I'll Be Doggone

Making friends in southern Spain

I've always thought of myself as a dog person. It's not that I actively dislike cats or want them all killed, stuffed and shipped to a Dead Cat Museum, the revenues of which be used for the construction of spa resorts for cute puppy dogs. But there's something of the jaded pasha about them that tends to work on my nerves. They start meowing for food, you oblige and then they walk away as if it's suddenly dawned upon them that they're late for an appointment. Dogs are just a bit more predictable. Bit daft, too, but that makes them all the more likeable.

Recent events, however, have led me to reconsider my take on the matter. Dogs are mean. Simple as that. It started out all right. I still remember the nosy specimen I met on a country road in southern Spain. It was coming from the opposite direction, spotted me, made a U-turn and then started following me. Each time I looked over my shoulder it was still there, happily trotting along. Whenever I took a break the dog too would take a break, lying down right next to my bike. This went on for miles and miles, until my little companion got into a nasty fallout with another dog. I kept looking back, hoping it would catch up. It never did.

France and Italy were uneventful, dog-wise, and in the Balkans I never saw any of the ferocious street dogs I had been promised. They must have migrated to Greece, because that's where they were all waiting for me. Fresh in the country, my mind still buzzing with everything I had seen in Albania, I suddenly found myself face to face with two snarling mongrels. Before I knew it one of them had dug its teeth into one of my rear panniers. Pushing the pedals with all the power I could muster I managed to get away. After a kilometre or so I stopped, still trembling, and stuffed the pockets of my cycling shirt with a couple of pebbles.

A week ago, I found myself in a similar situation. Village, empty road, couple of dogs yapping at me as I approached—they weren't very big, I'm afraid. Again I decided that speeding rather than braking would be my safest bet. It wasn't. I think I gave those mutts a big fright when that sandy patch in the corner of the road proved too much for my worn-out tires and I came to a halt right in front of their noses. I immediately got up to check if the bike was OK. It was, and fortunately I hadn't sustained any serious damage myself. Just a small abrasion below the hip and two tiny holes in my treasured cycling shorts. Plus a new boost to my growing dislike of dogs.

I hear turtles make really nice pets.