The Birthday Meal



'

Ma (affectionately snarling as she scratches at a flea-bite): "You've had that mangy mongrel back in this house again, haven't you, you idjit?"


Me (innocent as the day is long): "Eh, dog? What dog?"


Now, I'm not saying Laddie was my dog exactly, he was his own master, but the two of us had reached the loose arrangement he might visit from time to time. Being a wily old rascal, he regularly hung outside of the school gates to exchange the odd cuddle for a crisp, and he had no qualms whatsoever about whom he went home with.


Forty years ago, as all us old timers are wont to say, things were very different from now. For example, if a parent ever showed up outside of our school gates, it usually signalled their kid had landed into some seriously deep-doo-doo, the whack-around-the-lug-until-your-ear-sings type of trouble that you wouldn't even wish upon your very own worst enemy. 

See, way back then the strange concept of collecting your sprog home from school would have been about as alien to us, as the notion of one of our parents being mug enough to "help us out" with our homework. The minute you were old enough to know the route home (and in some instances before), you were simply expected to take yourself off and get on with it.


Like most of my mates, I grew up as a "latch-key" kid, Ma worked down by the quay as a filleter, slicing the flesh from the bone of the catch of the day (Da was a trawler-man, often away for weeks at a time) so until she got home, Ma instructed my sib's to "watch out for the bairn" (me) but they, having their own fish to fry seldom took that pointer to heart. Not that it mattered one jot to me, I was far happiest left to my own devices, May and Ian were known to boss me about something chronic.


So it was, Laddie and I began to form a lasting friendship. It wasn't long before he took to calling round uninvited, sloping in through the back door when it was left open, and much to ma's horror, boldly making himself totally at home. Almost always instantly ejected, he never took offence, and being the persistent little bugger that he was, he even gradually managed to wear Ma down some. Although never voiced, when I came home one afternoon to find her sudding him down in the back yard, I knew we had won her over.


Laddie was used to his own agenda, he still liked to do his old rounds, but he always found his way back again.


Sometimes in a dreadful state.


Being a scrapper, he often bit off rather more than he could chew, and there were manys a time that Ma, in tears, would have to bathe a torn ear or tend to his various wounds. Much as she liked to deny it, she'd grown to love him every bit as much as we all did.


As you have probably gathered by now, money was tight growing up, but no matter how poor we were, we usually ate reasonably well. Our diet consisted of mainly fresh fish, eggs, cod roes or lambs hearts, sometimes this was varied with liver or for a special treat, pigs trotters. All the cheapest cuts granted, but nutritious non the less. 

Imagine then, when our Belling cooker finally up and died, the massive investment it was to find the money for a replacement. A loan was arranged from the Tick-man ("Tick" meaning "debt" in the vernacular of the day), this being the guy who called weekly door-to-door. Clutching his slate, he collected payment with the one hand and offered more debt from out of the other. No one liked, but everyone needed him. He ran a brisk business.


Our brand new new stove was a sight to behold, it came full with every modern bell and whistle you could ever wish for. The oven had a self-timer, it even sported a bright orange light as it warmed to the right setting, clicking off again as it reached the required temperature.


Sadly, even poor Ma knew what a rotten cook she was. Everything was either boiled or fried, seasoning was unheard of, and the only sauce we ever came by was served fresh from out of a ketchup bottle. But the arrival of this pristine appliance encouraged Ma on to new heights. Not having had a working oven for years, she was mad keen to see if she could put it to good use.


Oh my, did we suffer!


Ma stuck stubbornly to her claim we had a dodgy oven. Lord knows why, but for some inexplicable reason neither one of my folks ever needed to read an instruction manual. They KNEW how to operate stuff, and if the stuff didn't work, well, stands to reason it was faulty, du-uh! Wasn't that obvious?


The timer had a habit of going off before, during and after the oven was set (each time requiring a further fiddle with the button). Worse, the orange light kept clicking off, necessitating a higher spin of the dial to make it come on again. Every lump of fish/meat/offal came out looking identically charred and tasting equally leather-like. Time after time after time after time. (It didn't help that basting, braising or broiling had still yet to be invented in our household)


Well finally, being no body's fool and having also become hugely motivated by now, big sis decided to investigate further. Once she had fully read and boned up, she sat down with Ma to explain that the orange light was MEANT to flick off at the right temperature, it would still cook the meat. But ma was having none of it, the damned oven was faulty, it was nothing to do with her, and that was the end of it. Besides, everyone knows under cooked meat/fish/offal isn't good for you.


