Dog Stories…

[Oxford]

Thought some of the G&G members might enjoy this story.
Ox
----

Wiley doesn't quite live up to his name

by Robert Kirby
Salt Lake Tribune columnist
Salt Lake Tribune

It is common knowledge among outdoors types that the average rooster pheasant could whip a hunter in a fair fight. This is the main reason pheasant hunters go hunting armed to the teeth. Bammer uses this logic to try to get me to take a gun on the opening of the pheasant hunt this Saturday. I do better with a camera or, even better, asleep in the truck where it's warm.

I have nothing against ringnecks. Besides, I have been pheasant hunting with Bammer before. Rarely does it involve any actual shooting. Mostly we drive around counting "No Trespassing" signs. There's another reason I don't go armed: I might accidentally shoot something like Bammer's dog Wiley, the dumbest canine in North America.

Note: Please, if your dog could fly the Space Shuttle, do not feel the need to tell me about it. I would, however, like to hear from anyone whose dog is provably dumber than Wiley. It would help settle a bet. Bammer likes to brag that Wiley is a purebred "sheptriever," specifically that Wiley is the product of a tryst between a German shepherd and a Labrador retriever, although a goat seems a far more likely candidate.

Wiley looks normal enough. Closer inspection, however, reveals that his eyes are closer together than in a smart dog and high enough on his skull so that there's no brain behind them. What Wiley lacks in smarts is compensated for in tongue, 8 yards of prehensile sliminess. He once used it to lasso a Pop Tart out of my hand from the back of the truck.

None of this would be bad if Wiley could hunt. He can't. Mostly Wiley inspires new forms of profanity in his honor, which we practice yelling in the direction he was last seen. Futility takes on a whole new meaning when you spend a morning yelling, "Get back here, you @&%*!" at a dog three-quarters of a mile away and too stupid to obey even if he weren't up a tree.

Thanks to Wiley, last year's hunt lasted 10 seconds. He was so excited that he got out of the truck 45 mph too soon. We spent the entire morning at a vet's. This was still a better hunt than the year Wiley got his head stuck down a hole. What his head was doing in the hole is unknown. But he managed to hook his collar on a root and couldn't back out.

After an hour looking for him, we found him asleep with his head still down the hole. Finally freed, he was no more embarrassed than he was the year he caught his tongue on barbed-wire fence. All of these were still better than the year we were eating lunch at the edge of a field and a police car pulled up with Wiley in the back seat. What followed was a 50 lesson in the difference between domestic turkeys and "really big pheasants."

Yesterday, Bammer told me not to worry. Wiley was too old to hunt anymore. He would be staying home from now on. All the more reason not to take a gun.
---

Salt Lake Tribune columnist Robert Kirby welcomes mail at 143 S. Main St., Salt Lake City, UT 84111, or e-mail at rkirby@sltrib.com.

[Oxford]

What...no other dog comments??? Where's the dog lovers in this group?

[hounddawg]

Oxford...

I am a doglover also, and started a thread in another forum about the topic. I called it "Dog-- For The Love Of Man", but it finally just died. Seems that people do not as a rule love dogs as much as vice versa. The following anecdote I posted May 1 of last year, but it seems that it may find a better audience here.....

Now this story does the rounds in my thorax of the woods...

This Farmer-type guy had this cross-breed Boerboel that loved chasing thrown rocks and sticks.

Well this area had some lions hanging around and from time to time some cattle would be lost due to them. What the farmers do then is bring out the rifles and dogs and go shoot the suspected culprit.

The hunting-party found the lion-spoor and tracked it to a small area of very dense bush. Now, nobody in his right mind goes afer a lion in conditions of 2-3 meter visibility, so they circled this copse and found that no spoor left the thicket.

The promlem of getting the lion into the open became problematic when the experienced hunting dogs refused to enter the thick brush. I mean !!!!!, they can smell lion in there!

One of the hunters thought that he might flush the lion by tossing a rock or two into the rough, but the Boerboel caught on to his favourite game and like a shot he was after the rock, which happened to land right NEXT to the lion.

The dog and the lion both had the fright of their lives, and the lion took off North. The dog made a yelp, about-faced in mid-leap, and headed South. He only stopped when he reached the farm homestead a few kilometers away.

The hunters dispatched the lion, and promptly decided to rename the Boerboel "Leeukos" (Lionfood).

