Try not to look scared

The shop was empty - no other customers, nobody behind the counter. There is something unsettling about an empty shop, especially one with a security eyeball watching you from a corner of the ceiling.

I wandered around for a minute or two, examining the lamps and switches and reels of cable on the shelves, vaguely searching for the kind of wall socket I'd come to buy. But in an electrical retailer's you always have to ask - the thing you want will lurk somewhere within a dark forest of shelving through a doorway at the back.

With British restraint I waited another minute or two then leaned across the counter and called towards the storeroom: 'Hola! Hay alguien?' Anyone there?

I leapt backwards as two paws thumped onto the counter top, closely followed by a black snout, white teeth and a make-my-day glare. A very large Alsatian was standing on its hind legs behind the counter, tall enough to look me in the eye. It twitched its ears expectantly, waiting for me to make the first move.

Never turn away, is the first rule. Maintain eye contact and try not to look scared. Then you can slowly back away. Or if really desperate, grasp the hem of your shirt and pull it up over your head like a sail to make yourself look bigger, but I'm not sure if that's only for rhinoceroses.

For long moments, the dog and I contemplated each other warily across the counter.

The whole dog situation on this island has slowly changed over the years. When we first set foot here dogs were almost exclusively employed as guardians, like this one. (I'll get back to the story in just a moment.) Many of them would spend their entire days and nights chained to a shed made from scraps of timber, guarding a few goats that lived inside.

One mongrel we got to know in our very first year lived in a rusty oil drum, which it perched on during the day as a lookout post. (It had also discovered that by sticking its snout through a gap in the goat shed's timbers it could reach an udder and get a free drink of milk. A bright dog that deserved a better career than guarding goats.)

The other principal occupation for a Gomeran dog was, and still is, to go hunting with its master. This is a special, elite breed of dog capable of bounding across steep hillsides to flush out rabbits and partridges. There are strict controls on hunting: gun licences, quotas and restrictions, you can't go around blasting anything that moves. And the season is specified down to particular days and hours, so even these privileged dogs only get to enjoy life in brief bursts, but I suppose a few days' holiday a year is better than nothing at all.

Nobody in our early years here would have considered keeping a dog as a pet. Young Debora, daughter of a neighbour, dared to broach the idea of a puppy to her father and was told that if she wanted a dog it would live outside the house like any other animal and she'd have to find the money to feed it. She didn't get one. Well, not just then, anyway.

Gradually, however - and I'm not sure why this happened, perhaps it's a sign of increasing affluence - dogs began to creep into Gomeran life in new guises. Firstly came the big, tough breeds, the Alsatians and Dobermanns and mastiffs, which young men with tattooed arms would equip with spiked collars and weapons-grade steel chains to parade as fashion accessories.

Then the other kind of dog began to appear, the mascota or pet, the spoiled, fluffy creatures you can decorate with ribbons and sit on your lap to feed with cucumber sandwiches. These days most families get a canine mascota sooner or later, they're more popular than cats.





I could have done with a passing cat in the electrical retailer's shop, to divert the Alsatian's attention. Remembering survival guide advice to appear confident, I bid the slavering beast a cordial 'Buenos días,' good morning. It put its head on one side, apparently making some kind of judgement. Then it disappeared behind the counter.

While I was looking anxiously towards the storeroom door to see if the proprietor had noticed what was going on, I heard the dog's paws thump onto the counter again. Just in front of the paws there now lay a plastic carrot. Well chewed and lacking most of its upper leaves, but recognisably a carrot.

The Alsatian eased backwards a little and lowered its head towards its paws, the universal doggy gesture that means play!

I hesitated for a moment because this could be a trick, couldn't it? Victim moves forward, grasps the carrot and bingo! - another set of fingers to chalk up on the side of the kennel. But in those big brown eyes there now seemed to be a pleading, an anticipation. There was plenty of empty space behind the counter. I picked up the plastic carrot and threw it into a far corner. The dog jumped into the air, spinning round as it went, and skidded across the shiny floor tiles to retrieve it.

Carrot back on counter, brown eyes gazing at it expectantly, willing it to fly again. I picked it up and threw it towards the opposite corner.

This went on for several minutes until the owner finally arrived. 'Disculpe! Sorry. I had to pop out for a moment to...' He paused. 'Oh, he's got you doing that, has he? You'll be here all day.'

I purchased my electrical socket, wished dog and owner a good day and headed for the street. As I left I heard the cheerful plimp of a plastic carrot bouncing on a tiled floor.