Letter to Santa

Dear Santa

It’s now not long until you stop by our house and hopefully leave with your sleigh just that little bit lighter… We are now pretty much geared up for your arrival, the house has begun to take on the festive look, the Christmas tree has only fallen down once (and that was due to overzealous decorating on the room facing side), I roasted some chestnuts yesterday, some of which (much to the boys’ fascination) exploded all over the kitchen and in every corner of the house there are bags of interesting stuff that no one is allowed to touch.

So on the night of your visit you will have your usual pint of beer, a mince pie and there will of course be a carrot for Rudolph (or Donner, Blitzen, Prancer or whichever reindeer it is that always manages to make a single perfect bitemark every year). It never ceases to amaze me how with the magic of Christmas and a little fairy dust that despite us not having a working chimney (it was blocked up years ago), you have managed to materialize in the house, escape the hunting claws of two ferocious cats, sneak past one of the lightest sleepers known to man and fill up three enormous stockings with fully wrapped and exciting presents.

But a word of caution this year – it may have escaped the notice of your busy elves up in the North Pole that we have a new addition to the family.  We have Muttley.  He’s not that big, but very excitable, and has a proven track record of chasing reindeer (and Santas).  It’s not his fault, poor chap, most of them have been running away from him, and he thinks they’re fair game.  However, I’m slightly concerned as to his approach when he sees a Santa and a reindeer breaking into his house… So perhaps a little forewarning beforehand?

Other than that, there has only been one thing about Christmas that has phased Muttley so far.

Was it the singing Santa ornament that jiggled his hips in a frenzied geriatric manner until his batteries ran out? No.

Is it the Christmas tree with its five sets of flashing lights all vying for synchronization with each other? No.

Is it the trailing tinsel lametta that is draped over said tree and sways with a provocative shimmer each time someone walks into the room? No.

Is it the abundance of food that seems to make it into the fridge, but never comes out? No.

Is it the parcels under the tree that sit there, day after day, shouting ‘Open Me!’? No.

Is it the annoying light up snowman outside which has such a short wire that trips up anyone who walks to the door? No.

Is it the festive penguin toy replete with ear muffs and Christmas scarf that G brought back from his recent skiing trip? No.

No, it is none of those things.  What has upset Muttley so far is a pair of Christmas socks.  Just a pair of fluffy red socks with white dots on them.  And they happen to be mine.  He hates them and shakes them vehemently whenever he spies them – even when they are on me… If I happen to be wearing them, he tries to take them off, growling as he starts on the toes and pulls with force.  This becomes more of a problem if I am going up and down stairs – or answering the door to the bemused postman with a dog hanging off my foot.  He ignores any other socks, it’s just these ones, and the problem is that I am quite fond of them -  they happen to be warm – and I didn’t know that we had taken on the Gok Wan of the dog world.  But for the sake of his taste, and my feet, I have abandoned them.  God knows how he will react when he sees my Christmas jumper with two penguins on the front…

So Santa, you have been warned.  Don't sneak in this year, leave the reindeer behind, and whatever you do, try and avoid wearing red and white.  And what would I like for Christmas?  A peaceful day where everyone is delighted with their gifts, delighted with their food, delighted with the board games that we insist on falling out over every year, delighted to ignore xbox for one whole day, delighted to watch old reruns on the telly and delighted to be together as one big happy family…failing that, a good pair of warm woolen, non-patterned socks would go down a treat.

Happy Christmas!

Love R x

   

Santa Claws

I don’t know why, but this year I have seen a proliferation of Santas.  Maybe somewhere in Cyberspace they are selling cheap Santa outfits, but everywhere I look, there is someone dressed in red felt and white fake fur.

Yesterday I boarded the train with Little Man, set for London and the musical extravaganza that is Top Hat.  For those of you who don’t know, Top Hat was made famous by Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, and features many tap dancing routines as well as waltzes, tangos and cheesy one liners.  Little Man is not only the only boy in his school year who is learning tap dance, but also the only boy in his dance school.  By default he has been given a solo as a King Emperor penguin in a four day show in February – what he lacks in talent he makes up for in enthusiasm as he waddles tap-style across the stage in a solo that takes all of 35 seconds.  However, he is very proud of the fact, and in order to show him that there is life after the penguin, I decided to take him to the theatre for a birthday treat.

