Off the back of a lorry: a house move with a labrador, five terriers and eight ferrets

The back of the truck opened and shut on the roller-blind principle, secured by a specially designed safety spring clip that passed through a fitting like the hasp of a padlock.

Motoring up country to collect a load of chattels, it seemed sensible to travel with Boss and Chuckle in the back of the empty lorry, where they could stretch their legs or settle on the beanbag so kindly made for their comfort as a parting gift by the wife of one of my shooting partners.

The trip was made at the height of the petrol shortage and, as the hired wagon had a thirst like a rugby team after a game, it was necessary to stop at every other motorway service station to top up the tank as a guarantee of further progress.

This provided a good opportunity to check the welfare of the canine passengers and all seemed to be going well until we reached Taunton Deane. There, half-crouched beneath the chassis, I was doing my best to cope with the inadequacy of the fuel tank design, with one eye on the dial, when an anxious cry of “What’s that black dog?” alerted me to a labrador, wandering among the pumps.

Instinctively I called “Boss!” and the now-familiar animal heeded my bidding. Taking her around to the back of the van, I was horrified to discover that the spring clip had sprung, the hasp was free and the roller-blind back of the vehicle had opened up to a height of some 2½ft. On the brink, so to speak, stood the veteran terrier, fortunately unwilling to attempt the groundward jump. I wondered with a shudder how far we had travelled up the motorway with the door in this precarious position.

A helpful cashier at the station dug out a length of wire with which I reinforced the fastening, but for the rest of the journey the dogs shared the car with us.

Four terriers and eight ferrets travel steerage

On the return trip westwards, the labrador and senior terrier rode first-class in the back of the car. It was the turn of the other four terriers, and the ferrets, to travel steerage. Last to be loaded were the two hutches containing eight ferrets, in the proportion of four jills and four hobs.

Care had to be taken to allow free circulation of air all round the hutches, to avoid distressing overheating, and the space below them between the hutches’ 3ft legs afforded spacious enough accommodation for the little earth dogs. Well walked before take-off, they would – it was hoped – settle down on the clean dry sacks provided and sleep their way west.

This time the rear door was firmly secured with a snap hook of the sort found at the end of equine lead-reins, which seemed to nullify any fears of accidental opening.

At the first stop, however, I had my doubts. On opening for checking and relief, there was no sign of a single terrier. Panic gave way to admiration for the resourcefulness of the breed when the quartet was discovered fast asleep, and with no wish to debus, on the mattress atop the load. They had wormed their way aloft by insinuating themselves stoat-like among the furniture and climbing to the highest spot of comfort.

In light of the previous scare we had arranged that the order of march should be the dogs in the van with the car bringing up the rear. Any untoward incident affecting the main load would be relayed to its driver by the pilot of the car signalling with horn and lights, and overtaking in a hurry. We had reckoned, however, without the noise of the engine or the width of the lead truck.

Oblivious to the hooting and flashings behind, I had to be arrested five miles west of Helston by a passing spouse, who explained that since leaving the town, sounds ahead had indicated a difference of opinion among the terriers. But with only five more miles to go, I was not prepared to dally further.

We hove to at last, pushed up the back, and three terriers almost fell out, quite bloody but completely unbowed. The fourth was windy and took no part in the skirmish. At least it cut down the exercise time required on the final night of our arrival.

Titter’s close recovery calls

Looking back on the move, I’m still as surprised as I am relieved that we got the dogs here without loss. This applies especially to Titter, the small-breed bitch, whose career, come to think of it, has encompassed one or two close recovery calls. On the morning of the Glanusk Game Fair, for instance, I had arranged to leave all the dogs with a keeper friend for the duration. To start on the right foot I had taken them for a long and early-morning exercise.

In the course of it, Titter took a line, probably a fox cub disturbed by the previous day’s combining, and disappeared up a 9in field drain, marking while she went further and further within. As her message became fainter, so did my confidence and I realised it was time to muster every aid.

We assembled them. Ferrets fitted with bleepers, drain rods similarly equipped, plugs, spades, whistles and finally charts of the farm drainage system, the implications of which did nothing to console us.

The drain of disappearance ran across three fields for the better part of three-quarters of a mile before debouching into a ditch at the end of our lane. Transversely smaller pipes occurred at intervals, and who knew the extent to which this snaky little bitch could insinuate herself.

A stray asleep on a car seat

Time ran out. I gave up, took the rest of the kennel to their boarding quarters, started to phone the local police and neighbours, and the errant Titter walked in the back door, 10 minutes before our time of departure for the fair. Hastily, I found a friend, father of the beanbag as it were, and asked for help. In kind innocence he offered lodgings for the problem and came to fetch her.

Put to share an open-top run with his spaniel, in simian style she climbed out and vanished. On return from work, distraught, he sent his wife searching on her bicycle, while he drove around on what seemed a hopeless quest.

A chance enquiry of a local resident about to leave for Manchester fortuitously disclosed the fact that this traveller had found a stray asleep on his car seat. Entry had been gained through a window only three-quarters open. In a hurry, he had handed the bitch to a neighbour who promised to take her to the police.

My friend sped round to see this woman and found her about to take it off for a walk on a lead. She had no intention of handing in such an affectionate little dog, and planned to keep her.

My friend explained, reclaimed and drove Titter to join her mates in the safe custody of the keeper. Fortunately, I remained in blissful ignorance of the little terror’s latest escapade until he told me when we met up at the game fair the following Saturday.

This article was first published in the 27 September 1979 issue of Shooting Times.