It was a beautiful, sunny Spain morning – the last of my friend Jane’s too short stay, and as we sat sipping our freshly squeezed orange juice, and listening to Dave Bull’s brilliant breakfast show on Real Radio International, Paddy decided he needed to go wee wees. Tony did the honours, and opened the gate for Paddy, who shot down the terrace steps like the demons of hell were after him. Then he set up a cacophony of barking and tried to squeeze his 33 kilos through a 7.5 centimetre gap at the base of the shed. (That’s just over 5 stones and 3 inches in English money, and, like a constipated canary, it wouldn’t go.)He couldn’t even get his snout through, and he was getting more and more agitated.
We were thinking it must be a rat under there – except for Jane, who is blonde and from Essex, and doesn’t think anything most of the time. She just sat there with her orange juice and Dave Bull. I was rather miffed at being dragged away from my favourite morning listening, so I suggested Tony flushed the rat out with the hosepipe so calm could be restored at Piddock Place. Only problem was, it wasn’t a rat, it was a cat, and as it flew out from under the shed faster than Lewis Hamilton with a rocket on the back of his car, Paddy chased it around the garden, kicking up gravel so high it was landing on the upstairs apartment’s balcony.
The cat managed to escape Paddy’s clutches – just like the rabbits in the orange grove – and she hurtled up the trunk of the palm tree. Paddy also tried to hurtle, but only succeeded in bouncing about 8 feet into the air, and landing on Tony’s prized troughs. Twice. Now the troughs are no longer prized and full of flowers. They are decidedly empty and un-prized. So, Tony shouted at Paddy to get off his troughs, I shouted at Tony to stop shouting at Paddy, then shouted at Paddy to get indoors. Paddy didn’t like that idea much, so he barked even louder, and the cat screeched. Through all this, Jane stayed serene and smiling, listening to the radio and sipping her orange juice. I reckon she’d sneaked some cava into it, because nobody should stay that calm in the midst of such uproar – even an Essex blonde.
I finally managed to grab Paddy’s collar, and dragged him towards the terrace steps. He of course was eager to get back to his brief encounter with the pussy cat, and in the ensuing struggle, another 3 plant pots deposited their contents on our posh two tone gravel, which was now three tone – two shades of beige fetchingly combined in a pleasing mix with potting compost. Now Tony was shouting at me to get ‘Your dog’ under control. Funny how when he was being such a good boy in Torrevieja yesterday he was ‘Our dog,’ but this morning he was my dog, isn’t it? Anyway, I shouted back at Tony, Paddy barked at me, Tony and the cat, and the cat screeched even louder at anyone who would listen. Indoors, Jane was listening to Dave Bull. It would have been a delicious irony if he’d been playing Who Let the Dogs Out? or even I Tawt I Taw a Puddy Tat, but sadly it was just Stevie Wonder singing Signed, Sealed, Delivered. It’s Jane’s favourite song, so that must have been why she was still calm while all around was chaos. Unless there was more cava than orange juice in that glass of course. Must check the bottle when I finish this.
We managed to get him indoors finally, and the cat made her escape. Unfortunately, she only escaped as far as the other side of the road, and when Paddy managed to get down to the garden again, he vaulted the railings and landed in the calle 8 feet below, fuelled by adrenalin and ready for Round Two. In the process, he knocked over another large pot, which landed in the rockery, flattening the two biggest cacti in there. By now, our garden was looking more like a bomb site than a serious contender for a medal at the Chelsea Flower Show, and Tony was still shouting. And now we had a fired up dog on the loose.
Luckily, the community gardeners were on duty, and in my best Spanish, I armed them with a handful of dog biscuits and persuaded them to go and call Paddy back, before he spotted another cat. As I expected, the combination of his favourite gravy bones and two new ‘Uncles’ to make a fuss of him persuaded Paddy to return to home, sweet home. Only it isn’t very sweet at the moment. When Tony finally stopped shouting, both Paddy and I got the silent treatment. And Jane just carried on sipping her orange juice and listening to Dave Bull. How I wish I could switch off like that sometimes, because now I know it wasn’t cava-assisted. The girl is a genius at keeping her head while all around are losing theirs. I’m going to miss her!
Like this? Read more of Paddy's adventures at my website, Sandra in Spain