Chip Van

One of the perennial problems as a dog owner, is what to do with your beloved pet when you go on holiday.  You could, like one of my friends, put him on a plane and take him with you – but that often costs more than your own flight ticket, necessitates endless waiting around at both airports and continuous form filling.  You could put him in a kennels.  Or you could, as I did, get someone to look after him.

This is a responsibility.  A family I know received a call on holiday and there was a somber voice on the other end of the phone.  ‘We’ve got sad news…the goldfish has died…’  This was not as devastating as the caller had anticipated, as frankly the family were surprised that the fish had lived so long in the first place, and in fairness it is possible that this was because previous carers had simply substituted the deceased with a perkier version…  However, this is not possible with a dog, and therefore the owner has to undergo processes that are akin to assessing a new school for the kids.

I was lucky enough on the third or fourth go to find a lovely, lively and loud lady who lived locally to me and did this kind of thing for a living.  She came to meet Muttley, and pronounced him fit to stay.  She handled her toddlers and her Rottweilers with equal aplomb, and as I surveyed the chaos of my life, I thought that Muttley could probably do with a bit of R & R too.  So I filled in endless forms, was he vaccinated, yes, neutered, no, microchipped, not yet, and so on.

We had a lovely holiday, and through the magic of Facebook we saw what Muttley had been up to.  He had had a holiday romance with a large German Shepherd, had been on countless walks, and had put himself to bed, exhausted, every night.  When we came back, he was delighted to see us, but then went to jump back in the carers car…

She told us of a dog show locally that was taking place for charity in a couple of weeks time, and at which there would be a free microchipping service for any dogs that turned up.  Never one to miss an opportunity to save some money, but aware that I would be spending considerably more at the show thanks to the pester power of the kids and Muttley – the day dawned and I asked G if he wanted to come with me. Now G is very amenable, but one thing he absolutely detests is needles – indeed, at 5 years old he had to be held down by 6 doctors in order to have an abscess in his gum lanced.  So he muttered about doing something in the garden, and instantly disappeared.

 Little Man was enchanted by a stall that offered a doggie drinking fountain, and insisted that we filled in a form to try and win one.  We bought some interesting doggie snacks at another, out of guilt after Muttley had snaffled some of the free samples.  Hundreds of dogs of all shapes and sizes yapped and yowled, barked and sniffed at one another.  Owners greeted one another with a raise of the eyebrows and a tug on the leads. We watched with interest as the doggie agility show commenced, Muttley’s ears cocked as he recognized one of his walking buddies leaping over the fences and running through tunnels with glee.

But this was all of course, leading up to one thing.  We walked over to the Vet Van, where an efficient lady looked Muttley up and down and then proceeded to run a barcode scanner over him.  Muttley looked vaguely interested.  She then gave him a whole handful of treats which he snuffled at in the grass, and jabbed him with a needle on the soft fold of skin above his haunches. Uttering a howl of dismay, Muttley launched himself away from the Vet Van, the vet still clinging to him, and with me on the end of the lead.

Picking herself up, she brushed herself down and announced to the forlorn dog, ‘You’re the first Screamer I’ve had today.  We’ve had all sorts, even a Chihuahua puppy – and none of them made such a fuss…’  Nevertheless she gave him a pat, and a little medal to wear.  Little Man looked concerned, and asked if his dog was hurting.  She showed him the needle.  It was enormous. 

I raised my eyes to heaven.  Thank God G hadn’t come.  She hadn’t seen a real Screamer…

Nut Job

I always seem to find the nutters.  As a child, I wasn’t of course aware that they were nutters, just that they were stranger than the other strange people that inhabited the bizarre adult world where they drank poison to be happy and smoked poison to be calm.  However, the older I got (and began to embrace the adult world), the more nutty people became.

At university, I had a lovely flatmate, who one evening knocked on my door and had what appeared to him to be a perfectly logical explanation on the creation of the universe based on Pythagoras’ Theorem.  As I had downed several snakebite and blacks (those of you too young, or too sensible, never drink it – unless you happen to be fascinated by purple wee the next morning), I sat and conversed back, even then aware that perhaps he was a bit of a nutter.  In fact, he was carted off to a psychiatric hospital by the end of term, having been caught sitting naked in a field chanting Shakespeare, with a few choice Nietsche phrases and a hammer thrown in the mix.