Sigh.


Anyway, time rolled on and Da's birthday came by. Once a year our Ma and his Ma made the huge effort to be seen to like each other, granny was invited over to sit round the table with us as we all tried to ignore the tension between them both, and pretend how much we would just love to do this kind of thing much more often. Naturally, this meal put Ma under a huge pressure. Already knowing whatever she produced would never be good enough, she was determined to serve up the most edible offering her skills could muster.


In honour of this auspicious occasion, she went and pushed the boat way out, buying the most expensive slab of beef this side of Commerce Street. Us kids gathered round to eye the brown, red tinged paper parcel lying out on the table.


"Go on, scoot, out the lot of you, I'm busy in here, and don't you dare to make a mess anywhere, you hear?"


Why was it always me who got the eyeball treatment when ever she said that? I'm telling you, being the youngest around those parts was enough to turn you paranoid. We had never so much as sniffed, never mind had the joy of wrapping our jaws around such a fine roast of beef before, this was a huge, huge big deal, believe me. 

Da had set off to collect Granny from home, and Ma was scuttling about still fixing the house up nice. I was just crossing the hallway to head for my comics, when in the flash of a second all hell broke loose.

A black and white blur slammed me across the wall, as I spun around just in time to catch a small fleeting glimpse of the tip of a tail  exiting the open front door. Simultaneously, I heard my Ma's  piercing scream fly up, and the blood in my veins instantly froze solid.


Laddie's made off with the beef!


Ma grabbed at my arm, and sprinting to give chase, she pushed and shoved me to run on ahead. Finding my legs, I sprang to action, a deep, awful dread spurring me on. I must have been the fastest kid since Bannister was a child. 

It was all to no avail, by the time we hit the street, Laddie had long since scarpered. 

I was truly distraught, what had Laddie done? I just knew Ma was going to kill the both of us, so she was!


Well she certainly was as mad as hell. She ranted and she raved, even delivered one of her infamous back- hand slaps on me. Oh boy, was I scared for Laddie when he got back. 

But then something really weird happened. Ma stopped mid-rant and I swear I saw a little light-bulb go off in her head (it was a very long time ago, so I may be mis-remembering now). She stopped and she looked at me, tilted her head to one side, and a small hint of a smile lifted her lips. The smile turned into a grin, and the grin grew into a laugh.


"Carol!" She bent and kissed me where she'd slapped. Without a further word, she turned and virtually danced to the kitchen. 

Maybe everyone was right after all, she really was nuts?


Naturally I was firmly in the doghouse once Da and Granny found out. Da was all for turning Laddie out into the street for once and for all. We all sat round the table with our two veg and some tatties (spuds), trying not to mourn too hard for the loss of our beef. It was a muted affair, and sure, it wasn't too long after this that granny demanded she be fetched back to her own home again (in her grand display of disapproval). 

Ordered off to clear and to wash the dishes all by my lonisome, I didn't mind, I wasn't up for much company anyway. I didn't need any encouragement to take myself on off for an early night, either.


What I had no inkling of at the time was that Laddie had actually delivered to Da probably the best birthday present he'd had in years. With no meat on the table, there was no ammunition for granny to find fault with, Ma was for the first time in ages finally able to relax, and nobody had to risk breaking their jaws to chew down what would have surely been yet another blackened offering. Even granny won out, being spared the undoubted indigestion Ma's cooking always inflicted upon her self-proclaimed delicate constitution.


Laddy?  Well yeah, he did get punished, little thief that he was - and I rather doubt he had even a clue as to why.. mind,  for years after that, every time he heard the dreaded words, "Who stole the beef?"   He'd slope off, tail dragging low.

Negotiations

She: This is all your fault.

He: Huh?

She: You're meant to be waiting by the door, lead in mouth, all flappy tailed and eager.

He: What time?

Me: Eh?

He: Tried that once, didn't exactly earn me any dog-biscuits, did it?

She: It was four o' clock in the sodding morning!

He: So you expect me to tell the time now?

She: You're supposed to be dragging me up hill and down dale,   not slobbering down to share a bowl of tea with me.  You're getting fat, you know..

He: I could say something here, but I'm too much of a gent. Trade you my paw for that last biscuit?

She: Go on, then.

(Shaking on it.)

He (mid-munch) : Like it's my fault you stuffed me in kennels and took off to Ireland?  I told you no good would come of it.

