Boxer Dogs
Aside from being a huge fan of cats, I grew up with Boxer dogs in the family and have many a story about their intelligence and general scattiness.

Out first Boxer was a massive, fawn coloured dog called Kitch. Kitch had been well trained by her previous owners and despite being a very loving dog took absolutely no shit from anything. No-one was allowed in the house unless Kitch acknowledged a signal from either mum or dad.

When I was a baby, mum used to push my pram to the supermarket and leave me and the dog outside safe in the knowledge that no-one was getting within six feet of my pram. She'd sit with her chest puffed out and guarded me until mum returned. Indeed, when I was brought home for the very first time, Kitch was curious as to the gurgling bundle in my mum's arms and jumped up to take a sniff of me. From that moment she never let me out of her sight.

When Kitch died at the ripe old age of 13 we got Pixie, a brindle Boxer puppy. Pixie was scatty and playful as Boxers are but fiercely intelligent and very loyal. As a six year old, our neighbours German Shepherd cross bit me in the face leaving a nasty gash less than an inch from my left eye. Although she was still a puppy, Pixie took umbridge at this and bolted out of the door to exact swift retribution on a dog twice her size. No contest, a few seconds later the German Shepherd was on it's back whimpering in submission with an angry Boxer puppy triumphantly sat on it.

She also had a fascination with hedgehogs. She'd insist on bringing them in from the garden before dropping them in the kitchen, when mayhem would ensue as Mum would chase the startled prickly beastie around the kitchen and the dog would immediately bolt outside in order to retrieve the newly released hedgehog. Once the toing and froing ceased, the kitchen would be disinfected and the dog de-flead. Despite this, the hedgehogs seemed to enjoy being caught and released in a strange house.

Upon upping sticks and moving to South Africa in September 1987, Pixie was duly crated up and shipped to Cape Town where she quickly made herself at home. One weekend, we took a drive to the beach at Simonstown and brought her along for the ride. However, once off her lead she went absolutely crazy, barking and snarling at the ocean and grabbing at our sleeves and pulling us away whenever we approached the surf. I remember asking what the hell was wrong and being rewarded with frenzied barking.

Next day Dad brought home the newspaper. It turned out that the Shark nets at Simonstown had been taken away the previous day. Coincidence? Your guess is as good as mine.

We lost Pixie in 1992 after a long battle against cancer. She was diagnosed in 1988 and given three months to live, but being a headstrong and happy dog she battled on to the very last.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 8 Jun 2007, 12:47, Reply)