Runaway Dogs and Insurance Claims

Following on from the vandalism saga (see Friday’s post), we then discovered that our MOT has run out. And the tax is due on Monday. So we walked Moll first thing this morning and decided to call in at a garage in town on the way home to see if they could fit us in pronto.

It was a glorious morning: after the wind and wet of the weekend, this morning was serene and sunny, no wind and a feeling of calm descended on the castle. We met other dog walking friends, exchanged news of the weekend (more about the vandalism) and were coming back to the car when we found a group of dog walkers gathered on the Hornworks, a long flat landing strip covered in grass.

A 10 month old collie was running wild, having been let off the lead for the first time. Of course, at his first glimpse of freedom and playing with other dogs, he was having a wonderful time, and the owners couldn’t get him back. We stayed for a while to help, but this dog didn’t respond to being called, to biscuits waved near him, balls thrown for him. Nothing.

I hadn’t realised how bad it was until the owner, a timid lady in her sixties, said, “How do you train a dog?”

So she’d had him for four months and done no training at all. Oh, no.

At this point Himself decided we should leave and went by a new garage which is a family run business. The son said that they could fit us in on Friday and when we told him about the vandalism at the weekend he called, “Mum. ‘Ere. Look what they’ve done this car!”

Mum came along (a lady in her sixties at a guess) and we tutted and swore over the youth of today until another lad came along. The grandson. Thankfully not like the youths who dug screwdrivers into our car. He helps his dad and his gran run the garage.

We were sent on our way with promises to look after us, and that this bloke was moving round the corner from us, so we’d be neighbours. (Hope he’s got a garage for his car.)

We returned, warmed by the generosity of the garage family, and Himself set about ringing the insurance people to get a claim form. An hour, and endless phone calls later, he put the phone down and yelled, “Pop!”

I emerged and asked what was the matter.

“We’ve only got third party insurance,” he said.

“So?”

“So we can’t claim anyway.”

The only reason we were going to claim was so that when we need to change the car, we can do so in part exchange. It's worth nothing with these scratch marks all over it.

We looked at each other in dismay. Then he started laughing. So did I. “We’re f***ed,” he said, tears running down his cheeks.

But he’s made some phone calls and is off to find some spray so we can do it ourselves. Remember, this is The Man Who Will Not Be Beaten,