And then there is the Tube – London’s greatest invention and a hub for nutters.  You may have the wandering minstrels who try and get a smile and some pennies out of the miserable commuters before they race off the train with the police in hot pursuit.  Or the old woman that sits quietly clutching a Sainsburys bag before shouting obscenities at the young man on an iPod opposite.  Or the men that insist on pressing up sweatily against you as you stand in sardine formation against a metal pole on a packed peak hour, trying to maintain some dignity. Or the last Tube home, where we joined in with the nutters, challenging people to get from one hanging handle to the other down the full length of the carriage like one huge swinging monkey bar (amazing how many people joined in that game…)

As I have got progressively older, I have realised that my friends are all slightly nutty. Those that are single charge around being interesting and throwing themselves off the highest buildings attached to flimsy bits of elastic, or jumping on flights to far off lands with just a toothbrush in their handbags.  Those that are parents drink poison to be happy and some of them smoke poison to be calm.  It is the summer holidays, and we are at the stage where we are all gritting our teeth and getting through the last two weeks.  The kids have reached that stage of permanently hungry chicks whose mouths are permanently clamped round something from the cupboard or fridge, but whose legs don’t seem to work when asked to nip to the shops to replenish stocks.  I have had hoardes of children through my doors, most of them charming, all lively, and all nutty.  Our dressing up box has been raided on several occasions, with movies made, or shows enacted, or just because they happen to like the gold lame top from the 80’s (and that was a boy). Our trampoline has definitely now seen better days, and our carpets will thankfully be replaced…

But, the nuttiest people I meet are always on walks with the dog.  There is the man who permanently drags his dog around on a lead as it didn’t come back once when he called it.  There is the woman who didn’t have a dog, but stopped to chat anyway and told me that she had breastfed all four of her kids until they were five years old.  Or the two ladies who walk every day and have two yapping dogs that hate one another. Or the lady with the SheWee (we won’t talk about that).  Or the silent man – he never speaks, to you or his dogs. But my favourite has to be the good old British army cadets, who on sitting round a camp fire discussing tactics, welcomed Muttley as he charged up to them, tail wagging, and gave him lots of cuddles, much to the exasperation of their sergeant who was trying to issue some directives.

Maybe it is a case of Opposites Attract, but I have a horrible feeling that it is more that Birds of a Feather Flock Together… I’m off to do cartwheels with the kids down the garden now…

 

The Bed

There’s something about our bed.  It’s nothing special- a king size, run of the mill bed – but it is our bed. And despite all the hotels and motels and luxury apartments and boats and aeroplanes and anywhere else you can sleep in style, nothing beats climbing into our bed and going to la la land.  And the strange thing is, it has become the hub of upstairs – everything goes on in our bed.  The boys have woken up to new babies in the bed (thankfully they weren’t in the bed during the making of the new babies  - that would just be weird), if they feel ill they clamber into our bed, if there is a problem that needs talking through, it goes on on our bed, the tooth fairy has run late on several occasions and has ended up visiting our bed, and Father Christmas stockings are brought in from all the bedrooms at some ungodly hour on Christmas Day and ripped open with whoops of joy all over our bed.

Rather shyly the other day I asked Eldest Son where he would like to open his birthday presents.  I felt that I ought to, as at nearly 6 ft tall and 14 years old, I felt that maybe it would be more appropriate to open his gifts and cards in the lounge.  He looked horrified at the thought of relocating the tradition, and so our family of five scrambled happily on to the bed eating chocolate cake and surrounded by wrapping paper at 7.30 in the morning.

But you know, I recall the same in my childhood.  Perhaps my parents bed had the same attraction for my sister and I because it contained the two people we loved most in the world.  Perhaps it was because their bed was twice the size of ours and instead of having sheets and blankets it had something called a ‘Dooovaaay’ which was very luxurious and almost unheard of where we lived in Africa.  There was nothing like clambering up onto the crunchy feather cover and opening up our Christmas stockings.

And because I change the covers on a Monday, Sunday is the day that we allow Muttley to come and wake us up in our bed.  This generally ends up in chaos – especially when it is wet outside and we have a white duvet cover, but it has become a rite of passage to ensure that we never get a lie in. He loves this, and today was whining at the door to be let in.  With a joyous yell he hurled himself enthusiastically at a very hungover slumbering G, and lay there, head on the pillow, panting hot dog breath into G’s ear. Once he had ensured that we were well and truly awake, he yawned, and went to sleep.

