Giggsy, Master of his universe

About a year ago , this dog, battered bruised and mad as they come, arrived in my garden. Starvation kept him lurking among the tubs. But nothing - not even the rapturous welcome from the resident dogs, would induce him to cross the threshold.By the time the New Year came, I had fallen completely under his spell - besotted beyond redemption I called him Giggsy and forgave him all his little ways,( up to and including his systematic destruction of the large black leather sofa that I am probably still paying off.) When he wasn't dismantling the furniture, he was taking the inside of the car apart. He has a particular aversion to hard black plastic which plays a larger part in the interior of the cheaper type of car than you might have thought.Giggsy has had a go at all the knobs- sometimes several times over. He is currently working on his third gear lever. Most of the time he has to be kept muzzled but then, I look at him and my heart melts.Off comes the muzzle and back he goes to his old ways.I have consulted widely on the problems he presents and the suggested " cures" range from applying really hot mustard to the sofa to shooting the dog. The mustard cure was only partially successful. Jessie, the tubular Jack Russell couldn't get enough of it. Then a man at the supermarket suggested whiskey. This remedy started with a good massage of the sofa and an equally vigorous rub of the teeth and gums of the dogs. All that happened was that the three licked their lips with every sign of delight. Then I had a brainwave - what was called for was a dose of moonshine - or poitin as its known in this neck of the woods. Strangely, none of the doggy men admitted to having any of the hard stuff handy.But eventually, I got some and marinated the sofa in the firey liquid. None of the dogs would go near it. They turned their backs on their favourite bed. I was delighted. Success at last. Then one night, I heard a suspicious tugging noise and creeping to the livingroom, I found that one of the dogs had been excavating the hole in the sofa and had tugged out the wads of poitin soaked cotton wool, completely undeterred by the powerful stench. I'm off now to get a tub of Vicks. According to a friend of mine this was enough to stop his family's labrador from eating them out of house and home. The boy Giggsy meanwhile is stretched out on the black armchair, his head draped over the armrest and a look of transcendental repose on his whiskery face.