As we stood at Farnborough station, a group of young male and female Santas congregated on the platform, beers and WKDs in hand.  The females were dressed in red velvet Santa skater dresses and stockings, glittery sequined hats perched jauntily on carefully mussed up hair.  The men had obviously ordered in bulk, on a one-size-fits-all basis, and looked a motley crew in cheap red felt, fake beards around their necks, sunglasses and hair gel in situ as they swigged from their Carlsbergs. Little Man looked at them, eyes wide open as the friendly banter got louder and louder as more and more Santas poured over the bridge from the station entrance to our platform.  One Santa, who was rather portly, had got caught short on the other side of the platform and decided to visit the toilets, and  just as the train was coming into view everyone on our side of the platform (including us) were cheering him on as he made a mad Santa dash for the train…

Out in Waterloo, and all the Santas piled off the train, to go God knows where, but definitely not to the North Pole.  As we clambered on to the tube more Santas joined us, they were distinguishable from the originals by the fact that they were wearing black trousers, and then as we wandered in leisurely style to the theatre we saw Santas in strapless outfits, Santas with tattoos, even Santas who were expecting babies…

Needless to say (and I have been to many theatres in the world), you cannot beat the West End in London, and Top Hat was beyond either of our expectations.  As the only child in the Grand circle, and the only boy at the matinee, Little Man was cossetted and feted by all of the enthusiastic middle aged theatre goers, and never was there a more proud little tap dancing penguin…

On to Covent Garden, where we walked past a pub, where a whole load of Irish Santas were singing Christmas carols featuring Yogi Bear that I have only ever heard at rugby matches, but made a nice change from The Pogues. I have to say, London does do Christmas well, and in Covent Garden we sat down for a chocolate crepe opposite an enormous lit up tree, and a lit up topiary Rudolph resplendent with light up red nose, whilst watching a Knife thrower entertaining the crowds, and then it was time to go.  On the train back some rather dispirited Santas sat, one with his beard on his forehead, another looking as if he was wearing chaps, his red felt trousers flapping.  One female Santa sat groaning, her head in her hands, in need of the National Elf Service (sorry, had to slip that one in…) and all in all they were a sorry sight to behold.

This morning I took Muttley out for a walk before a busy day, meeting up by chance with another Border Collie owner.  I have met him before, and his collie was a working dog that he took on.  His biggest problem was getting the dog into the house – this is because previously the collie had slept outside with the sheep, and had never been a pet.  So we walked in companionable silence, the dogs had shot out of view in the circling motion only known to collies – they circle around you, and the instant you call them, they come straight back (marvelous, in theory…)

We walked round the corner, straight into a Santa Fun Run.  There were hundreds of them, big Santas, little Santas, even a baby Santa in a buggy.  I probably don’t need to say much more…

Needless to say, the two collies had Fun and the Santas had the Run.  I felt especially for the poor gentleman who had dressed up as Rudolph in full brown fur and was lagging behind the others, but soon joined them with renewed energy as the working dog went into action nipping at his furry hooves.

I’m hoping for Little Man’s sake that the real Santa looks down with humour on the whole thing…

First past the post

All of us have habits – for example G likes to be the first to open things.  I’ve lost count of the times that a new jar of peanut butter or instant coffee has been opened, despite the fact that there are remnants in the old jar.  I like to be the first to get into a freshly made bed, and rather unreasonably get really irritated if I am not.  Eldest boy likes to be the first down to the telly, so that he can have supremacy over the remote control.  Middle child likes to be the first to try out new foods – hence he has added alligator, snails and kangaroo to his culinary repertoire.  And Little Man, well, he is desperate to be the inventor of the first ever indispensable gizmo.  So much so that his bedroom is a series of pulleys, levers, bells, flashing lights, a ceiling fan (which we had to pay an electrician £50 to mount), strings closing doors, and various other inventions that have either not succeeded, or not yet sold. 

Our ever obliging neighbours, who have no children, have over the years bought handy cushions, art masterpieces and homemade lemonade from our children, who all want to be the first millionaires in our family.  Time and again they have rescued homemade airplanes from their hedge, arrows fashioned out of wood from their bird table and several hundred footballs from the bottom of their garden in my kids quest for perfection.  The trampoline becomes a perfect launching pad for not only those kids that want to be the first to fly, but for those who want to be the first to kick a football out of the earths orbit… Once our neighbours woke up to see a huge flying saucer on the top of their hedge. Another day they went out into the garden to find that our kids had suspended all the kiddy garden furniture precariously in the branches of the hedge in order to make the first ever  tree office.

