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…

Territorial Army

When you are a mother of three boys, most people look at you pityingly and ask ‘Did you ever want a girl?’  Now this is a kind of pointless question to ask, as the laws of nature pretty much dictate what you are going to get, but actually, it would be lying to say that at no point had I entertained the idea that there may be a pink bedroom in the house.  Indeed, I will go so far as to say that once Little Man was born, and the euphoria at seeing his squashed up grumpy face had subsided into the Sore Boob and Sleepless phase, I did have a little wail.  ‘No one will remember my birthday… I’ve got no one to go shopping with… the house will smell of sweaty socks and Man Gas’ and so on.  G just raised his eyebrows, patted me on the arm and went off to make me a cup of tea until I came to my senses again.

But I couldn’t be more wrong.  You see, to a boy, as a mum you are his first love.  All three of mine as under fives have asked me to marry them, and got very upset when I said that I was already married.  All three of them say that I am the best cook in the world.  I have been presented with lovingly crafted bits of junk from clay (for keeping my jewelry in), countless Hama bead keyrings that fall apart in my handbag, pictures galore in which I feature with brown hair, blue hair, green eyeshadow, a variety of exotic outfits more befitting Carmen Miranda and lots of little notes.  And every birthday I get a bunch of flowers, a cake and depending on who has gone shopping with G, a hand chosen selection of things that I didn’t know I wanted. 

And now Eldest Son is taller than me, he has started to become quite protective of me, preferring to shelter me from the slings and arrows of  life.  Middle Son is flexing his pre-teen muscles and so poor old Dad gets that Alpha Male confrontation we see in every David Attenborough show, but which I escape by virtue of being female.  And Little Man still wants to marry me (or possibly one of the many girls he knows… but at least I feature in the list).

But of course I have another pre-teen in the house and that is Muttley.  Rapidly rounding the corner to a year old, he has got taller, filled out more and he’s developed a deep bark that he uses to great effect – even frightening himself sometimes.  He is still gentle and very soppy, and hasn’t got to that stage which has been so perfectly encapsulated in Meet the Fokkers with the dog and the toy.  But he has teeth.  And these became apparent one day when we went on a walk to the tennis courts.

The boys were messing around playing on the local tennis courts, it was a lovely afternoon and so I took Muttley for a little walk on the field next to them.  I was very proud of myself because I was wearing my brand new wellies, which were fetchingly attractive in a faux fur edging.  There was another dog, an enormous boxer, which was playing ball with his owner at the other edge of the field.  Muttley had his intense stare fixated on the stick that I had in my hand and so he was not at all interested in the other dog.  But the boxer made a beeline for us, and so I put on my most winning smile (funny what you do to dogs) as he was really rather big and battle scarred.  He completely ignored me, did the dog-to-tail dance with Muttley, and then for some indescribable reason, came and stood by my side, looking at his owner.

Within 30 seconds, I realised what he was doing.  He had cocked his leg, and was peeing on one of my furry wellies. Warm fluid ran down my leg.

I yelped and leapt back, his owner started running towards us, Muttley started barking frantically to protect my honour and the dog pounced on him. Within seconds they were rolling on the ground in snarls and bites, as the other owner launched himself on his dog, grappling with him.  He had not brought a lead, and after apologizing profusely, frogmarched his dog back to the car, both hobbling. Muttley was totally unscathed, and sat there panting as the boys ran up to see if we were all right.  They all high fived the dog for his part in protecting Mummy and fussed round me.  

 

My very own little Territorial Army.

 

Lost and Found

I was in the school car park one morning and noticed one of the mummies, T, looking a little bewildered. Now I knew that she hadn’t lost her car, as it is one of the biggest in the school (and she was standing by it), but she looked forlorn and so I approached her and enquired what was the matter. Her reply surprised me somewhat, ‘I’ve lost a Lettuce’ she announced, ‘It was in my shopping, in the back of the car, and now I can’t find it…’ and off she wandered.

 

Now on reflection this is not as strange as it may sound.  Often I have lost things in the back of my car and indeed my house, never to be seen again.  Anyone with a child will be familiar with the cry ‘MUUUUUM, where’s my…..’ and often the object in question is less than two feet away from the questioner.  I regularly ‘lose’ things in my fridge – a tasty bit of Camembert, or a bar of chocolate gets hidden at the back (where G doesn’t tend to find it) - for a quick secret snack. Middle Son regularly ‘loses’ his toothbrush, only to have his mum triumphantly ‘find’ a new one from a pack she has in the bathroom, Little Man loses nothing – even when he has – proclaiming that he knows where it is, even when he doesn’t…and Eldest Son this week announced that he had lost his games shirt.  This is the same games shirt that has survived multiple rugby matches, several hundred miles on a school bus and a severe dunking in a weir on the River Thames, and yet it is lost somewhere in our house…Mind you, this is still not bad, as two of the mums I know have yet to find full games kits- still in their bags- left on public transportation.  

 

And when it comes to animal ownership, the game of Lost and Found ramps up even more.  Pre-Muttley, we had the cats, a goldfish and a hamster.  The cats regularly found things to bring in to the house, even things that weren’t lost, like mice and pigeons, sometimes still alive and a little confused to be plonked underneath a sofa.  The goldfish lived in a permanent state of surprise as he swam in and out of his SpongeBob Squarepants castle. With a memory of less than 30 seconds, he lost his house…and then found it again…lost it…and oh joys, there it was again!  He forgot he hated the fish food, and then found out that he did… and so on.  The hamster went through a Houdini phase and worked out how to open the top loading door of her cage, and I luckily used to find her before the cats did  – once she was following me down the stairs.  We solved that problem by weighting the door with the heaviest book to hand, and by the time she died at a ripe old age she had devoured nearly two thirds of the Encylopedia of Wartime Machinery.