 As I said – there’s something about our bed…

 

Hot Dog

It’s hot, so hot, wearing a fur coat all day

When it’s sunny outside and the trees do not sway

No breeze for the cooling down

Of tired little feet

No puddles to splash in

To get rid of the heat

I may look cute, pink tongue hanging out

Laying in my bed, too tired to shout

No mithering at your heels

For tit bits galore

No urging for walkies

Flopped out on the floor

You enjoy yourself, lying out in the sun

But please don’t forget the furry one

No stripping off my layers

Not allowed in the pool

No natural way of my

Keeping cool

Blistered feet, walked on hot tarmac

Enjoy your ice cream, I want to go back

Don’t leave me to wait

In your hot car

While you nip out to the shops

To restock your bar

 

Cocktails, and mocktails, sangria, beer

 

And a big bowl of water, cool and clear

It’s hot, so hot being a dog all day

When the sun is relentless, and the trees don’t sway.

 

British Summer Time

Little Man asked me the other day when Summer was going to begin.  It happened to be a blustery day in the middle of June in which it had already hailed and rained and the sun had been blown clean out of the sky by some ferocious winds.  It was also, technically, in the middle of the British Summer – which stretches loosely from June to August.  However, on explaining this to Little Man, he looked out of the window dubiously and announced that perhaps I had got it wrong, and he would Google it…

 

This is a Common Occurrence in my house – where the boys will ask G and I a question, and if they don’t like the answer they resort to the web.  This results in both of us toppling off the pedestal with monotonous regularity.  G has started to make up outrageous explanations to things, but I have to remind him that his dad did exactly that to him, and consequently he went into school telling everyone that he was found by his parents under a bush and was actually the son of an earl.  (Mind you, it wouldn’t surprise me if he actually still believes that one…)

 

But the fact of the matter is that the Summer has not really made an appearance this year – the sun comes out to play on odd days, and by the time we have all dusted down last years shorts and depilated all the ‘winter fur’, it has retired again. Despite that, on the first of June every year, there is a diehard type of Briton who refuses to let a little rain defuse their new summer wardrobe.  These can be typically seen hanging round shopping centres, muffin tops the colour of uncooked pastry hanging out of preshortened t-shirts – and that’s just the men.  The women shimmy forth in a variety of luminous colours, often strapless tops, and teeny weeny shorts uncovering legs that would be translucent in winter, if it was not for the streaky application of fake bake – which results in an orange tan that is not seen naturally in any country on the planet.  Couple this with a few of bottles of WKD or premixed Sangria, and summer is well and truly on its WayHay.

 

So it was that when today dawned clear and sunny, and I had despatched G and the two older boys to an all day athletics competition which for once hadn’t been rained off, I closed the doors on the armpit that is my house, and announced to Little Man that we would have a picnic in the garden.  And what a feast we had – a wicker picnic hamper with real china plates and glass champagne flutes was rescued from the loft where it had lived on and off for 15 years since our wedding.  We filled it with traditional British fayre – a crumbly pork pie, some cold chicken drumsticks, a mature cheddar, some crusty bread and a Victoria cream sponge cake with fresh strawberries for afters.  Muttley joined us, and sat at a respectable distance with his dog bowl, eating the few delicacies that were chucked his way. At one point he got very excited – was it the chicken? No.  Was it the pork pie? No.  Was it the cream cake? No.  It was, in fact, the strawberries. Little Man looked at me ‘Are dogs allowed strawberries?’ he asked.  I answered Yes, and the next thing I saw, he had taken my phone and was Googling the answer.  I was, in fact, right, and Muttley sat happily chowing down on the juicy berries, stalks and all.

 
We lay on our backs, sated, looking at the clear blue skies, with the sounds of the birds chattering in the swaying trees above us.  The British Summer may be short, it may be unpredictable, but when it comes, nothing beats it.     

Doggerel

A Dog’s Life

 

Labradoodles French poodles, Albanian pomeroos

Shitzus, jackeroos, chichis,  Maltese  cockerpoos

Pups at home, dog and bone, pages on the net

Whaddya want, pay up front, anything we can get

Puppy eyes, cutest guys, curly, short haired, bald

Naming game, there’s no shame, what will it be called?