So really, Muttley fits in quite well.  He has been the first to help us conserve our energy bills as our previous draughty existence in leaving doors open everywhere has been curbed somewhat since he arrived.  He has been the first to chew up his bed.  None of us have ever pooed on the floor, so I guess that is a first, and he is definitely the first to the letterbox.  This is not as chaotic as it seems – I went downstairs the other day and caught the postman shouting ‘Muttley No!’ through the letterbox in the door (they seem to have a good arrangement, as Muttley is not remotely interested in envelopes, and is quite selective about the cards that he chews…).

I went shopping to London the other day and bought Muttley a little fun bandana which said My First Christmas… the days are counting down  - let’s hope it doesn’t descend into Santa’s first bitten bottom, the first one to the turkey or indeed the first time Christmas has had to be cancelled…

Have a great weekend everyone!   

Hangdog

Someone who is a regular reader of the blog asked me recently what has happened to the cats.  Fear not, they are still here firmly ensconced in the bedrooms and charging downstairs for food once they know that Muttley has gone out for a walk or is safely asleep in his crate.  All you can hear on these furtive raids are the ding ding of the bells on their collars which I had acquired  some months ago in an attempt to stop the continual bringing in of mice and birds.  What actually happened was that Ronnie and Reggie, the neighbourhood bully boy cats, laid in wait for them as my two strode self consciously jingling into the garden.  The mice and birds episode only dried up because of the cold weather and the new deal of dwelling upstairs in Radiatorville.  But in this festive season there is an added dimension… Little Man announced recently that he knew Father Christmas was coming soon because he had heard the reindeer bells jingling in the night…

Of course, the festive season is upon us and as we always delay it until after Little Man’s birthday, which rather conveniently falls two weeks exactly before Christmas, it always comes upon us as an annual shock.  After a fun packed birthday party with 17 excited seven year olds, I turned to G who was on the second day of a festive hangover and still looking a bit shot away and said ‘It must be time to get the Christmas tree’…

Now I don’t know about any of you, but getting the Christmas tree has become a bit of a tradition in our family ever since we discovered a place near us which provides you with your very own hacksaw to chop down your selected tree.  This appeals to the testosterone in the household, and often the look of the tree is secondary only to the actual felling.  So regardless of the weather I feel obligated to go with them all – not only to make sure that all limbs are still intact by the time we leave, but that the tree a) fits in the house and b) it has some branches.

This year it was a little fraught, because none of us could agree on a tree and it was cold and boggy and Mummy’s sense of Christmas spirit was rapidly hankering after the alcoholic mulled wine variety and not the pine needle and woodchippings in hair sort.  After a while, and a little help from a Christmas elf with one front tooth and a tractor and chainsaw, we chopped down a tree and stuck it on the roof of the car with the aid of lots of rope and bungee cords, but which meant that we were trapped in the car and G had tied himself out of the car.  Letting down his window, G then attempted – Dukes of Hazzard style- to get in through said window.  This was not easy, as G is no longer as snake hipped as he likes to think he is, and the boys were well and truly Ho Ho Ho-ing by the time he sat red faced behind the wheel.

Getting it into the house required more acrobatics, and by the time the tree was actually up, we were all exhausted.

Going back to the cats.  When they were kittens we had no end of escapades with the Christmas tree.  For one, they hated the fairy we had at the top, and made it their mission to kill it at all costs.  Several fellings of fully decorated Christmas trees later and we dispensed with the rather bedraggled fairy and replaced it with a star which was much more acceptable.  Also along the wayside went any baubles covered in feathers, any glittery jewel type ornaments and certain types of tinsel.

Fearing that Muttley may also limit us to what we put up, we decided to leave the tree nude for a few days to get him used to the idea that his human nutters were now moving the outside in.  Rather concerned that he might use the tree as his very own poo corner, I kept a stern eye on him, but other than an initial attempt to eat the tree (after all, it had lots of sticks on it), Muttley seemed unphased by the new arrival.

This morning I tried out one bauble, and left it nonchalantly on one of the lower branches.  The puppy looked at it, head to one side, and came and sat by my heels.  ‘That’s mine’ I announced solemnly, and left the room.

An hour passed and still the bauble remained in situ.  I was in the kitchen and came back into the lounge to find a very quiet dog who had completely demolished his bed.  And the bauble had gone…

A severe telling off later, I went upstairs, and there on the third step was the bauble, carefully laid by all his precious things.

