“Come on, Mr Moog, let’s go to the village,” I said, grabbing my coat, his lead and a bag. That was the only cue he needed to get excited.
We needed to top up the dog supplies, as we had the family coming. Three fresh, juicy chews would keep the dogs occupied for a few hours while we had lunch and Freddie explored the garden.
“Morning, Mark,” Trish said as I opened the door. Trish, the shop owner’s wife, was one of Moog’s best friends. She could always be relied upon for at least one gravy bone, two if he performed extra trickery.
“As a Halloween special offer, you do a trick, I’ll give you a treat,” Trish said to Moog. He didn’t understand, of course, except he knew he’d got her attention. That was a good start.
“And I’ll be watching that you don’t perform any disappearing tricks on my stock,” Chris interrupted.
Chris is the shop owner. Moog is on his watch list.
Apart from dog chews, I wanted bird feeders and wild bird food to start feeding the birds again. I’d stopped over the summer on the advice of the RSPB, not to be confused with the other societies I’d been threatened with over the last few months. I’d noticed more birds hanging around where the feeders used to be, and I’m sure one robin in particular had started haunting me in an attempt to make me feel guilty. I wasn’t going to risk a Pewsey remake of ‘The Birds’, especially on Halloween.
“What trick are you doing this week, then?” Trish asked, tempting Moog with a gravy bone at the counter.
He immediately went into a sit and put on his ‘look how cute I am’ face.
“That’s very cute, but I wouldn’t call that a trick,” she said, handing over the first gravy bone.
Moog is smart. He wasn’t going straight in with his best trick when there were easy wins to be had.
“What else have you got for me?” she said, reaching into the treat jar.
Moog dropped to the floor in a classic sheepdog flat position. I knew this wasn’t a trick. It was default Border Collie behaviour, but probably enough to con another treat out of the easily impressed shopkeeper.
“Wow, that was quick,” Trish gasped, handing him another treat.
I was right. She’d been tricked.
I settled up with Chris, packed the bag and looked round at Moog, who was now frantically scratching at the side of his muzzle with both paws.
“That’s a new trick,” Trish said. “I think you’ve had enough for today.” Chris nodded in agreement too, his profit margins disappearing.
“I don’t think that’s a trick,” I replied. “That treat has got stuck in his mouth.”
I tried to stay calm.
“Oh no, what have I done? That’s the last time I give a dog a treat,” Trish said, panic in her voice. “I hope I haven’t hurt him.” She was clearly upset, and Moog was getting more frantic.
At first glance into his mouth I couldn’t see anything wrong. When this has happened in the past it’s usually been a bit of chew or stick wedged over or between his teeth.
“Come on, Moog, let me have a closer look.”
As I tilted his head back, I could see the unchewed gravy bone wedged firmly in the roof of his mouth, between the two rows of teeth. I grabbed it with two fingers and it slipped out.
“There you go,” I said, holding it up.
The colour returned to Trish’s face.
“He’s fine, Trish,” I tried to reassure her. “And by the way, that wasn’t a pre-planned Halloween trick-or-treat double act.”
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