She: Hey, don't start, I was kidnapped, as well you know.

He: No one force-fed you though, did they?

She: Is it my fault everything came so deliciously deep-fried? Anyways, things are going to change, me lad. You and me, we're on a health drive - enough is enough.

He: Oh, not again. Here we go. Don't see you dragging Jess around on any of these jaunts, do we?

She: That's not in the feline job-spec, besides, she's not as fat as you.

He: Cheers. I never accepted these insults before my balls were taken.

She: C'mon Jake, I could use some support here..

He: Use the treadmill, I'll cheer.

She: I'll do you a deal.

He: I'm listening.

She: Every walk earns you a kip on the couch.

He: Oh yeah, like his Grand Lord and Master is about to go for that one, eh?

She: Um, I was kinda' thinking more like the week when he's in London..?

He: That'll confuse me. You're a shit role-model.

She: I know. What do you say?

He: Let me think about it. Did you remember to tape "Jeremy Kyle"?

She: Ooooh, it's about to start, isn't it?

He: Bring the popcorn..

Knot Funny

Friday afternoon when the doorbell rang, my heart went thunk in to my fluffy slippers 'cos I knew I wasn't expecting anyone.

Figuring Nutty Nora had got bored again, I grudingly prepared myself to be lumbered.   There's no sense hiding, my car gives me away.

But as it turned out it wasn't her after all, it was this big, slightly tussled looking, smiley-woman, and although she appeared to know exactly who I was, I hadn't a foggiest clue as to who in the hell she might be, but she sure looked to have been hitting the happy pills.


Guess I need to backtrack a bit.

Sometime back in April (I think) I was sitting stuck behind a van at the traffic lights. It advertised dog-grooming services with a phone number displayed. I memorised it, never having a pen when needed, and called them (well okay, her) when I got home.

Thing is, Jake's bloomers are in a bit of a mess - his bum region has got more knots in it than a Swiss log cabin.  Truth is, I worry it might get to the point of his arse sealing up altogether..

No, it's not that I don't groom him, I do (sometimes), and with a lot of persuasion and the odd little threat, I can usually lug him in to the downstairs shower with me if he really needs a wash, but try as I might, I can't get his backside to unknot except with scissors, and he looks daft walking around in a semi-Brazilian.  Totally undignified.

So anyways, I explained the problem and asked her to book him in. Would you believe the first available appointment she had wasn't until yesterday? Little wonder I'd forgotten!  

Good job I hardly ever go anywhere isn't it? Which takes us back to Mrs. Smiley-Woman. She has her whole salon set up in the back of that van of hers; bath tub, hoists, grooming table, the works. Incredible, but true.  

So I did as bid and led Jake around, freed up a couple of power-points in the garage, and left them to it. Jake being Jake, I knew he wouldn't believe his luck, like his owner he's hardly a one to pass up on a pamper. Assuring her she could do what she liked with him, I took myself off indoors.


I wasn't in the house for hardly all of two minutes before the phone went. It was her, giggling that she needed me. Off I trot to see what's up.


She blithely informs me, "This isn't working."


"Huh?"


"He's too heavy for the dog-hoist."


Now, I admit he likes his scraps, but he's no Saint Bernard. Besides, she knew he was a Golden Retriever before she got here. No matter, I wasn't too fussed about a shampoo, he has his daily swim at the beach.


"Fair enough," I said, "I just want you to sort his bloomers out, really."

"Ah," She laughs, "That's the problem, see he won't fit on the grooming table either.."


WHAT? How many years has she been at this job? Lord knows, she certainly appears to have a full enough diary. Besides, who needs a grooming table when you can take him indoors and do him on the floor? Smiley-woman finds this hilarious.


"Oh no, dear, see I have this dodgy knee.."


Silly me. Her constant grinning is starting to get right up my.. well, let's just say I'm beginning to get mildly irritated. Having waited months for this, you could say I'm starting to feel a tad disappointed.

"Well, how about if he lies on the sofa then?"

More fits of laughter, "Ah, I'm afraid that wouldn't work on account of my weak back. It would be certain to set it off again. I just didn't realise he'd be so big."

So now it's official, he's a freak of nature. Even the alleged professional dog-groomer of a zillion years confirms it, seems he's more part pony than dog.

