The Adventures of Zetdog: Episode 1 - Exiled!

I quite like Glasgow, which is a city in western Scotland, somewhat to the south of the Greater Zetlandics, and as I am currently quartered in the bohemian west end of the conurbation, I feel, as an intellectual athlete of a mixed mutt, reasonably comfortable speaking to such university-linked canines as I meet of subjects such as Proust, Kerouac, the early Beethoven movies and why Turner and Hooch is an absolute travesty. A dog of a film is how I’ve heard it described, but that seems something of a calumny upon the canine community. What was Tom Hanks thinking?

I, Zetdog (you may call me Zet. Or Dog) am in, but not of this Glasgow place. My Human Companion, Tom (not Hanks), is currently residing with me in a second floor flat surrounded almost entirely by hundreds of other similar homes, all piled on top of one another; oh, and we are hemmed in too by coffee emporia. This sojourn is while the HC carries out repairs and improvements to a nearby apartment owned by his son, who wishes to move nearer to his workplace in Edinburgh. And so must sell his current abode. Why he (the son) doesn’t wish to move back to his native Shetland Islands I have no idea. The HC assures me that better lattes and capuccinos (not to mention espressos and macchiatos) are available in Lerwick and indeed Hillswick or even Unst than those in Queen Margaret Drive’s so-called Coffee Strip. And of course, Lerwick has new bistros, cafés and restaurants almost ready to open which will add to the already wondrous selection of freshly-roasted beans; and highly-stimulated, caffeinated Lerwigians too, no doubt.

One thing which Zetlandic purveyors of caffeine and indeed alcohol could imitate is the dog-accessibility of Glaswegian establishments. Water is provided for we mutts and muttettes, often small snacks, and on one occasion, a full meal including steak, chips and an assortment of sauces, though I am not convinced this was entirely deliberate. The two greyhounds, Cooper and Sophie, with whom I occasionally - I believe the word is ‘hang’ - devoured said dish using their height and then their speed to escape what seemed very like anger emanating from an admittedly overweight human at the next table. Such things do not happen at the St Magnus Bay Hotel.

But in general, I miss Shetland and am longing to return. These days, the overnight journey by ferry from Aberdeen (undertaken in the back of my HC’s car, in considerable comfort) is painless and once at home I can avail myself of that great and indeed unavoidable Shetlandic advantage, proximity to the ocean. Not just to cool down in pristine salty cleanliness during these unpleasantly hot months (the River Kelvin, my only alternative to the sea hereabouts, has an aroma I have only smelt in Shetland during an unfortunate encounter with an open septic tank in Mid-Yell) but also to bark at sea-dwelling cretaures such as seals and chase otters into. I have been robustly informed that chasing otters is unwise and that catching them by the tail even less advised (one labrador of my acquaintance lost part of his nose by doing just that; how does he smell, you ask? Terrible!). But I’m drawn that way. It’s a gene thing.

There is also the question of The Poo Bag. I do understand that these are essential if one’s Personal Solid Waste (PSW, as I refer to it) is deposited in public spaces such as the glorious Knab (where I recently met a 16-year-old sheepdog, still trying to round up golfers) or the steps of the Town Hall (where I was sternly advised that leaving a PSW was not to be considered a Political Statement). It behoves one’s HC to uplift and dispose of such ordure. But the truly liberating al fresco pleasures of performing one’s ablutions at the water’s edge on an incoming tide in a wild and deserted spot are not be, ah, sniffed at. Although I have seen my HC desperately trying to bag a PSW on Bain’s Beach during filming of Perez, More Cases of Unravelled Gansies, that excellent TV series. Alas, the waves carried it inexorably out towards a boat full of local extras, including our local drug-detecting pooch Thor (aka Castleside Eclipse, but what kind of name is that, really? Who can shout, “sniff that suitcase, Castleside Eclipse!” with a proper sense of urgency?). Who was ‘acting’ as...you’ll be shocked...a drug detecting pooch! Typecasting if you ask me. Anyway, Thor looked absolutely horrified. “Cut!” shouted a man in a quilted anorak. We beat a hasty retreat, just as the boat capsized. Oh well. Everyone was fine, and it made for a great scene in the TV show.

Enough of this dreaming of long Shetland nights, runs along the West Ayre and growling at Bonxies! I must now go to place called the North Kelvin Meadow to converse with two Newfoundlands, 15 Lhasa Apsos and a number of pugs. And a sheepdog called Molly who keeps trying to round me up. She is a bit confused, I think. I am Zetdog, after all. I know these things.

Both NorthLink and Loganair transport dogs.It’s £50 one way by air and free if you leave the dog in your car (ventilated!) on the ferry. You can book two different sizes of kennel on the ferry at a small extra cost, which are accessible overnight on request. and you can exercise your dog on the open deck (with care!)