When they returned to the homestead they tried to reward Leeukos with his favourite game for his help in getting the lion. The first rock that was thrown made Leeukos look the other way. He pretended not to see any flung objects!

Leeukos NEVER chased another thrown stick or rock.

This story IS true.

Anybody know a tale of rescue, sacrifice, bravery, or humour relating to dogs, tell it here. Remember a story worth telling is a story worth telling\retelling well.

[Oxford]

Enjoyed your post hounddawg. Using dogs when hunting lions would be quite a challange for sure. One swipe from the lion's claws could wipe out a dogs face. :nod:

Yes, It's interesting why there's seemingly no more interest in dog stories on G&G. When I was growing up on a farm, hunting with dogs was almost a requirement. Calling the dogs back in occasionally could be frustrating when they ranged too far, and that got a little tiresome or irritating, but that's what we did in order to teach them how to hunt. I was hunting quail mostly, definitely not lions.

[hounddawg]

Actually, how they go about it in Africa is to set 15 or 20 Rhodesian Ridgebacks on one lion. Certainly, about 6 or 8 of the dogs will not survive, but neither does the lion.

The Ridgeback was specifically bred in Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) for killing problem lions.

Here is another from my collection:

Want to hear a funny story?

Well in 1985 I was conscripted into the South-African Defence Force, and to make a long story short, I eneded up in a little no-where place called Bourke's Luck. There I did my basic training in our army's dog unit.

I was eager to do well, and I worked hard, but the problem a new recruit faces is that the dog ALWAYS knows more than the recruit. He's done it all before, see?

I was issued with a 10-year old Labrador named Shadow, and he was as canny as the day was long. His first peculiarity I had to get used to, was when I took him out in the morning he would wait until we start our open-order march, and then piss with unerring accuracy on my boots. After a few days I got so used to him doing this that I could tell when the moment was there, and perform this little shuffle-pace as if I was out of step, and cause him to miss (most of the time anyway).

Now as we progressed in our training, I was introduced to a term "hoog-voor" (High-and-front). This was to deal with the eventuality that your dog gets hit by enemy fire. What ideally is supposed to happen is that the dog is picked up by his handler and held against the chest of the handler (Thank god Shadow was not a Rottweiler). The handler would then run with the dog and get him to a place where he could be treated.

Shadown did NOT like to be picked up. He showed what he thought of "hoog-voor" by sinking his fangs into my pecroral muscles (tit) at about the third step. Tried it again. Shadow bit me again. Now I'm not the smartest man out there, but about here could see a pattern starting to emerge.

When we train dogs to negotiate tunnels, the handler would crawl in first to show the dog that there is nothing to fear. Problem was, Shadow WAS already trained, and he LOVED going through the tunnel. If you went in ahead of him, he would simply show his enthusiasm, by overtaking you inside the tunnel. In the confined space of the tunnel this procedure was normally quite painful. Shadow made sure that I was the most slovenly recruit in my Platoon, if not the whole Company.

I was dreading the day when we were to be evaluated. Shadow had a mind of his own. Most of the time he was the sharpest dog around, but at other times... One day he just ran off, with me chasing after him, calling at the top of my lungs, and him conveniently deaf. I found him about an hour and 3 kilometers later taking a leisurely swim in the Blyde River.

Anyhow on the BIG day of the evaluation, I could tell that something was amiss with Shadow. He didn't say "good-morning" by splattering my High-shine boots. He was doing everything so RIGHT that I was starting to think he was a changeling.

Shadow growled at me when I performed the dreaded "hoog-voor", but nothing more. In the tunnel he crawled after me like a puppy. Everything went so smooth, I couldn't believe it.

I graduated from the first phase of training, and as the custom was we do a parade with the dog and you get to march up to a podium with your dog and get told what an asset you were to the army by a Captain who up to now had only called me a @#$@$# excuse for a *&%$% that isn't fit to eat #$%@@ off of his %!!@# boots. All this with relatives and current girlfriend watching.

My turn came and Shadow and I marched smartly up to the podium. I halted flawlessly, my heel driving into the ground at exactly the same moment Shadow's !!! popped down on it.

Captain Van Rensburgh returned my left-handed salute*, but before he could hand me my certificate, Shadow jumped up, grabbed me by the waist with his front paws and proceeded to have sex with my leg! The Captain found this VERY amusing. It took me almost a year to see the funny side of it.