I could finish this post by giving you a blow by blow account of the hysterically amusing tale of how Mrs. Smiley-Face came by both her dodgy knee and her weak back, but I'm not so sure you would laugh quite as hard as she did over the lengthy recounting of it.


Long story short suffice it to say, vanity be damned, after having had a small talk with the scissors, Jake now sports a chilly but knot-free, full Brazillian - and what's more, he didn't need to wait months for it either, and nor has it cost me so much as a single farthing.

Hey, maybe I should consider plugging this obvious wide gap in our market, and set myself up as a professional BIG dog groomer? 

Kissed by an Angel

(Photograph copyright of Shrinky)

Recently I've been going through a spate of waking around 4.30 in the morning. Not in a "toss around and drift back off again" way either, it's like in more of a "Bing! Hey, I'm wide awake, I need to get up now." kind of way. 

So that's what I've been doing, slipping on my robe and silently making my way downstairs. Careful of my slumbering brood, I quietly potter about, drink tea, converse with the dog, check emails, and ruminate about the forthcoming day. 

Although I haven't purposefully chosen to be up this early, I have to confess there is a certain stillness to these hours I've begun to enjoy.

I love to hear the birds wake and call to each other like a massive feathered family of Waltons, I imagine they are checking to see if they have all made it safe through the night. When the orange glow of sunrise peeps over the mountain, I've taken to watching out for the grey Heron as he swoops down to fish for his breakfast at dawn.

I can't see the river from our window, it runs further down the garden through and past the glen, but when the weather permits I sometimes pad down there in the hopes of spotting him.

So it was the other morning, with Jake at my heel and my fluffy slippers collecting dew, I ventured out in to the half light to begin picking my way down there. I'd set less than a couple of footsteps out before something, or to be more precise, someone, stopped me dead in my tracks. 

There, directly in our path, bobbing about on the grass without an apparent care in the world, hopped a tiny little bird.

He surprised me, he should have certainly flown off before allowing me this close. 

Assuming he was injured, I grabbed Jake and bundled him back indoors before going back out to investigate. He was still right there, bobbing around, bright and as chirpy as when I'd first left him. 

I inched a fraction closer. 

He only went and narrowed the gap, didn't he? Cheeping up at me, he darted his head from side to side, obviously keen to share something important. 

I stood there for a bit (well, for an eternity) just watching him, with a silly big grin plastered all over my face. 

How very peculiar!

Chancing my luck, I slowly crouched down and offered him my outstretched hand. Hardly missing a beat, he leapt up and fluttered, landing slap-bang right in to the palm of my hand. 

Oh. My. God. 

I could scarcely breathe. 

He still danced up and down, engaging with me in that high pitch "peep-peep" of his as I looked on - spell-bound. 

Where had he suddenly come from? 

My heart sat in my mouth whilst he fixed me with a playful eye. Suddenly, he hopped, took wing and fluttered to rest on the gatepost at my side - still chirruping away as bold as day.

Finally finding my wits, I turned and fled indoors to find my camera - I stopped to fix the correct lens and attach a flashgun (it was still not fully light yet), already certain he would be long gone before I made it back out there. 

But no, there he was, impatiently awaiting me, trilling his disapproval at such an abrupt departure. I swear this guy positively posed for the camera, flash-light and all! 

Finally, I put my hand out again, and in he hopped once more. I had only one free hand left and with the wrong lens and setting fixed to take it with, but although I couldn't look through the viewfinder, I fired off a few shots anyway, just for proof I wasn't dreaming. 

None of the hand shots came out, only the much blurred image below (but if you peek real hard, you can just about make out a tiny little birdie sitting there in the palm of my hand).

Finally, he lifted his head and turned, and launching himself from my finger, he took to the wing, to fly up, up and away, fast to become only a disappearing speck in the distance.  I wonder if he had other  missions to make before dawn? 

A dear friend and fellow blogger assures me he is a male Gold crest - but I have a very different name in mind.. because daft as this may sound, ever since that angel flew down to kiss me, I've slept like a baby all throughout each and every single night..

(Yes, I am a lazy blogger, this is a re-post from 2008.  I have never seen my little friend since, but neither have I ever forgotten the absolute wonder of his unexpected and wholly inexplicable visit, either.  Oddly enough, it took for my sister to point out that this isn't the only time I've ever experienced such an encounter.  At least twice before, as a child something very similar also occurred.)

Alas, Poor Morse

Pay heed, I have a cautionary tale to tell, ignore it at your peril.

