Pastore Maremmano

I was interested to note in the BBC news today that special breeds of dog are being used to protect livestock against the growing numbers of wolves in the mountains of Portugal.

Our neighbour’s puppy Camilla belongs to a breed of dog, the Pastore Maremmano or Maremma Sheepdog, which has the same traditional role of guarding flocks.

Strangely enough, I’ve never met Camilla face to face – only seen her from a distance. Kepler obviously thinks the world to her and so does her owner, who speaks proudly of her obedience and sociable nature.

Possibly my first encounter – or non-encounter – with Maremmani was when we spent the night in the car high up in the Sibilline Mountains. There was a flock of sheep nearby, guarded by a few of these dogs, and we were advised not to answer the call of nature in the night in case they perceived us as a threat.

The shepherd – or more accurately goatherd – who lives at the foot of our road has a bedraggled-looking Maremmano chained up outside his house in all winds and weathers.  A couple of years ago a pair of cute, soft white puppies – likewise Maremmani – could be seen tumbling about in the road nearby. He kept one of them – now usually chained to a feeding trough – and abandoned the other to go wild. It managed to elude the dog catchers for a while; I don’t know what became of it.

Our shepherd doesn’t use Maremmani to guard his goats when he takes them out and about to pasture: he obviously finds Border Collies more helpful. This is the photo I took of him from the car when we stopped to let him pass.

The shepherd with his goats and dogs

Charlie

Kepler is still spending a great deal of time with his second family - the neighbours who own the Maremmano puppy. It’s his principal vice, and a real ‘control’ problem.

But he does at long last seem to be listening a little more to the human voice. Not so much mine, though.

It’s somewhat annoying that I feed him, take him out endlessly to relieve himself, go on walks with him, let him in and out of the house, play with him, cuddle him … and I’m taken totally for granted.

Clive, on the other hand, has been identified as the Alpha Male and for the most part has only to call him by name to be obeyed if not instantly, then at least without too much delay.

In some activities I consciously use Kepler’s name in order to reinforce it, but at other times I find myself using a variety of terms of address:

• Little One
• Devil Teeth (a reference to his sharp baby teeth)
• Tiny (Taylor is still called Titch from when he was the smallest)
• Baby
• Poppet
• Sweetie
• Darling
  

  'Tiny' and 'Titch' playing in the snow

It occurred to me that he could also aptly be called Charlie.

Why? Because the Maremmano puppy, believe it or not,  is called Camilla!!

Kepler’s crimes

Kepler’s crimes are as follows:-

• He stole and chewed the mobile phone so we have to get a new one
•  He pee-ed on the rolled-up carpet which is rolled up to stop him pee-ing on it
• He pooped on a pile of coiled garden hoses so every coil had to be cleaned
• He chewed through the outer coating on my monitor cable

That’s just in one day. I think he’s letting us know what he thinks of his curfew – which has not been at all strict in any case.

Yesterday we discovered a nasty, festering sore in Joules’ armpit that he has, of course, been licking. I phoned the local peripatetic vet who I thought might have gone to work in Norway. Luckily he hadn’t. After he’d examined Joules, I asked him to take a quick look at the redness by Kepler’s private parts. He took this seriously and advised me to put the same antiseptic foam on that I will use for Joules.

Kepler started licking it off – hence the Elizabethan collar.

The vet also asked what Kepler had been eating, and in particular how much.  It was something about toxicity –  I didn’t follow him at all – but the upshot is that I must feed Kepler less for 4 or 5 days.

I decided not to give him breakfast any more, which I would have been weaning him off soon anyway.

Poor Kepler. More privations.

Kepler’s curfew

Just after lunch I had a call on the mobile from our nearest neighbour (not the one who picks the olives); his house is about 300 metres away. He was talking so fast and breathlessly that I could hardly understand him.

Kepler, it seemed, was in danger.

I looked around in alarm. Joules was indoors and Taylor was just outside the patio door but there was no Kepler anywhere in sight.

I got the neighbour to repeat himself. The problem was that Kepler had gone up to their house, wouldn’t go away, and was in danger of being jumped on by their German Shepherd.

Apparently Kepler plays every day with their puppy, a female Maremmano (a type of Italian herding dog with a reputation for ferocity when defending its flock), very clearly the apple of our neighbour’s eye.

She’d come to his call and Kepler, instead of returning home to us as usual, had followed her.

He thought maybe I could call Kepler over the mobile so I tried, knowing full well it was useless because Kepler doesn’t even respond to being called face to face.

I quickly changed my shoes and raced up the drive, foolishly forgetting to take a lead with me. The neighbour was just starting along the drive from his end, with Kepler trotting along on a lead beside him.

I had to borrow the lead – a lurid pink one – because Kepler wasn’t impressed with me trying to carry him back in my arms. Besides which he weighs a ton.

Kepler in disgrace

He’s now more-or-less grounded. Of course he can’t understand why I won’t let him go racing off with the others. He accompanied me off-lead when I did some chores outside this evening, but I had to work hard to keep his attention.

Fortunately he does his business when on the lead, but we’ll still have to resign ourselves to more ‘accidents’ in the days to come.

Mind you, I’m not sure how long we’ll be able to sustain the curfew in the face of his extremely strong will.

Kepler and the slipper

The sleep of the innocent

Fast asleep, Kepler is a cuddly bundle of innocence. Awake, he’s mischief personified.

His particular specialty is shoes. If I drop a slip-on on the floor ready to put on, it’s gone before I can even get my foot in it.

The day he took my slipper for a long walk, I wasn’t in the house. I was in the courtyard and saw him trotting by with it in his mouth.

He laid it down tantalisingly just at the entrance to the orchard, then as soon as I got near, picked it up and proceeded with it.

He ran all the way through the orchard with it, dropping it on occasion for a rest and a chance to enjoy watching my efforts to catch up.

His timing was impeccable. He cut it fine but was never actually in danger of being caught.

I picked up sticks and tried to lure him into making an exchange, but he refused to be distracted. I called and shouted, entreated and threatened.

Finally, more than three hundred yards from the house at the very end of the drive, just where a pipe goes under the road and marks the boundary of our land, he gave it up and left it sitting in the undergrowth.

If he’d taken it any further, and particularly if he’d gone onto the neighbour’s land, I’d have had to abandon the chase.

And if I’d stopped pursuing at any stage, the prize would have lost its value and he would probably have dropped it somewhere, to be discovered months later as a mushy wreck.