*When working with a dog a handler salutes with his left hand. The leash is "locked" around the right wrist. When marching only the left arm swings. The right hand claspes the buckle of his webbing belt.

[Oxford]

Man that's a funny story! :nod: I thought you were going to say that Shadow pizzed on the Captain's foot on the podium.

There's some really funny lines in that dialog. I could just visualize shadow trying to pass you in the tunnel, and him messing with your shined shoes, and the rest. And...humping the Captain's leg... he needed help for sure. That's a great story for sure.

Well...here's one about my dog Tiny. He was just the opposite of his name in that he was a St Bernard. He was big and he knew it. When chasing rabbits sometimes the rabbit would dart across the plowed field next to the timber. With the rabbit darting easily across the dirt, Tiny would lumber along, fall, get up, lumber some more, but kept chasing, never getting any closer.

Another story...When I hunted during snowy winter days, using my antique single shot 16 Gage SG, we'd hunt in the timber area. Snowy days were great for rabbit hunting because they'd sit tight and we could usually flush them out and that's when I'd get my one shot off. Tiny and I would walk up to a brush pile...I'd say sic-um Tiny, and he'd smell a little bit. If there was a rabbit inside he'd tear into that pile like a tank going through brush. Of course, the rabbit would take off running and "bang." Didn't get them all but we had fun. Of course, I dressed the rabbit, soaked it in saltwater brine for a couple of days, and then cut it up for frying.

One more...we had a coal shed where we kept our fuel for a pot belly stove in our house. For some reason a opossum decided to crawl in there one winter...but now very wisely. As I was watching, Tiny sniffed him out attacked him with his huge jaws, threw him in the air and caught him again, and crunched his bones. That's how Tiny reacted to game, including rabbits that he did catch. Well...this habit met with disastrous results later because my mother's friend visited one time with her Mexican CheWaWa. When tiny saw that puny little animal he decided it was another wild critter and did what he did best. Yes, in front of my mother and her friend he took the Mexican CheWaWa between his teeth, threw it in the air and chomped down, crushing it's bones, too. :jaw: Yes, we got to buy her a new pet, and we thought we might get sued...but she was nice about it and let it go.

Yes, there's a bunch more dog stories I could tell but I'll hold off for now.
Ox

[jerry]

Originally Posted by Oxford

What...no other dog comments??? Where's the dog lovers in this group?

That was excellet :right:

Just gots to give folks a chance to belly up to the computer I compete with the entire family on the weekend, especially when there is weather like wev'e had :insane:

[Big Dog]

Well, I'm a big dog lover (no pun intended) - my family has mostly enjoyed the company of Labradors.
Dad's last dog was a big yellow Lab named Toby. His little sister, Jenny, was a black lab. She passed away first, and we feared Toby would pine away - they had always been absolutely inseparable their whole lives. He came around though, and lived a couple more good years.
He was one dog who could let you know his exact emotional state with his facial expression. Once he was laying on "his" couch, but turned opposite of normal. I noticed he was slowly sliding toward the edge, but being asleep, he didn't know it. Finally, he slid off the deep end! About the time he hit the floor upside down, he woke up, looking around with this expression of sheer embarassment! It took all I could do not to laugh at him, but I didn't want to make it worse for him.

[DANA]

3 yrs ago I was working at camp out of a bucket truck in the hot sun when I felt faint and began to shake. Was able to get down but wasn't sure I could get into camp and get help from my wife. Made it to the bathroom where I fell to the floor. Asked my wife to get me water and a candy bar which I keep in case of low sugar. As soon as I was on the floor our Lab started licking my face. She stood over me licking all the time till I was able to sit up. She has a uncany trait for when somthing is not right with any of our family members. Bless her.

DANA

[hounddawg]

Hey, Ox....

Shadow didn't hump the Captain's leg, (now that would have been funny) he humped mine, which wasn't. At least not at the time.


**This I found a while ago, and I'm not certain that the link is still valid. I tried it and it didn't work, but then again, my PC (I think) was salvaged from a dumpster in Pakistan. I refuse to spend money on trivialities like computers when there are orphan guns out there **

from http://edition.cnn.com/2004/US/09/0...l.ap/index.html
PENSACOLA, Florida (AP) -- A Florida man who tried to shoot seven puppies was shot himself when one of the dogs put its paw on the revolver's trigger.

