoor did not bother much with me for the rest of the morning. He likes women; this woman obviously had a plan and knew what she was doing. This woman was also firm and in command, young impressionable Maremmas like that.

Penny had brought a chain for the bench, the tent was vast, Hawksmoor had number 2001, I knew he could not loose.

Hawksmoor proceeded to do the only thing he does well: he went to sleep looking white and relaxed.

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