Naturally, it was all hubby's fault.

Well, it's not as though I hadn't done my research, is it? I bought the books, surfed the net, even spoke to the local vet before committing to any final decision.

We bought the full kit; bowls, lead, basket, all the chewy toys, etc. weeks before he was due to arrive, but that was fine, it heightened the sense of expectation and excitement, especially since the youngest was so obliging as to double up for a practise puppy.

Eventually, the days finally fell by and the time to bring him home arrived. Being as how the kennels were a four hundred mile round trip away, we elected it made best sense for Hubby to do the collecting, so he and our eldest were entrusted to go to make the final decision as to which pup we would actually end up with (yes dear reader, I seek to minimise my involvement here). 

I stress, the babes and I stayed at home eagerly counting down the hours, as off they sped on their mission of joy.

You have to make allowances, don't you? After all, the poor little darling had not only just been wrenched away from his mummy, he'd also endured a terrifying two-hundred mile car ride before reaching us. Little wonder he arrived all wrapped up in his own shit and vomit, but even then, I have to confess his copious drooling did, just slightly, give me rise for a wee tad of concern.

I was also surprised to find he'd changed colour. "I thought the breeder lady said he was brown?"

Hubby sagely nodded, "Yeah, it's unusual for Cocker Spaniels to be black and white, isn't it?"

I tried to put a bright face on it, "So what was it that made you pick this one, then?"

"The stink."

"Huh?"

"I couldn't set one foot across that door for the stench, the place was disgusting..I waited outside 'til she fetched him out for us."

My hubby, the genius.

"So, er, you didn't actually see the litter then?"

"There were puppies tripping everywhere, hard to say."

Morse, as we duly christened him, brushed up well. True, he was incredibly stupid, took months to house-train, left his signature tooth mark on every stick of furniture (including on those of our friends and neighbours) and never quite managed to settle for more than a few minutes without attacking some unfortunate leg or another, but nevertheless since he was ours, we still loved him. 

Puppy training classes failed to make much of an impact, Morse rarely came when called. He particularly excelled himself on one occasion. Bolting out of our front door, he landed up scarpering half way across Putney bridge before a successful rugby tackle from hubby brought him down. Shame it broke his elbow (hubby's, not the dog). Come to think of it, I'm not sure - do dog's actually have elbows?

Curiously though, Morse was sure shaping up to be big for a little Cocker Spaniel. The vet explained this was probably due to the fact that he was a Springer Spaniel. (Darn, all those months the man on the common had been right. I made a mental note to apologise when next I saw him.)

Unlike Cocker Spaniels (which make ideal house-pets) Springer Spaniels are renowned for being stark raving loopy. It appears, in his initial rush to escape, hubby completely forgot to demand pedigree papers in exchange for our cash. Course, it was too late now, Morse had become family, cuckoo or not, we were well and truly saddled.

We bit on it and doggedly (sorry) ploughed on, hoping to somehow manage to temper his enthusiasms as we went along.

Alarmingly, puberty turned our already rampant hound into nothing less than a full-blown, raging out of control hump-aholic. He soon took to raping every dog on the common (of either sex), and tried to mount the youngest on many an occasion (she was at that handy crawling stage at the time). Enough was enough, even I realised something had be done.

Despite the Vet's misgivings, I opted to have his nuts removed. He was only nine months old, but he had developed the libido of a seventeen year old on an overdose of Viagra. Yes, of course I felt guilty, but there was little else for it. The lad would simply have to be "done".

The following Monday, en route to taking the girls to nursery, I checked him in to the local surgery. Happily scenting a new clutch of victims to molest, he cheerfully trotted off to meet his fate with hardly a backward glance. Relieved, I hastily marched the girls back to the car, draped their matching green smocks over them, and set off for school.

Now this is where it gets scary.

Perhaps I was distracted, or maybe it's because I'm a crap driver?  Possibly the latter.  When I was waved through to turn right at the junction, I just naturally assumed the car that had stopped to let me through, had done so after first checking the second lane (blind to me) was also clear. Sadly, this wasn't so.

Talk about a dramatic crash. Most of my bonnet, what was left of the bumper and the last jagged remains of a broken headlamp or two were jettisoned half way across the Upper Richmond Road, as we shunted over the kerb and yards along the pavement.

Miraculously, no one was injured.