Jerry Allen Bradford, 37, was charged with felony animal cruelty, the Escambia County Sheriff's Office said Wednesday. He was being treated at a hospital for a gunshot wound to his wrist.

Bradford said he decided to shoot the 3-month-old shepherd-mix dogs in the head because he couldn't find them a home, according to the sheriff's office.

On Monday, Bradford was holding two puppies -- one in his arms and another in his left hand -- when the dog in his hand wiggled and put its paw on the trigger of the .38-caliber revolver. The gun then discharged, the sheriff's report said.

Deputies found three of the puppies in a shallow grave outside Bradford's home, said sheriff's Sgt. Ted Roy.

The other four appeared to be in good health and were taken by Escambia County Animal Control, which planned to make them available for adoption.


There you have it. Guns and dogs!

What are your thoughts on this?

[Oxford]

I could just visualize Toby falling and that expression. :jaw: What's happening? Ok humans...back to my nap. :nod: :guitar:

[wirehunt]

Excellant, now that's what I call funny!!!!!!!! I've got to many dog storys so I won't even bother. To much fun reading these. lol

[Oxford]

Jump in wirehunt from New Zealand...and welcome to G&G. :nod:

See...there's more to G&G then guns...even though guns are the common denominator. So let's hear your stories wirehunt.

Another dog story. When my sister and I bought our next St Bernard dog, because Tiny had died, we went to the Frisco Railroad freight station where we were expecting two six month old St Bernard pups. Figured they'd be about a little over a foot tall. No so! :jaw: They came in two large wooden crates each about three feet square in size. Those six month pups were already bigger than many dogs get in a lifetime. Immediately I knew that I'd better be good to our local butcher who had been supplying bones left over from his butchering activities. :nod:

[hounddawg]

During the winter of '86 I was stationed at a wonderful place called 97 Ammunition Depot near the town of De Aar. The geography of the place is as follows: Roughly in the center of South-Africa in the Karoo desert where it is so flat that if you decided to go AWOL you would still be seen after two weeks.

97 A.D.'s claim to fame was that it was supposed the largest ammunition depot in the Southern Hemisphere. This may be true, but I could never understand why anyone would want to stash their torpedoes 800 miles from the coast.

This large ammo dump in the middle of nowhere needed to be patrolled, and this is where Yours Truly comes into the picture. To patrol one quarter of this dump with a dog on a leash takes around 6 hours of wind and cold, and as this proposition did not sit well with the majority of the Dog-handlers (all 13 of us). The custom was to have a sleeping-bag stashed under a bush, and to sleep your 6 hours with the dog inside the sleeping bag, so cold did it become.

Eventually, one or two of the PF's (stands for Permanent Force, but means motherF%&ker) woke up to our little ploy. So it came to pass that each "Doggie" (as we were called) was issued with a notebook (A4, Ruled and Margin, Writing, for the use of) in which each of the guards in the towers around the DUMP would record his signature as the Doggie went past.

It was during this period of "oppression" that a number of the Doggies noticed that the dogs that did not walk beat on the last midnight-to-six beat were wet, when the doggie and his hound returned to the kennels.

After official complaints (in triplicate), we noticed that nothing happened. During this period I was also spendig my time constructively with a golden Dobermann !!!!! called Tessa. In less than two weeks I had taught her to carry in her mouth one notebook (A4, Ruled and Margin, Writing, for the use of) and take it from tower to tower. Guess what, It took Tessa under an hour and a half to collect the signatures that would take about 6 hours done conventionally.

I set up my Headquarters close to the kennels and Tessa faithfully went about doing our duty. One morning at around 3 or so I awoke to a ferocious barking coming from the kennels. Tessa who was cuddled up against me started shivering and emitting low growls. She knew well not to bark, and betray our H.Q.

I unclipped her leash from my web-belt and put the choke-chain around her neck. We proceeded stealthily toward the kennels, and in the dark I made out a figure on a bicycle leaving the kennel area in the direction of the mess and barracks (situated about 2 klicks away).

We entered the kennels, and the first thing I noticed was that the floors and everything was drenched, dogs included, and the fire-hose we use to clean the kennels had been used. I took up some army-blankets we had around the place and dried the dogs that would allow me as best I could. I could not dry all of them due to their agitated state, coupled with the fact that I was not their person.

