A day with hounds of hell

PERHAPS it's because I am the world's worst person when it comes to remembering what day it is or special dates like birthdays, anniversaries or anything else that requires a card, but I've only just realised that today is Friday the 13th.

Now, nothing bad has happened to me yet, but the way this week began I'm fearing the worst.

It all started when my mum and dad scarpered to Amsterdam for the weekend, leaving me to deal with their two incredibly unruly Fox Terriers -- Fudge and Daisy, aka The Hounds from Hell.

To look at them anyone would think butter wouldn't melt, including my mum and dad, but within 60 seconds of waving them off at the coach stop chaos prevailed.

I decided the best course of action was to go on a long walk to tire the devil dogs out, so we promptly set off along the nearest country trail.

Half way round, Fudge and Daisy, who are sisters from birth and lifelong partners in crime, decided they didn't really like each other after all. It was all bared teeth and fur flying as this well-known, and well-used Rossendale beauty spot witnessed the canine reconstruction of Tyson V Holyfield -- complete with the ear biting and real blood.

A couple of other dog walkers stopped to ask if I was alright, as I attempted to separate them without getting caught up in the crossfire but they trotted off quickly when I jokingly told them we were off badger baiting later that night.

I could see them make a mental note of my description as they put me down as a real unsavoury character who had obviously driven two cuddly, furry, pedigree pups into becoming man-eating monsters. I should have carried on walking too and pretended I'd never seen them before in my life. "What dogs?"

When I finally got them back on their leads I was forced to walk all the way home, arms and legs akimbo while they snapped and snarled at each other with every step.

Each time I relaxed my arms they attacked and it was all I could do to get them home. I had to take one round the back and leave her in the yard while I dragged the other round the front and into the porch -- which was great considering I've just redecorated in cream and Daisy looked like she'd been to Glastonbury for the weekend.

When I went back to the yard Fudge had done her Houdini trick and disappeared off to make friends with the chickens, who, by the sounds of flapping wings and squawking that followed, didn't like her anymore than I did at that moment in time. I finally tempted her back into the kitchen with the promise of food and after an hour in isolation I chanced a reunion. Oh, joy! They were instant friends, best buddies, closer than close -- except the devoted sisters routine went too far when Fudge regurgitated her tea back on the carpet and Daisy promptly tucked in for seconds.

Just as stomach churning the first time as it was the fifth, 25 minutes later, I can tell you. I never turned away from the television for a minute -- not even when a gang of drug dealers battered Tony with a baseball bat in Corrie.

When my dad rang from a posh restaurant in the cosmopolitan capital of canals -- to see how the "girls" were doing -- I gave him chapter and verse, but he just thought it was me and rang off.

While I was on the phone Fudge had helped herself to a sub-standard Mintola that had been on the coffee table waiting to be sent back to Nestle in the hope of a couple of free packets and just as I replaced the receiver she chucked that up too.

I'll tell Nestle it was so bad it made my dog sick so some good might come from it yet.

Anyway, I'm facing the rest of the day with a certain amount of intrepidation. Not because I fear something terrible might happen to me, like a ladder falling on my head on being instantly blinded by low-flying salt, but simply because my mum and dad are already planning their next fortnight away.

I suggested Bermuda -- maybe they can drop Fudge and Daisy off in the triangle on the way.

Converted for the new archive on 14 July 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.