Within half an hour of stepping into the house, the Dog had his name changed about a dozen times. We finally decided that our dear dad who hadn't had the opportunity to name any pet should have his chance. After pondering a bit, he settled for "Chassard".
"Chassard", as it turned out, is a Hebrew word for God's loving kindness. Yes I'm very sure I'm spelling and possibly pronouncing it wrong. (If you know what it is please let me know; Hebrew scholars are probably up in arms now.)
Mom took one furrowed-brow look at the black mopey thing on the floor and said it was a name for a human "not some dog". But human or dog, dad had decided and "Chassard" he became.
Unfortunately for your average Chinese Singaporean family, this meant relatives had the hardest of times pronouncing it. One aunt eventually satisfied herself with calling him "Cassette" while another changed his name to "Blackie".
To solve him growing up with an identity crisis, we shortened it to "Chass" for everyone's convenience. This worked very well, and we happily spent the next few months yelling "Chass" at the top of our lungs and down the street when he ran out.
"Chass" as it happened was much easier in scoldings too. "Bad Chass", "Naughty Chass", "Chass needs to be smacked" all went better with a single syllable name.
We thought it was going so well...until we realised our neighbour's company which he set up with blood, sweat and tears was called "Chass".
Too late to change his name, we reverted back to "Chassard". He never mentioned it and still greets us when we meet. But we'll never forget the time we possibly annoyed the neighbour more than Chassard ever did.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Monday, June 4, 2007
The Emergency DIY Operation
The last few months at work were exceptionally busy. I was putting in late hours and, to my dog's puzzlement and dismay, only had time to give him a couple of rubs on the head before collapsing on the bed. Once the dust had settled and the top of my desk was visible, guilt crept up on me. I let him into the house after dinner one day to spend some quality time with him.
During the rubs and hugs and chases around the furniture, I noticed that the toenail on his hind leg had gotten really long and was rubbing against his skin. I grabbed the doggie clippers, coaxed him into lying down and attempted to trim the nail.
After a couple of attempts which involved him jerking his leg out of my hand and complaining in doggie language, I realised to my absolute horror that the nail had grown into his flesh. I steeled myself and tried to pull it out which resulted in a yelp, a growl and a blur of black fur shooting out of the door.
Calling for reinforcements (a.k.a. husband), we tricked him back into the house. With a muzzle, a leash and the dog growling death threats, I made my second go at his toe. Grasping the nail in one hand and the toe with the other, I pulled as far and gently as I could. The nail came out 2mm but would go no further.
Blood and fluid started to leak out of the wound and I lost my nerve. I did exactly what I did those many years ago when my hamster died and goldfish were in trouble. I went for mom.
With a click of disgust and an air of experience, she started work on the iron-hard nail with a pair of human nail clippers. It took her five minutes to cut through. Ignoring his struggles and protests, she yanked up the foot and said "Pull it out".
I did. The embedded bit was 4mm long and smelt like yesterday's garbage. Blood poured from the wound.
Four tissues and a dab of ointment later he was as good as new. Except for the emotional scarring. The moment we let him go, he made a mad dash for the door. All the bribes and sweet talk in the world wouldn't persuade him to take a step nearer me.
For the next couple of days, the word "toe" and an innocent glance at the affected leg would see him slink under the nearest chair. It would be another week before he stopped casting suspicious looks at me.
I learnt two things that night. One, dogs don't have a clue what's good for them. And two, underneath the veneer of confidence and the air of I-know-everything, sometimes, it's just nice to have mom around.
During the rubs and hugs and chases around the furniture, I noticed that the toenail on his hind leg had gotten really long and was rubbing against his skin. I grabbed the doggie clippers, coaxed him into lying down and attempted to trim the nail.
After a couple of attempts which involved him jerking his leg out of my hand and complaining in doggie language, I realised to my absolute horror that the nail had grown into his flesh. I steeled myself and tried to pull it out which resulted in a yelp, a growl and a blur of black fur shooting out of the door.
Calling for reinforcements (a.k.a. husband), we tricked him back into the house. With a muzzle, a leash and the dog growling death threats, I made my second go at his toe. Grasping the nail in one hand and the toe with the other, I pulled as far and gently as I could. The nail came out 2mm but would go no further.
Blood and fluid started to leak out of the wound and I lost my nerve. I did exactly what I did those many years ago when my hamster died and goldfish were in trouble. I went for mom.
With a click of disgust and an air of experience, she started work on the iron-hard nail with a pair of human nail clippers. It took her five minutes to cut through. Ignoring his struggles and protests, she yanked up the foot and said "Pull it out".
I did. The embedded bit was 4mm long and smelt like yesterday's garbage. Blood poured from the wound.
Four tissues and a dab of ointment later he was as good as new. Except for the emotional scarring. The moment we let him go, he made a mad dash for the door. All the bribes and sweet talk in the world wouldn't persuade him to take a step nearer me.
For the next couple of days, the word "toe" and an innocent glance at the affected leg would see him slink under the nearest chair. It would be another week before he stopped casting suspicious looks at me.
I learnt two things that night. One, dogs don't have a clue what's good for them. And two, underneath the veneer of confidence and the air of I-know-everything, sometimes, it's just nice to have mom around.
Friday, June 1, 2007
How I got my dog
I have a dog. He's medium build, small eyes and has a thick coat of black fur running all the way from the tip of his nose to the end of his tail. Wait a minute...that's my brother. Except for the tail bit...my dog doesn't have a tail. haha! Kidding, kidding!
Anyway, back to my dog who DOES have a tail, (no, my bro doesn't, seriously, if he did I'd sell him to the circus). One look at him and you would know I hauled his hairy butt back from one of the cheap, non-air-conditioned eating places in Singapore - also known as a coffee shop.
He was a sorry sight; a sad little puppy tethered to a char kuay teow stall with the coffee shop owner asking everyone who walked in if they wanted a free dog. What can I say? I'm Singaporean, I like free stuff.
And he was such a good little boy too. Didn't fuss when I picked him up, sat quietly in the car on the way home, put up with all the patting and prodding and followed me into the house. Once the doors were closed, he probably figured it was a done deal and proceeded to water the carpet.
Maybe he thought it was inhouse grass. Maybe he thought it was a friendly gesture and wondered why I didn't reciprocate. Whatever it was, the honeymoon was over. It had only lasted 28 minutes.
Anyway, back to my dog who DOES have a tail, (no, my bro doesn't, seriously, if he did I'd sell him to the circus). One look at him and you would know I hauled his hairy butt back from one of the cheap, non-air-conditioned eating places in Singapore - also known as a coffee shop.
He was a sorry sight; a sad little puppy tethered to a char kuay teow stall with the coffee shop owner asking everyone who walked in if they wanted a free dog. What can I say? I'm Singaporean, I like free stuff.
And he was such a good little boy too. Didn't fuss when I picked him up, sat quietly in the car on the way home, put up with all the patting and prodding and followed me into the house. Once the doors were closed, he probably figured it was a done deal and proceeded to water the carpet.
Maybe he thought it was inhouse grass. Maybe he thought it was a friendly gesture and wondered why I didn't reciprocate. Whatever it was, the honeymoon was over. It had only lasted 28 minutes.
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