I took Tessa, and went to the Duty-room so that I could use the telephone and get the off-duty Doggies to bring blankets to dry their dogs. The Duty-room was infested with a Staff-Sergeant (PF) who took his duty VERY seriuosly. He duly recorded the time of my arrival, and acted as if the phone was his personal property.

The doggies arrived in the "garry" (army-slang for Land Rover), and we made the dogs as comfortable as we could. Needless to say we were PISSED. I became even more so, when I found that I had been written a DD1 (punishment chitty) for not being on my post by that !!!!!!! of a S/sgt. I was awarded 12 extra duties (guards). NOW I had an axe to grind.

I can't remember exactly how we found out, but suspicion rested heavily on a Signaller, so I went and had a look at the guard-roster, and filled in my name in all the corresponding timeslots (last-beat) as Private Dirty Rat. After all, I had 12 of them!

I went and laid my trap. At the kennels I took out Tessa for her excellent patrolling abilities, as well as the other half of my team. A Rottweiler, that pulled the scale over 70kg, named Beefy. Readers should bear in mind that the only way that I could control Beefy was with my voice as I was a skinny lad of 65kg.

Each night I would take both dogs out, leaving Beefy's kennel open, and Tessa would do her notebook-trick, while Beefy and I skulked near the kennels in ambush. Private Dirty Rat, must have been wary because for three weeks the Beef and I skulked in vain. I was beginning to fear that I would have to upset S/Sgt Cavern-Mouth again in order to bring this to a conclusion.

At 02H37 Zulu (meaning +2 GMT) on a beautiful, frosty Thursday morning, with 2 inches of "kapok" (I think it's called sleet in English) on the ground, on that lovely morning of my 9th extra duty, Pvt. Dirty Rat's perversion drove him to strike again.

I observed from the cover (have I mentioned that I skulk?) of the sparse bush how Pvt. Dirty Rat cycled his obese 120kg frame to the kennels, and lean the 'bike up against the pole-rail fence.

The Beef knew him, and was rumbling heavy curses in Dog, but my voice, and my hands restrained him. If I let Beefy kill Dirty Rat I would most probably spend the rest of my life in Cinderella (Detention Barracks), so I let Dirty Rat enter.

The Beef and I quickly approached as soon as Dirty Rat entered the concrete building known as the kennels. The fat Son-of-a-!!!!! was unrolling the fire-hose as we entered, and the sneer that came upon his face when he observed my bony stature, died in the wake of Beefy's far more impressive size and expression.

To my dying day I would wonder how such a fat-!!! could move so quickly, because like a flash Dirty-Rat was inside Beefy's now-empty kennel, and had swung the door shut. The Rat was trapped. To Beefy I issued the command "Oppas" (guard- if he moves, attack), and with relish completed Dirty Rat's job of unrolling the 10cm diameter canvas fire-hose.

Dirty Rat got it good and solid, and I was amazed to learn that you can blacken someone's eyes with water! I had fully intended to leave Pvt. Dirty Rat until dawn (about 7 AM) but my own healthy sense of self preservation caused me to let him go at about 3:15. Then I found That the fat-assed !!!!!!! couldn't get up. I panicked. I tied The Beef up, and took Dirty Rat's 'bike, and hared for the barracks.

The other Doggies and I raced back in the garry, got Pvt. Rat, and delivered him to the Sick-Bay.There he remained for three days.

Strangely enough, Pvt. Rat's expaination to the orderlies the next day was that he fell into the dog-dip. Nobody bothered to check and see that the dip was empty, as we do not dip dogs in the cold.

Well guys... there you are!

Names have been changed to protect the *innocent* :nod:

[Thrawn]

Originally Posted by Big Dog

Well, I'm a big dog lover (no pun intended) - my family has mostly enjoyed the company of Labradors.
Dad's last dog was a big yellow Lab named Toby. His little sister, Jenny, was a black lab. She passed away first, and we feared Toby would pine away - they had always been absolutely inseparable their whole lives. He came around though, and lived a couple more good years.
He was one dog who could let you know his exact emotional state with his facial expression. Once he was laying on "his" couch, but turned opposite of normal. I noticed he was slowly sliding toward the edge, but being asleep, he didn't know it. Finally, he slid off the deep end! About the time he hit the floor upside down, he woke up, looking around with this expression of sheer embarassment! It took all I could do not to laugh at him, but I didn't want to make it worse for him.

