'I swooned as handsome firemen rescued Daisy the dog from danger.' Julia Stephenson tells a tale of heroics in the heart of Chelsea.

Recently 25 firemen refused to wade into a 3 ft-deep pond to rescue a seagull because of regulations. And in February a man drowned in a few feet of water as a fire crew stood by, unwilling to help due to health and safety restrictions.

 

Thank goodness my recent skirmish with the Chelsea fire brigade resulted in a life being saved - not lost. The life in question belonging to my dog, Daisy.

We adopted Daisy and her sibling, Doogie, a month ago from the Bichon Frise rescue centre. Inexplicably, their owners no longer wanted them, and although we only wanted one  more dog, I couldn't bear the thought of splitting up the two tiny tots, and so the rumbustious fluffy pair came to live with my boyfriend S, Nutty Nutkin (aka the loveliest dog in England), and me.

 

Having three dogs is quite a job, especially as we live on the fourth floor with no lift.

 

Fortunately it is S's job to walk the hounds come rain or shine, a time-consuming task that involves finding leads and carrying Nutty Nutkin down the stairs (he is a bit stiff so needs help with stairs) and the endless picking up of poo once out and about.

 

So as you might imagine, I was dreading S's departure for a three-week holiday, a terrible dereliction of duty which would mean I'd have to take on the onerous jobs of dog walking and poo-picking up myself.

 

But there was no stopping S, who said he was desperate for a holiday as the dog maintenance was wearing him out - although how he can think flying anywhere with Ryanair constitutes any sort of holiday, I have no idea.

I couldn't accompany him as I was needed at home to care for Nutty's special needs – the arnica, rhux tox and comfrey pills for his stiff joints, the seaweed powder and joint lubrication spray, all of which must be administered several times a day along with welcoming Jo Body, the aptly named dog physio, for his regular massage and infra red sessions once a week. On top of this, all three dogs enjoy regular meals of lightly cooked venison mince mixed with fresh and raw veg, so dog care chez Stephenson is pretty full on.

 

I was coping pretty well, with the help of Norma Pipillotta, my adaptable cleaner who I had roped in to walk the dogs. But too soon disaster struck.

I'd taken the dogs up onto our flat roof to enjoy the sunshine. It's a bit of a tip up there, dead Christmas trees, broken pots and a derelict chicken house, a whole lot of jobs for S to get on with after his `holiday'.

 

I had popped downstairs to answer the phone for a minute; it was S calling from Sicily. I walked climbed back up to the roof chatting away, but to my horror, could only see two dogs! Where was Daisy?

 

My heart was in my mouth as I skirted around the terrace, but no sign. Surely, no… could she have fallen off the far end of the roof? I dashed to the far edge, and peered down to the distant street below. I couldn't see anything, and then I heard a small whimper close by.

 

`She's fallen onto the ledge!' I shouted into the phone. `She must have lost her footing and slipped down the slanted roof! Thank God her fall was broken.'

I lay down on the roof, but then dropped my phone in mid-conversation, and it fell onto the concrete roof.

 

`Oh dear, S will think I've fallen off the roof and plunged to my death,' I fretted. `He'll be so anxious!'

 

I lay flat on the roof and inched myself towards Daisy as far as I dared. Now I could just see a glimpse of her tail, but she was out of reach.

 

I dashed downstairs onto the balcony on the floor below. The ledge she had fallen onto was on this level, but still too far for me to access.

`Hold on, Tiny!' I called, but Daisy was whimpering with terror.

 

One inch forward and she would fall off the slippery ledge still wet with rain, and crash four storeys to the pavement below. I am no cool cucumber, during a holiday job in Fortnum's hamper department I was nicknamed `Panic', but 20 years of Buddhist chanting kicked in and I felt strangely calm. 

 

I quickly dialled 999, worrying I'd be accused of wasting police time. Were stranded dogs an emergency?

 

But the operator was briskly helpful: `I'll send over the fire brigade right now.'

 

A nail-biting fifteen minutes later, two fire engines roared up the street and eight hulking young men scrambled out. The cavalry had arrived!