Now,I may not be any good at driving, but I am as it happens, surprisingly good in a crisis (so much practise does pay off). Well of course the police had to come, tow-trucks were called, witnesses stepped up, and a fine time was had by all. Finally, still somewhat shaken, I scooped a girl up on each arm, and numbly headed for home. I think I probably looked far worse than I realised, for an acquaintance whom I barely knew drew up alongside me and wound her window down to ask if I was alright. I gratefully accepted her offer of a ride home, thanked her profusely and entered the hallway. Barely two steps through the door, I was met by the phone almost ringing off the hook. 

I answered to find the vet on the line.

"I'm ever so sorry Mrs. Shrinky, but I'm afraid your dog is dead."

Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa????

(Fooooooooooooooooooockkkkkkkkkkk!)

They claimed he must have had a weak heart.  Pul-eeze - they obviously never knew him very well, no-one who could keep up that level of shagging could possibly be accused of having a dodgy heart!  Mind, they did waive their fees, and (kinda' hastily, if you ask me) cremate him for free.  Real nice.

I reckon the young locum vet mistakenly overdosed him on the anesthetic.    But, well that's when I got to thinking..
 
What goes around, comes around.

This was karma. 

Every action has a consequence. By checking Morse in to the vet, I had inadvertently killed him. Morse died exactly at the same time my car got trashed.  Not even cold from the table, he'd risen up, found my car, and zapped me for my sins. 

He always did have the last word. 

(Nb.  This all happened well over a decade ago, we've mourned and  moved on.  It took many years before we opened our hearts and home to another puppy.  Second time around, we made sure to select a reputable breeder.  Jake, our now 8yr old Golden Retriever, is firmly my fifth, and most easily favoured child!)
          

Bessie-Boots

It was love at first sight for me.

She was nothing more than a bundle of fluff when I first carried her home, seven weeks old and missing her mum, I wrapped a hot water bottle in her blanket, and placed a ticking clock underneath it on that first week, in hopes of simulating a beating heart for her. She finally settled in to sleeping each night in a basket by the side my bed. I lived alone, and she instantly became my trusted confidante and constant companion.

I had recently started my own business, and things had got off to a good start. My first office was within walking distance to my home, and I already had four trusted staff in my tightly knit team.

Until she received her vaccinations, Bessie travelled to and fro in a basket to my workplace. Soon she was trotting on a lead there, and that set our routine for the next few years. It didn't matter I often had meetings or business that took me away from the office, little Bessie-Boots was firmly on the pay-roll, she put in a full working week looking after us all. Nettie, our office junior, was happy to have her contract expanded to include an hour each day walking with her on Wimbledon Common. That mutt and her spent many's a time together, whilst out Bessie never tired of catching a Frisbee, she was as quick as lightening, and could easily leap six foot in the air just to catch it. The remainder of the time she was perfectly content to curl up in her basket under my desk, just venturing out for the odd cuddle or treat.

That said, she had a sense for when things were not right, and there were several occasions when she rose to protect me. The nature of my work meant our door was open to the general public, and I often worked alone late into the evening - it was like working in a glass house, as the huge front window faced directly on to the street, and all who passed by could see in. It was where I hung our current vacancies and temporary contracts up, and as such, it was a necessary evil I had learned to live with. But in the winter I never knew who lurked outside, and after a few unsettling encounters, I did eventually have a panic button installed directly beneath my desk.

I never had the need to call on it, Bessie willingly took over that role. One low growl from her sent any would-be neer-do-well's firmly scuttling off.

In the evenings we would stroll on Putney common, and whilst Bessie ran with the regular pack, I would fall into conversation with the other dog-owners walking there. It was a little like belonging to a loosely formed private members club, and I struck up several lasting friendships that way.

This is where I came to meet Tom. He had three devoted Border-Collies, one of whom had won first place in the televised sheep-dog trials, "One man and his dog", a long-standing popular event where working dogs were put through their paces. Like Tom, Shadow was now getting rather long in the tooth, and also like his owner, he too walked with a limp. Tom was a fourth generation farmer, but having suffered a stroke, he had passed the farm on to his son and had retired with his wife to London. I know this sounds a strange place for a country lad to settle, but Tom was a multitude of contradiction; also a talented Jazz saxophonist, he had many contacts in the music industry, and enjoyed the life that the city offered. But his first love was always nature, and he had a gentle affinity for every living creature. I guess he must have been well into his seventies when we first encountered each other, and although he walked with the aid of a stick, he still set a firm pace for me to follow.

