What happened when Vladimir met Angela?
Never huge fans of each other, the German leader was in discussions about energy sources with Putin at his home in Sochi. Into the room he led his big, black labrador, Koni, which immediately headed for Ms Merkel.
As it sniffed her, she froze, clearly frightened. The Russian supremo smiled, saying: “I’m sure it will behave itself”.
The inside word is that he knew she suffered from an unreasonable fear of dogs, having once been badly bitten. Bringing his into the room was a bully’s masterstroke in intimidation.
The story is my nod of recognition and sympathy to Ms Merkel’s phobia. Regular readers know I also have that fear, after an attack when I was wee. My grand-toots reckon I’m getting worse.
If they’re not on a lead, I’m a wreck
Almost every day now on my walks I’m confronted with a little craiter yapping, or huge one barking hard as I pass. If they’re not on a lead, I’m a wreck. Like Mrs M, I instantly freeze and the prickly adrenalin gushes.
Some incidents leave me shakkin’. Like being confronted with furious barking and snarling when I came out of a newsagent. An enormous black thing was tied to a post, baring huge teeth at everyone who passed.
As I gave it a wide berth and obviously looked terrified, a gadgie standing nearby shouted: “He winna touch ye. He’s just sad and cryin’ coz his owner’s left him.” Aye, that would be right.
Last week’s drama really had me on the rack, although you’ll think I was a feel gype. On a lane near my hoosie, out of nowhere bounds this wee black and white spaniel.
Helpless daftie that I am, I scraiked: ‘Go away, go away’, desperately scouring the lane for help – or an escape
It tanked towards me then jumped, right up to my waist. Not a sign of an owner. In its moo some sort of cloth thing. A toy? A muzzle?
It kept running away then belting back and jumping, me muttering increasingly frantic oh-nos. Held out my arm with the walking stick to try to keep it away, then panicked it might think I was going to hit it and become even more excited, aggressive, wild… whatever in the hell it was.
Helpless daftie that I am, I scraiked: “Go away, go away”, desperately scouring the lane for help – or an escape.
Saved by strangers
At last, I reached my street, stressing about how I’d get my front door open with this bouncing beast in tow. Thanks-be; a couple walking their dog on a lead. My animal made a beeline for theirs. Eee-haa!
Not impressed, they looked at me as if to say: “Get your mutt under control.” That’s when I lost it. Like a total neep-heid, I started greetin’, wailing: “That’s not my dog. Oh, please help me. It’s been chasing me for ages. I don’t think I’ll get into my house down there. Please take it OFF me!”
Can you imagine meeting a nutter like that? Not altogether surprisingly, they said nothing, but headed up the street with my dug lapping at their heels.
I grabbed the chance to hobble doon and into my hoosie. Inside, shudderin’, still near to tears. Now I’m scared to go anywhere near that lane again. But is that fear so unreasonable?
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of The Press & Journal and started her journalism career in 1970