Bulky Staffs, long haired Afs, Bernards and Burmese

Wannabees accessories, poking out of gold Hermes

Cuddled dog, muddled dog, family adore

Dog hair, everywhere, muddy prints on floor

Kids love, push and shove, playing games all day

Long walks, learn to talk, holidays away

Kids grow, go slow, pack their cars and flown

Mum tired, dad wired, dog all alone

Handbag days, new baby phase, dog is second best

Bad dog, sad dog, making such a mess

Gun dog, stun dog, no use any more

Let loose, no roost, fending door to door.

Old dog, cold dog, shivering in the rain

Picked up, slicked up, look for love again

Pets rehome, dog and bone, pages on the net

‘Dog old’ ‘Missold’ ‘No time for a pet’

Loving eyes, desperate guys, curly, short haired, bald

They’ve got a name, and the shame, of never being called.

Sad dog, glad dog, second chance once more

Small steps, old pets, waiting at the door.

Old dog, cold dog, shivering again

Sob in throat, stroke matted coat, jab to kill the pain

Sunrise, open eyes, sunlight on the wall

Dog hair, nowhere,

…no shadow waiting in the hall.

 

©Ruth Morrison 2013

 

Walkies

It is true to say that the dog walkers that I meet on a daily basis come in all shapes and sizes – some, as we have discussed in previous postings, resemble their hounds, others complement them.  So a wiry lurcher may encourage on his rotund lady owner, as she struggles up the hills in joggers and trainers on a new fitness regime, or a huge Italian Spinoni bounds alongside his human friend, who is small enough to use him as a pony.  But they all of course, have one thing in common, and that is to give their furry companions a run outside, where those legs, big or small, rejoice in the sheer luxury of uncontained exercise- skidding or skittering around trees and dips in the roads, racing up and down hills, jumping with joy into the muddiest puddles.

There is a benefit of course to the owner too – and that is the constant need to get outside and walk, whatever the weather, or the inclination. And it does us good.

G and I regularly attend social functions at weekends, mainly of the dinner party variety (we seem to have segued into that age rather seamlessly) and after days of running around with 3 busy boys and their lives, we enjoy the benefits of those functions immensely – the good food, intelligent (most of the time) conversation, and of course in the main, fine wines.  It was on one such occasion that a friend of mine L, asked if I would step in and fill the shoes of a friend of hers on the London Moonwalk.  For those of you unfamiliar with the event, it is a 26.2 mile walk around the streets of London from midnight in aid of Breast Cancer.  Feeling rather buoyed up with red wine, I rather rashly promised to do so,saying ‘It’s only a walk’, and then promptly forgot all about it.

Unfortunately, L hadn’t, and with only 10 days of ‘training’ – where Muttley thought all of his Christmases had come at once as I walked his little legs off, reaching a maximum of about 8 miles on my peak day – I found myself standing at the start line with 15,000 other women, and a few men, a quarter of an hour before midnight.  Somehow we had  managed to cobble together an outfit each (bras feature heavily, to highlight the issue of breast cancer), wore our bright pink Moonwalk hats with pride, and our very dear and generous friends had donated over 5 times the target we had originally set – probably because they couldn’t quite believe that I was actually going ahead with this.

The great British weather did us proud that night and threw at us downpours of rain, bitter freezing wind chills and icy temperatures.  And yet for the first half of the walk it didn’t really bother us – L and I both walk our dogs in these conditions – as the snake of bright pink hats wended chattering through the silent streets of London. By sunrise, I was struggling - but as Big Ben was illuminated by heavenly rays, my determination kicked in.  We had talked and walked solidly for 6 hours, but the final miles were trodden in a grim and painful silence.

Buffeted by winds on the Albert Embankment, and crossing Vauxhall Bridge we were greeted by an amazing sight – hundreds of families with children jumping up and down in excitement, little dogs straining at the leashes, all looking for their beloved walkers.  Women and men walked arm in arm, staggering and stumbling towards the finish line, some crying, some stoical, some reflective.

In the crowds stood two little boys holding two banners – one read WELL DONE GRANDAD, the other simply said GRANDMA WOULD HAVE BEEN PROUD OF YOU…

Life is simply too short to keep putting off those things that you’ve always wanted to do, even if, like me, you didn’t know you did until you do them.  Do something different today, no matter how big or small – and take a little step forward on your own journey…