Tom was not really much of a people person, he was a dour Scot who preffered to keep himself to himself, and was only truly comfortable with his animals. We began to nod to each other in passing over the months, but rarely spoke. But Bessie took a shine to him, and she slowly began chipping away at his heart. It wasn't too long before he began to share the treats he had brought along for his own dogs with her. It was a natural progression for us to then begin to walk a little way together. It was during one of these walks that he told me of a vixen with a family of cubs he had discovered living nearby. She had an injured leg, and was he worried she would not be able to continue providing for her off-spring and herself.

He later up-dated me that he had taken to leaving tit-bits of chicken out near her den at dusk, keeping a distance back as he watched her come out to claim it. Gradually, he stood nearer, allowing her to gain confidence in his presence, and within weeks he was happy to report she was now accepting his offerings from his outstretched hand. He finally allowed me to visit with him there a couple of times, but only on the firm promise I stood well back and kept down wind. Bessie stayed home on those few magical occasions.

I wasn't too keen when Tom first suggested mating Bessie with his prize winning sheep-dog, I had never considered her littering pups.. but he slowly won me round to the idea. Her five babies came out strong and healthy, and each and every one was as cute as a button. Bessie was a natural mother. Both my sisters claimed a pup for their own, and they soon grew into adults as fine as their parents. Tom had found willing homes for the other three (actually, he had lined up six eager recipients, and was visibly disappointed when she went on to birth only five). Jess and Beaucie were much loved in their own right, and although they, as with my own little Bessie-Boots, have long since departed, they became a firmly loved part of my extended family for many, many years.


Other than to restaurants, Bessie came just about everywhere with me. My local pub always welcomed us with open arms, and many of the regulars there taught her tricks in exchange for crisps. She was keen and bright, and had a long repertoire of cute moves to keep you riveted. Point a finger and say, "Bang", she would drop like a stone, roll over with her paws in the air AND close her eyes! If you told her, "Don't look", she would lie down and cover her paws over her eyes. She loved the fuss and attention, and although some people might frown that I turned her into a performing circus act, I believe she enjoyed putting on a show even more than we loved watching it.

Every Easter, I would book a cottage away somewhere with friends for the week, Bessie always came along. If I went away for a long weekend break, I would only stay at a hotel where dogs were welcome. On any holidays abroad, either my little sis' or a friend would move in for my absence, I couldn't bear the thought of kennelling her with strangers.

One Easter she punctured her paw and got a nasty infection in it - the vet bandaged a poultice around it, and had me visit daily to replace the dressing. She was a trooper, ever the princess, she hammed it up to the hilt - every time anyone asked, "How's the injury doing, Bess?" She would lift up her injured limb and, head cocked, emit a soft, sad whine. She kept that act up years after the bandage was removed!

She tolerated my boyfriends, but vetted them too. Several romances fell foul of her disapproval. When I met my future hubby, he was completely intimidated by her. She would sit between us on the sofa, a low growl in her throat any time he attempted to put any moves on me. They eventually settled into an uneasy truce, but Bessie never entirely forgave him for dividing my attentions.

(Perhaps she is one of the reasons I was almost thirty before I married!)

He did give her her lucky break, though! He borrowed her once to star in a (of all things, Russian) commercial. I brought her along to this little studio in Soho, and she happily played to her audience. The guy standing with her only had his feet included in the shot, hence his non-farmer-like attire above the knee.

This last pic was taken in a hotel room in the wee small hours of New Years Day, and yes, as is rather evident, I'd just returned from a rather fine celebration of seeing in the new year. It was in the quaint little village of Abbotsbury, and I was was only a few months married.


(As it turned out, only an hour or so after this was taken, we conceived our firstborn..!)

Sprucing Up

Is there anything worse than the smell of wet dog?

Oh alright, I guess in fairness there are a few - decomposing flesh for one (oh dearie me - there's an experience I certainly do not wish to ever repeat again, not at all, at all, at all..), and then my big bruv's cheesy feet, maybe, oh - and my da's silent farts, of course, well yeah, they emptied out a room in a nano-second. But all the same, Jake's daily swim sure takes it's toll on the old olfactory senses.

Bad enough he stinks out the car, once home, he snuggles up to slowly steam-dry against my elbow. He leans against me on the sofa (not that he is actually allowed on the sofa, naturally, well. least of all not when dear old hubby is about), no nudging in the world will budge him (Jake that is, not hubby, er, although now I come to think of it.. but even so, hubby rarely stinks that bad.)