I have a horrible feeling this year that decorating the tree will be like Groundhog Day…

Dog Tired

As any mother knows, when a child asks if they can have ‘a sleepover’, it means one of two things, 1) that sleep will literally be over for the night and 2) that something is going to happen on the one night that you are responsible for someone elses kids.  Little Man was the one that made the special request this time, and as it was his birthday weekend, I couldn’t exactly say No.

And so it was that two other very excited 7 year olds descended on the house along with teddy bears, pillows, both had the exact same electric toothbrushes- which Little Man said immediately was the only thing he wanted for his birthday (eeek!) – and neither had ever been on a sleep over with friends before.  Little Man, having the advantage of being the youngest of three, and having social butterflies as parents, has had quite a few sleepovers and counted himself as quite an expert, so took control.  Unfortunately he forgot to tell Muttley.

As soon as the two hot little bodies arrived in the house Muttley launched himself at them with great enthusiasm and knocked them both down like ninepins.  Little Man tried to rescue them and they all ended up in a small pile with puppy on top of them.  The mums looked dubious as I grabbed Muttley’s collar and yanked him off the giggling collapsed kids pyramid whilst assuring them that he was perfectly harmless.  As I tried to put him in a separate room the kids all shouted No and the mums beat a hasty exit without either of their treasures bothering to look up and say goodbye…

Amazing how sleepovers can go.  And it did, like a dream.  All the games that I had sorted out for them were ignored as the three 7 year olds rediscovered an old puppet theatre that had gone through the first two boys with much hilarity, and had lain in the corner of the loft ever since.  Of course the puppy was involved and had a starring role which suited him down to the ground.  Whenever the woodcutter appeared (he was a baddie), Muttleys role was to wrestle him to the ground.  This of course meant that a little hand was regularly denuded, but added to the thrill of  the whole play.  Scripts were written, songs composed thanks to an old keyboard that had only one  prerecorded song and that was Jingle Bells, and the whole thing was videoed thanks to Mummy’s iPhone.

Then there was popcorn and a dvd, and pup laid curled up at the feet of the kids, hoping to catch any tidbits that fell.

As I said, something always happens – and it did, but in a minor, unassuming way.  One of the two had a nosebleed in the middle of the night, which he dealt with in a far better manner than I did, and the other  disappeared just before bedtime and I wondered if he was feeling a little homesick.  Seeking him out, I found him sitting in his pj’s with his arms around the dog, giving him a goodnight cuddle. 

I guess that maybe sleepovers aren’t so bad after all…

Snow angel

It snowed this morning.  Just a little, but enough to catch everyone by surprise and turn our garden into a winter wonderland for the kids and puppy.  The kids greeted it with delight and I with a feeling of trepidation – I really don’t like driving in the snow. Muttley, after initially barking at the snow, started to eat it, and the kids lamented that there just wasn’t enough for a snowball fight without getting a faceful of grit in your eye.

Eldest son was long gone, on his early coach to his secondary school, and just the little ones remained.  G had taken the day off and had lots of errands to run and he offered to take the kids to school – a nice treat for me as it gave me that extra hour in which to do all those emails etc that I put off due to lack of time. I got into my jeans and decided to take the dog for an early walk, as I was having lunch with some friends and thought that I would shower and wash my hair after the walk (as in my experience it is always a muddy affair).

Middle son took one look at me and said ‘You can’t go out like that, you look like a mad professor’, and indeed my hair had that crazy look of a punk gone wrong.  Muttering, I disappeared upstairs in search of a ‘beanie’, those knitted woolen hats favoured by celebrities in dress down days, but in reality turns me into some sort of 80’s pierrot or harlequin type character with my big eyes and high forehead.

I found one bought last year, cream with a fetching woolen rose on the side of it.  Sticking it on my head at a jaunty angle, I went back downstairs where G said loyally that it looked cute, middle son choked on his Nutella on toast and said I looked ‘Epic’ (I have a feeling that it wasn’t epic in a good way) and youngest son said sweetly that I looked like a Pokemon.

Searching for some sort of confidence in my new found look, I sought out Muttley, who was mid argument with his penguin, and took one look at me, whimpered and backed off with his tail between his legs…

Undeterred, I set off, dog in tow, to the park where we had a great time slipping and sliding on the moving snow, discovering sticks frozen to the ground and crunching through puddles.  We met a young girl with a small dog looking a bit woeful in a blue woolen coat. Feeling some sort of empathy with the dog, having had my hat dilemma, I remarked on how smart the coat was and she assured me that he had looked even sweeter in his Father Christmas outfit the day before…

Moving on, and we met the woman that featured in one of my first posts, the one with six dogs and one in a muzzle.  The muzzled one, possibly having an affinity with my awkward wearing of the hat, came bounding up to Muttley and I, and they ran off to play.  The woman came up ‘Oh, it’s you!’ she said.

