said, taking a puff ae his cracked white clay pipe, remembering tae cover the crack oan the stem wae his thumb and forefinger.
“So, ye’ve goat a sheepdug that’s no a sheepdug, who’s no allowed tae bark, bit who sleeps in the barn because he farts like a trooper. Whit is he? Some sort ae croft mascot then?”
“I never thought about that before. I like that…Tim the mascot,” Whitey said, smiling, a wee glint in her eye.
“Right, okay, don’t tell me he’s the wan that makes the porridge in the morning before we aw get up then?” Paul asked, laughing alang wae them.
“Och, c’mon Innes, don’t keep the laddie in suspense.”
“Aye, hurry up, Innes, and this better be better than yer last Jackanory tale,” Paul retorted laughing, wondering whit wis coming next.
“Tim earns his keep here, just the same as the rest of us. He’s not a sheepdog because that would be a waste of Tim’s skills. Tim and I work in…in a kind of partnership, you might say. Aye…a partnership…that’s it. When we head out hunting in the fields, forest and hills, Tim’s by my heels, watching out for what’s going on all around me. For example, I can send him after a rabbit and he’ll get it every time. When I’m netting for a good hoard of rabbits, I’ll be at the end of the net, waiting for the rabbits to crash into it after being chased up the field by Tim. When I feel the net shuddering, I dash out and give them a quick whack on the head with my rabbit head-slapper before tossing them in my sack. It’s that easy. Once the rabbit hits that net headfirst, its head goes through the hole and it can’t get it back out before I’m onto it. Just before Tim gets to the net, he always knows to veer off to the side before crashing into it,” Innes said, as Whitey leaned o’er the side ae her chair, picking up a hauf made net, shaking it at Paul, a wee knowing grin appearing across that coupon ae hers.
“So, that’s whit the net’s fur? Here’s me thinking it wis fur fishing wae that boat Innes his been building fur the past twenty years, twenty miles fae the nearest ocean.”
“Aye, and as soon as I get what I need and can carry, I let oot a wee whistle, and Tim’s off back home to the croft, ready to earn his keep another day.”
Silence.
“Okay, Innes, Ah gie in. Why wid yersel and Tim no walk back haun in haun then?”
“If I get caught by John Sellar or his boys, I’ll get a fine. If Tim gets caught, he’ll get a bullet. There’s no mercy for a poacher’s dog about this strath or anywhere else in the Highlands. He’s worth his weight in gold, hares, rabbits or pheasants,” Innes said, smiling.
“So, he heids fur hame every time ye blow oan that whistle ye’ve goat roond yer neck?”
“Every time, no questions asked.”
“Whit else dis he dae then?”
“If you’re stalking, you have to take your time, scan the skyline, sit and watch a thicket and constantly ask yourself was it the wind or a deer that made that bush move? Patience is a virtue if you’re out poaching. If you’re there, then there’s a good chance that the estate keepers are there too. It’s only a matter of who can be the most patient. I don’t have to speak my orders to him as he watches my hand signals and he knows what to do. If a keeper appears, he’ll give a small, almost silent growl of warning. There’s been many a day when I would have been in PC McTavish’s warm cells with John Sellar’s boot up my arse if it hadn’t been for Tim. The pup was going to be his apprentice.”
“Amazing.”
“Apart from the danger of getting shot, Tim also has to watch out for the estate dogs. They’ve got three Irish Wolfhounds that the keepers take out with them when they patrol. Those three have practically cleared the Kyle of Sutherland of good working dogs like Tim. A couple of months back, he lost about an inch
“So, ye’ve goat a sheepdug that’s no a sheepdug, who’s no allowed tae bark, bit who sleeps in the barn because he farts like a trooper. Whit is he? Some sort ae croft mascot then?”
“I never thought about that before. I like that…Tim the mascot,” Whitey said, smiling, a wee glint in her eye.
“Right, okay, don’t tell me he’s the wan that makes the porridge in the morning before we aw get up then?” Paul asked, laughing alang wae them.
“Och, c’mon Innes, don’t keep the laddie in suspense.”
“Aye, hurry up, Innes, and this better be better than yer last Jackanory tale,” Paul retorted laughing, wondering whit wis coming next.
“Tim earns his keep here, just the same as the rest of us. He’s not a sheepdog because that would be a waste of Tim’s skills. Tim and I work in…in a kind of partnership, you might say. Aye…a partnership…that’s it. When we head out hunting in the fields, forest and hills, Tim’s by my heels, watching out for what’s going on all around me. For example, I can send him after a rabbit and he’ll get it every time. When I’m netting for a good hoard of rabbits, I’ll be at the end of the net, waiting for the rabbits to crash into it after being chased up the field by Tim. When I feel the net shuddering, I dash out and give them a quick whack on the head with my rabbit head-slapper before tossing them in my sack. It’s that easy. Once the rabbit hits that net headfirst, its head goes through the hole and it can’t get it back out before I’m onto it. Just before Tim gets to the net, he always knows to veer off to the side before crashing into it,” Innes said, as Whitey leaned o’er the side ae her chair, picking up a hauf made net, shaking it at Paul, a wee knowing grin appearing across that coupon ae hers.
“So, that’s whit the net’s fur? Here’s me thinking it wis fur fishing wae that boat Innes his been building fur the past twenty years, twenty miles fae the nearest ocean.”
“Aye, and as soon as I get what I need and can carry, I let oot a wee whistle, and Tim’s off back home to the croft, ready to earn his keep another day.”
Silence.
“Okay, Innes, Ah gie in. Why wid yersel and Tim no walk back haun in haun then?”
“If I get caught by John Sellar or his boys, I’ll get a fine. If Tim gets caught, he’ll get a bullet. There’s no mercy for a poacher’s dog about this strath or anywhere else in the Highlands. He’s worth his weight in gold, hares, rabbits or pheasants,” Innes said, smiling.
“So, he heids fur hame every time ye blow oan that whistle ye’ve goat roond yer neck?”
“Every time, no questions asked.”
“Whit else dis he dae then?”
“If you’re stalking, you have to take your time, scan the skyline, sit and watch a thicket and constantly ask yourself was it the wind or a deer that made that bush move? Patience is a virtue if you’re out poaching. If you’re there, then there’s a good chance that the estate keepers are there too. It’s only a matter of who can be the most patient. I don’t have to speak my orders to him as he watches my hand signals and he knows what to do. If a keeper appears, he’ll give a small, almost silent growl of warning. There’s been many a day when I would have been in PC McTavish’s warm cells with John Sellar’s boot up my arse if it hadn’t been for Tim. The pup was going to be his apprentice.”
“Amazing.”
“Apart from the danger of getting shot, Tim also has to watch out for the estate dogs. They’ve got three Irish Wolfhounds that the keepers take out with them when they patrol. Those three have practically cleared the Kyle of Sutherland of good working dogs like Tim. A couple of months back, he lost about an inch
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