I use to have a Golden Retreiver named Rascal and she use to have alot of expressions, the older she got the more she seemed to aquire. She had a least the mentality of a 6-7 year old human. She understood alot of words. One of the best pointing/tracking/and bird dogs I ever seen. every time we go walking she would always find a flock of somthing to flush. To bad she was scared of guns. We found her as a stray (almost 1 year old) and even though I never shot a gun around her she would disapear at the sight of one. She was the best dog I ever had. She lived to about 18 years.

[Apollyon67]

I am certainly enjoying these posts, keep em coming folks!

[wirehunt]

Strangely enough, Pvt. Rat's expaination to the orderlies the next day was that he fell into the dog-dip. Nobody bothered to check and see that the dip was empty, as we do not dip dogs in the cold.

Well guys... there you are!


Good on you. You got your's!!!!!! And it was worth it . LOL

[OldTimer]

Lost my best friend for 12 years, Alabama (Al'ie for short) on 31.Jan. '4. She was a GoldenX (mom got out...), and a great hunting partner. I'm no trainer but she found birds regularly where other dogs had (just) been, and she never let one out run her before she could flush it.
1. One opening day we went out against my better judgement. We arrived to a full parking area, the sound of battle nearby. :assult: I kept her on a short leash as we walked down the path a quarter mile to the nearest field. At the end of the path we came upon 4-5 dogs and their attendant hunters walking out, at intervals. Nobody had a bird, they had only seen a couple, et c. (What the h**l was all that shooting?--I thought.) I released Al'ie and started to circle back to the parking lot another way, where I had seen two other groups with their dogs pass by as I chatted. Al'ie promptly ran off to a distant gunshot but called back to heel. I took 10 paces and she took off into some low brush, and came out on the heels of a hen. That hen wouldn't fly so Al'ie put her nose under it's a** and pushed it into the air. Bang, we went home.
2. She was half retriever so she did it half right ; only once did she retrieve to my hand. She flushed a bird down-hill of me so I couldn't shoot without hitting her. She ran after that bird and would not call back. 10 mins. later she came back, sat at my feet, and without a word gave me the bird, and I think I recognised a disgusted look on her face.
She was full of surprises and amused me no end, and that dog taught me more than I ever taught her. Miss ya dawg.

[wirehunt]

Old Sue was a golden lab x. About the most hard case dog I've ever seen. She loved three thing's in this order, HUNTING, fighting, drinking. That dog just had to hunt.
One time where driving back from having a look for a deer when bugger me there's two off to the side of the road, so great hunter hit's the pick's and runs for a 100 yards to get the shot. I put the rifle up looking for the neck shot, hmmm can't shot there, there appears to be a yellow lab x attached to it's neck, had to shoot a bit further back cause I like the dog
I never trained that dog, she trained me!
Opening morning, we're up far to early and away out to our duck shooting spot, first duck comes around and I managed to shoot it. Sue watched it hit the water then away she went. She'd never even seen a duck before, by the end of the day she'd retreived around 25 ducks, including several divers that she put her head underwater around tree roots etc. to get. I couldn't beleive how well she did.
Old Sue had one fualt, she had a love hate relationship with opposums. She loved to hate them!
You couldn't let her cast out when you were hunting deer or pigs, cause all she'd do was find posums, then very noisily kill them. And she'd chase them all day, day after day.
One opening day for duck shooting, we were up early as usual having a bite to eat, I thought hmm haven't seen the dog yet wonder where she is? So I gave her a whistle, no dog, so I got a bit more serious about looking for her (she was never tied up), I looked everywhere no dog, in the end I gave up and went duck shooting. Yes I was about an hour and a half late getting there, a bad opening day then away home. Still no dog, she turned up two day's later looking very sheepish. She used to do that about every 12 to 18 months. I never new where she went she'd just clear out, and always came home looking healthy.

She's buried up in her favorate hunting spot and I always say g'day when I drive past. Funny how you miss your dog when they go......
Happy hunting Sue

[Oxford]

Wirehunt...those are some great stories! Good to hear you NZ guys joining in, too.

Yes, those dogs will never be foregotten. :nod: They're just like one of the family. Takes a while to get over losing your best friend.

Have a good one, mate. However, tell us more. I know you've got a million stories to tell about your dog.

Ox