‘I know’, I grimaced, ‘It’s the hat.’ 

‘No, it’s the dog’, she said ‘I hardly recognized it, how Muttley has grown!’

I looked at Muttley, charging around with all six dogs, barking excitedly.  He was indeed a very different dog from the one we had taken on 3 weeks ago.  Silky hair now covered the tiny scar above his right eye that had been acquired some time beforehand, presumably when he had been abandoned.  He no longer automatically cowered when someone raised their hand.  He seemed genuinely happy.  And to my utter amazement, when I called him back, mid excitement, he came straight back and sat at my feet (admittedly I was holding a stick for him…).

It made me appreciate on that crisp and snowy morning how far we have come in such a short time - but there is no doubt that we’ve a long way to go yet...

Old Dog Tale

For a change this post is not about Muttley at all.  It is however about a dog, one with no name, no collar and a missing owner.  Above all, this dogs story shows the compassion of the average British Joe, and the tenuous link between dog and owner and the public in general. That, and it's a real story that happened right before my eyes yesterday.

I had taken youngest son to a party 25 minutes away in Chertsey - a magic show party in which the magician  ends up making those giveaway sword balloons for the boys and balloon dogs for the girls.  But before that there was the inevitable slight of hand tricks, the yes it is, no it isn't moments and a dodgy puppet.  Seeing an opportunity to hit the shops of Chertsey for some Christmas shopping, two other mummies and I set off in the general direction of the town centre.  Much to our disappointment there was not actually very much in terms of shopping - a Sainsburys, several closed charity shops and quite a lot of cafes of the formica table variety.  Selecting one of the better ones, we settled down to coffee and a gossip, and within no time at all we had got through two cups each and an hour and a half had passed. 

On paying, we headed back a different way to the party, along the main street.  Trotting in the middle of the road (Muttley style) was a very elderly corgi.  Cars screeched to a halt, drivers leant out of their windows trying to shoo it away, and my natural reaction was to crouch down and call it towards me - which it did very obligingly, but meant that all the drivers gave me filthy looks for not being able to keep my dog under control.

This little dog was quite rotund, with fur that moulted with every stroke, and most importantly for a dog in his situation, no collar.  One of the mummies who was highly allergic to dogs, started to sneeze.  It was obviously the time of Christmas cheer and thickening waistlines as none of us was wearing a belt, and so I despatched my friends to Sainsburys to get a collar and lead, and as my knees were beginning to give way with all the crouching, I sat down on the pavement with the dog.

A young couple and a buggy walked by, and stopped in concern.  The woman, with various piercings and bright red hair came over. 'Are you all right love?' she asked.  Realising that I might look a little incongruous sitting on the pavement, I explained the situation and they reacted immediately, the little girl in the buggy offering the dog her apple, the man crouching down to help me with the dog, and the woman whipping out her phone to try and call an animal welfare officer.  The problem was that it was Sunday, the local vets was shut, calls were being redirected from the RSPCA and not knowing the area I was a little stuck for ideas.  At this moment my friends arrived back, panting, with a brand new collar and lead, with which we secured the dog.

We decided, young couple in tow, to trace the dogs steps back towards where we first saw it, and discovered that there was a small park in the area.  Crossing the road to the park, dog obediently trotting at my side, I met a man with a dog.  'Excuse me,' I said 'I don't suppose you know this dog do you?'

Despite the crazy question from an obviously mad woman, he considered the dog and said eventually 'Do you know, I think I do...it belongs to an old woman and they walk in this park. Glued to each others sides they are... But she's not there now - I've been all around it and I haven't seen her today...She's quite distinctive, she has white hair and wears a black coat...'  'Do you think its the Queen?' said my friend in a stage whisper...

Agreeing to inform the old lady if he saw her of our plans to take the dog to a welfare centre, we went on our way, where a lone fisherman said that he also recognised the dog but didn't know where the owner lived.  In the meantime, the young woman was on her sixth call, patiently wading through the modern telephone systems that make our lives easier...

As the dog was a slow walker, and the party was nearing the end, one of the mummies went back to rescue the kids from being magicked into a top hat, and the other scooted round the rest of the park where someone else said that they knew the dog but not the owner.  Eventually the call came that said a dog warden was on his way.  The young couple lived in a flat nearby, and offered to take the dog with them (as long as it didn't eat their rabbit).  As it had already demolished a granola bar that I had found in my handbag (well, no-one else was going to eat it...) I thought it highly unlikely, and she promised to call me as soon as the warden arrived.