I Wouldn't mind so much if he didn't also carry half the beach back home with him. I tell you, we have corners of our house here just screaming out for a bucket and spade. His coat is nothing less than a canine vacuum, it transplants an acre of sand faster than it would take a bevy of bricklayers with super-charged dumper trucks, all working together on a triple-early-finish bonus.

Bathing him is complicated, he is too heavy to lift, flatly refuses to go in the bath, and needs extreme enticement to enter the shower. First I go in clutching a peeled banana (he loves bananas). Soon as he gets all four paws in over the stall, I pounce, sealing the door closed, trapping him inside.

Trouble is, so am I.

It's a close call as to which of us exits the most traumatised.

I've lost the battle with grooming. C'mon, don't blame me, he even defeated the portable pooch-lady, didn't he? Still, since then things have muchly deteriorated, and I've finally been forced to beg employ the daylight robbery services of a professional grooming salon to unstitch his knotted bloomers. His bum was getting into a severe danger of being irretrievably sealed.

Today was the day.
Awww, who's a sweet-smelling, purty little poochie now then, eh?

So this week I got me to thinking. I reckoned what's good for the goose and all that..

Maybe he wasn't the only one in this house long overdue a trim. There comes a time, doesn't there? I guess with my big five zero fast approaching, a new, shorter hairstyle might be in order - so I went and took the chop.It sure feels a lot lighter, and just think of the hours I'll save drying it!

Pills and Pantie Raids

I was gone half an hour. What is it about cartridge pens he finds so irresistible? The blue paw-prints led me to here.

Little wonder he looks so peaceful, he's also had a mad "tear-out-the-crotch-of-the-panties" frolic (which at the time of taking this I had yet to discover). He molested virtually every pair of knickers/shorts our family owns, my favourite bra is now "peep-hole".

Strewn shreds lay scattered across his poo patch like as in the morning after an outdoor free-for-all, take-one-get-ten-free, crazed street orgy (I would, um, imagine).

Bob T. Bear Esq. would have been proud.

I blame Matt. He interrupted me for a lift mid-way through my sorting the undie and sock basket out. No hound is to be trusted before his beach-run.

Talking of Matt, the other morning he pointed out it might be about time I stopped standing over him at breakfast 'til he swallows his vitamin pills.

(Me, arms folded) "You lot are not to be trusted, they end up in the bin."

(Matt "The Almost, But Not Quite Yet Adult", rolling eyes ) "Mum, I am eighteen in a few months!"

(Me, smugly) "Aye, and a fine strapping specimen too you are, thanks to all the supplements I've been feeding you."

Still, even I could see he had a point. I've reluctantly taken to only forcing these horse-sized pills down the throats of his younger, hence weaker, siblings of a morn.

So you can imagine my surprise then, when what did I only stray across today, laid out by his sink?

Teehe, yup, only three bottles of the self same vitamins he so steadfastly "refuses" to take.

Teenagers, awwwww - don't ya' just luv 'em?

Well sorry, but I can't stay gassing on here all day long, I have a serious pants shop to attend to.

A Hint of Spring

Craggy Island seems to have escaped the worst of the recent snowfall. Friday, I gave the beach a miss and decided to visit the glen. The air was crisp, the sun up, and, other than Jake and myself, there was not a soul in sight. Now the mornings are getting lighter, it sends out a little hope winter may yet be on the turn.

Without my little side-kick in tow, I doubt I'd haul myself out on a daily walk. Certainly if only for that alone, he more than earns his dog-food. Talking of which..

How do you like his new svelte figure? Poor lad sure misses his scraps, but he's under vet's orders to get in shape. Kibble doesn't hold the same allure as his usual egg and bacon breakfast, he's getting a might desperate as of late. We actually caught him digging up his own spuds the other day!

At the river he's too slow to catch any fish, not that it stops him from trying. (Smile.) Down at the beach, he's developed a taste for seaweed needing to be watched like a hawk lest he chokes on the stuff. (Stoopid mutt! )

The poor lad doesn't understand what he's done to deserve all this. We never set out to over-feed him, but with four kids, each one slipping him the odd treat here and there, the calories soon piled on. He is certainly a lot more lively thesedays, almost like a pup again. Hardly surprising, eh? I had a lighter spring to my step too, when I shed over forty pounds.

Aw, cheer up Jake, harsh though it is, it's all for the best!