 

I was sweating with relief as the burly men stormed up the stairs. It was hard not to asphyxiate on the sea of raw testosterone surging towards me but I managed to keep my cool.

 

`She's out here,' I called from my terrifying vantage point on the balcony. They thundered towards me, their thighs like tree trunks as the floor buckled beneath their assembled weight. 

 

My glamorous neighbour Dina had noticed the commotion and was following close behind. I noticed she had had time to change into her skimpiest of shorts and apply a full, but natural daytime makeup. But I made no comment.

 

`Hello officers,' she gushed, flicking her tawny brown hair flirtatiously over her naked honey-coloured shoulders. `Would you like a cup of tea?'

 

`Never mind the tea,' I interrupted grimly, `Daisy the dog needs our full attention. Somebody do something!' A tear fell down my cheek and landed with a plop on the floor.

`Ok luv, we're 'ere, she's in safe hands', said Ted, introducing himself as the chief fireman, tearing his eyes away from the ravishing spectacle that was Dina. Four of us squeezed onto my ornamental balcony. I prayed it would take the assembled weight which ran into many stones.

 

However I was now feeling quietly optimistic. It was only last year that Matilda the chicken had similarly fallen off the roof, only to land in my neighbour's window box on the floor below. President Ikeda writes; `Places filled with the sound of daimoku always flourish, because the protective functions of the universe are activated there', and this has always been my experience. 

`She's just out of reach' lamented Ted. There's nothing we can do'.

 

`Can you put a harness on me, and spin me over to her, I'm the smallest, I know I could do it!' I begged. `But just give me a moment; I just need 2 of you to witness my will'.

 I've been carrying my will around with me for the last 2 months, waiting for an opportunity for it to be witnessed, but I still haven't done it yet.

 

`No luv, we can't take the risk. We're gonna CALL IN DAVE THE CRANE. He's not far away.'

They made a call and within a few minutes another large engine roared up outside the house.

 

By this time the whole road had been cordoned off, providing a welcome diversion to the long queue of non-EU citizens who had been queuing outside the Spanish Consulate for visas since dawn.

 

Every day they queue outside. Having been warned of the endless wait many bring chairs and cooking equipment. Sometimes they bring musical instruments. Some stay all night so they can be first in the queue next morning.

 

It makes for a rather jolly atmosphere in the street, and while some neighbours complain I rather like it. I was happy to provide some free entertainment for the poor sods.

They had been joined by a growing crowd of gaping shoppers who were spilling out of the Mother Ship (Peter Jones department store), thrilled at the possibility of witnessing a real-life rescue. A Big Issue seller had wandered into the melee and was doing a roaring trade.

 

It was turning into quite a party.

`Go down into the street, luv', instructed Ted, `then Dave the Crane can hand Daisy over'.

 

I scampered down the stairs, pink with excitement. How I wish I'd had time to `put my face on' as Granny used to say, and change into something a little more alluring than the hideous baggy black leggings and my late mother's grey thermal vest, but it was too late now.

 

I arrived at street level and joined the crowd of feverish onlookers. The tension had reached fever pitch and several policemen were now patrolling the street trying to calm things down. Meanwhile Dave the Crane was zooming towards my roof to gasps of admiration from the crowds.

 

`It's like something out of Thunderbirds!' screeched an elderly lady next to me, clutching a Peke and a Harrods carrier bag.

 

`Is it your dog?' asked a harassed blonde, weighted down with a large bag containing several flannelette dressing gowns on special offer from the Mother Ship.

`Yes,' I sobbed as she comforted me sympathetically. I confess, I was starting to enjoy the drama.

 

Dave the Crane had now gathered up Daisy in his brawny arms and the two of them were sweeping down to ground level. The crowd hushed expectantly as he stepped out of his small cabin with my tiny tot in his arms and handed her with a flourish to me.

 

'AAAAHHHHHH. . .' they all swooned. I flung my arms around Dave the Crane's enormous neck and kissed him gratefully. The firemen, their work done, were storming out the door, back into their fire engines. The crowd ecstatically applauded.

 

Daisy the dog was free to see another day...