On going back through the town the man with the dog popped his head out of a pub door.  'Did you find her, love?' he asked with concern, as I shook my head.

I never did get that phone call, and can only hope that sometime, somewhere, that little old dog was reunited with its elderly owner, and  that nothing had happened to the elderly owner to make it go off for help in the first place, or indeed that nothing happened to the elderly owner on discovery that her companion was missing.

It's made me do one thing though today - I'm introducing Muttley by name to every dog walker we stop to talk to.  You never know when it might come in handy...

Dogs of War

For some time now when out on a walk I have been letting Muttley off the lead in short bursts and then recalling him – just so that he has a chance to prove himself and I have less of an arm stretching every time he sees another dog or squirrel.  This wouldn’t have happened at all if I hadn’t discovered the power of the stick.  This is not as bad as it sounds.  Rather like my eldest son who goes into ‘Xbox stare’ to the exclusion of everything else - including dinner – Muttley gets the same intense look whenever you pick up a stick to throw for him.  Of course, it doesn’t have to be a stick, it could be a tennis ball or a Frisbee, but as we have only just got the hang of retrieving, and have yet to sort out Bringing it Back, let alone Dropping It, it works out cheaper the stick way.

Up in the army woodland is perfect for this– I don’t have to look too hard for a stick, and Muttley can run around freely without running the gauntlet of mums with buggies or small children which is often the way at the canal.  Of course, it is also home to the army, and so we are always on the alert for crouching soldiers, creeping platoons.

It was a lovely icy morning, all the puddles were frozen over and Muttley was intrigued that the sticks bounced across the water rather than sinking into the mud.  We rounded a hill and there, parked at the bottom, were three army trucks.  More importantly, there were three empty army trucks – which meant that the soldiers were already somewhere in the woods.  At that point we were halfway round our walk, and so as it made no sense to go on, we decided to turn back, as we knew that there hadn’t been any soldiers on the way there.

Stick, throw, stick, throw, stick, throw.  Off we went in happy companionship, Muttley staying close by, intense stare fixated on my hand.  Oblivious to everything else, it was a complete shock when  mid throw, the most enormous dog I have ever seen charged into me, knocking me flat on to my back into a muddy (and very cold) puddle.  As I sat there dripping, this new acquaintance looked at me in great joy and snatched the stick from my hand.  In great frustration Muttley launched himself at the newcomer, wanting his stick back.  At that moment the owners came into view.  A little retired couple, still looking bemused at the fact that their small puppy had turned into Clifford the big red dog, apologized for the fact that their bull mastiff had knocked me to the ground and was proceeding to use me as a lollipop. 

Following our previous tracks into deep woodland, imagine my thoughts when we careered into a whole load of soldiers, who had obviously circumnavigated us the first time, but closed in on us on the return journey.  Too late, I realized that they also had with them a golden Labrador.  I’m not sure what its role as an army dog was, but as soon as it saw Muttley, it gave an excited yap and cannonballed towards us.  Muttley leapt deftly out of the way – but I wasn’t so lucky – and ended up back in a puddle. The leader of the troops, sensing from the stifled sniggers of his men that he was not only losing control of his dog, was getting more and more impatient with the Labrador, and so as I stood up dripping, wiping my mudspattered hair to one side, I held up a stick from the puddle and shouted ‘Muttley!’ At the same point the leader shouted ‘Stand down men!’, and Muttley, seeing a chance to play, play, play started barking at the relaxing soldiers. ‘Muttley!’ I shouted, waving my stick in vain, as the Labrador rounded on me excitedly again, and so I threw it for him.

‘I’m so sorry Ma’am’ blustered the soldier ‘He’s only young and he’s still in training – Marley, come here boy!’ 

‘Don’t worry’, I said, ‘Have you seen mine?!’  My guard dog was at this moment on his back, eyes rolling ecstatically as his tummy was rubbed by one of the soldiers…

As we advanced soggily homewards I wondered at the larger role of dogs in society – guide dogs, hearing dogs, police dogs and even army dogs. Highly tiring,(and embarrassing), to keep and train as youngsters, with care they become Man’s best friend and protector. Who knows, that seemingly uncontrollable yellow ball of boundless energy may one day end up somehow saving the lives of all of those men who had spent time and energy training with him in the woods.  And mine?  Well, still a work in progress…