Is there a standard length for a chain by which a horse in tethered to a riverbank?
I have not been able to find a Traveller with whom to raise this query and anyway the information was only foremost in my mind yesterday afternoon when a walk along the flood defences of the River Hull, some 3 miles upstream from the Humber outlet brought me up against a succession of gypsy horses so secured by chain and hammered in spike to either the top of the levee , the angled slope or the lower bank.
They were quite a sorry sight in all. Perhaps now just a throwback to a once horse dominated lifestyle and only really kept as a material possession or just something to establish a position in the hierarchy of the Traveller World, a form of currency. There are still famous horse fairs in this country which are to my understanding well attended and with business conducted in the old fashioned way but more out of the back of a large and expensive 4 x 4 or pick up truck than a covered Romany carriage.
The reason for my concern down by the river was brought about by my own form of being tethered, in this instance to a large Doberman hound, fully grown, very strong, a bit mad and with no comprehension of commands in English.
The purists in dog obedience may argur that it is not so much the order given to a dog that brings about compliance but the tone in which it is given. Either way, I did not have any grasp of Rumanian and the dog certainly and for sure had no knowledge of English.
A few days earlier the Doberman, provided with an anglicised name of Tess ( a bit more Sanderson than of the d'Urbevilles in physique), had arrived in this country after a long journey from behind the old Iron Curtain as part of a consignment of dogs rescued from perilous conditions. In the well documented Chauchesku era it was the orphans and infirm children who justified a major humanitarian operation. As that country has settled into a more free market economy it now appears that the dog population is needy and warranting action.
A friend of the family had been moved almost to tears by the plight of the Rumanian intake and had volunteered some of her time to providing exercise and to promote confidence and a social grounding for a selection of pure and cross bred animals awaiting rehoming or fostering in the UK. The website for the rescue centre has a brief description and photograph for each of the canine arrivals. Some of the dogs are not what you would describe as cute but all are loving and just ache for a chance to be welcomed into a warm, dry and secure home.
Me and the Boy wanted to help out and so we rolled up at the centre yesterday afternoon to see what we could do. Two large dogs were allocated to us. My Doberman was roaming around the reception area and as I entered the lobby she carried out a mock charge, barking and salivating. I was too shocked to react, well run. Tess took this as a stand off, I was an equal and we immediately respected each others rights and space. I was understandably a bit nervous after a Black Labrador took a chunk out of my hand just before Christmas in an unprovoked incident at a rented house.
The Staff at the centre assured me that although no formal assessement had been carried out they did not think that Tess had any particular fears, oh, apart from bikes. This was left intentionally vague and did not specify drop handlebar, straight handlebar, road, mountain or hybrid types. It would be a case of just see what happened if that confrontation arose. The Boy was introduced to an even larger Old English Sheepdog, freshly clipped and frisky with it.
Our briefing was just that, brief. Keep them on the lead all the time, do not let small children stroke them, pick up their pooh in the bags provided. See you back in about an hour or ninety minutes. As an afterthought I was informed that Tess liked to get close. As we left the centre, deep in the heart of an industrial estate Tess demonstrated the close thing by approaching me from behind and pushing her long nose through under my groin. She would then reverse out and come to heel or just pass through my legs and wait for me to unravel the twisted leash. The Boy soon found out that his dog, Lucy, could not walk more than a few metres without doing a complete 360 degree turn. Perhaps a trait from some mistreatment or confinement in a cramped, uncomfortable place. Our route up to the lifting bridge and along the riverbank was, in a straight line about 3 miles but with the compulsive performing routines the actual distance covered would be considerably more than this. In the first hundred metres the two dogs rushed and scattered a bus queue with me and The Boy hanging on behind the muscle bound hounds.
We then encountered the gypsy horses. They were quite docile but not without a bit of twitching and potential for unpredictable behaviour. The small Shetland Ponies would also have a restricted outlook through their unruly teddy boy quiffs. The Sheepdog rolled in the first large pile of dung. The bank was muddy and altogether messy with horse manure, so that neither material stood out particularly as a warning.
The river wound through an industrial area, or rather the backside of an industrial area. I was actually suitably impressed about the level of activity at the chemical plant, paint factory , waste transfer depots and scrapyards which appeared to be contrary to the recessionary conditions in the rest of the economy.
In sporadic bursts of energy the two dogs would set off racing each other and dragging us behind. The Boy was becoming dizzy and disorientated by the antics of the Old English. The Doberman seemed to have an itchy muzzle as she would almost plough a furrow with it in the grass before getting up close and personal to me, again and again. The crotch of my trousers was as a consequence streaked with dog saliva and mucus.
By now the group of four of us looked quite uniformly hot, bothered and dishevelled, but only one was caked in horse shit. The river path seemed endless and with no break in the razor wire fencing around the industrial sites. At last we reached the back of the B&Q Warehouse with steps down past a dodgy looking pub announcing 'Open All day', but for whom in an area devoid of any houses or apparent patrons whatsoever?
We were on the return leg of the marathon trek. It was all pavement and the rush hour traffic was backed up so that we, on our aggregated 10 legs were moving quicker. We must have looked a bit of a sight to the drivers. A chubby man with a Doberman and a lanky Youth with a Sheepdog. Some must have come to the conclusion, albeit disgracefully judgemental that we were up to no good, layabouts, spongers and a little bit chavvy. We however were having a great experience. There were strong recollections of our two beloved family pets, Elsie and Toffy and how much a part they had played in our lives over some 18 years. It was with some sadness that we left our new friends at the rescue centre. I will have mixed feelings if they let us volunteer again next week and those two madcap hounds have gone on the next stage of their journey.
Bring on Igor the mongrel and the rest.
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