The kids came downstairs one day to feed the fish and shouted ‘Mum, we’ve lost the goldfish!’ Thinking that we had a death on our hands, I approached them with what I thought was a sympathetic look on my face, until I realised that Ringo had actually done a bunk.  We searched everywhere… and found him under the telly still alive.  Who knows how he got there – but TomCat was looking very pleased with himself …

I brought up a piece of toast two weeks ago to Little Man as I needed to get him out of bed and somewhere fairly fast. Putting it down in his room I announced that he had ten minutes to turn it all around and then walked out.  Lo and behold, in ten minutes he was downstairs and asking what was for breakfast. Exasperated I ran upstairs and could I find the toast – no – could I find the plate – no… (He had a new piece of toast in the car…)  Tidying up his room today I was a little distracted by some of his old school work (what would a teacher have thought as he scrawled I love my Mummy because she lets me get the washing out of the washing machine and put it in the tumble drier) and noticed too late that Muttley was happily chowing down on something.  He had found the two week old fluffy toast – it was under the bed, still on its plate.

I never did discover if T found her lettuce…

 

Raining Ducks and Dogs

I'm not sure what has been going on with the Great British Summer this year - but yesterday was another Don't Bother Drying Your Hair Before Going Out days.  Muttley is very partial to jumping in puddles - so imagine his delight when the normal puddles suddenly turned into mini lakes overnight due to the constant downpours. 

Unfortunately, it also confused a pair of very elderly ducks, who were sailing serenely in a puddle as Muttley charged towards them.

Out for a duck I think...

Lookalikes

There is a fun old adage that owners look like their dogs. A long time BC (before children) and indeed BG (before I met and married G), I lived in London like so many fun loving early twenty somethings.  I roomed with a South African girl, thrown together in the common misfortune of having nowhere to live and working together.  It was all a little odd really, we had so much but so little in common, and our house became a melting pot of waifs and strays from all over the world, some of whom remain my best friends today. 

 

C was a little older than me, but not much, and she had the added advantage of having been married once already – which in my eyes made her a terribly sophisticated woman about town.  She was very driven in her career, and although we started out in the same job, I realized that peddling pensions was not really my thing and moved on quickly to something else – but she was soon a manager.  Her job necessitated meeting very different people, and some of them became her friends.

One such couple she met was heading rapidly towards their mid forties and bred Akitas –Japanese fighting dogs who look cute but have all the tenacity of the Terminator once focused.  Blonde, tall and lean, the L’s  looked more like brother and sister, and adored their dogs.  They foisted all their love and attention on their Sami and Ninja, the fluffballs with teeth – in an attempt to detract from the real heartache, that they had been trying unsuccessfully for years to have a child of their own.

This is where C came in, with her no nonsense approach, she carved into their finances and worked out an ‘IVF’ fund for them.  Within two tries the woman was pregnant and we were all delighted for them (despite swearing that we would never have kids, urgh, the very thought etc.)  C got a call from the hospital and once Mrs L was back at home three of us from the house piled into my antiquated car and drove round to see the new arrival.  Gay D (a Greek guy who had recently joined us, only came along for the ride because he was incurably nosey and loved looking into people’s houses), C and myself, looked down at the baby lying in its newly bought, no expense spared, hand smocked crib.

The child lay asleep, a shock of black hair crowning its head, dark lashes fronding the slits of his closed eyes.  His skin was tanned and firm, his mouth moving mechanically in a sucking motion as he snoozed.  Now when you are twenty something, and a little hungover, you don’t necessarily have the social etiquette to deal with the situation.  The fact of the matter is, the baby looked nothing like its parents – not one jot, nada…  (Gay D swept me to one side and whispered ‘Do you think the hospital mixed the babies up?’ and winced as I jabbed him hard in his ribs with my elbow.)  The new parents huddled round the crib, looking anxiously at our reactions.

Clearing his throat the father said ‘So who do you think he looks like?’ It was clearly bothering them too, and was a plea for reassurance, as they watched us just a little too closely. With a bark,  Sami bounded in, his black hair bushy around his ears, sparkling eyes darkly outlined in the eyeliner which Mother Nature has granted all animals except humans.  Grasping at straws, C said the first thing that came into her head ‘He looks like the dog!’

There was a stunned silence, except for Gay D who gave a theatrical gasp.

Then both parents burst into broad grins as they turned ecstatically to one another. ‘That’s what we said!’ ‘How amazing!’ ‘Isn’t it brilliant?’ and so the excited chatter went on.

The rest of us looked at each other in incredulity. 

Needless to say, over the next few months the baby’s hair turned into a golden halo of curls and his jaundice disappeared, replaced by delicious pudgy fat pinkness.  He was the spitting image of both of his parents, and now today should himself be in his early twenties.

So when you next see an overwieght Jack Russell wheezing next to its equally rotund lady owner, or a lean anoracked walker with rucksack and lurcher, or a beagle trotting next to a Surrey Mummy with a bob, remember, there is another adage ‘There’s nowt as strange as folk’ -  and at least they’re happy!

 

 

 

The Aftermath

Do you know how you would react in a crisis?  I think most people, hand on heart, would like to think that they would be unflappable, keep a cool head, and take charge in a manner that others would admire, and in time emulate.  In actual fact, there is no way of telling how your mind and body will cope, and one can only hope that somehow you can get through that moment in time, and eventually move forwards.

Our crisis happened just over three weeks ago, when I got the call that every Mother dreads – “There’s been an Accident”.  At that moment, the everyday sounds surrounding me- arguing between Middle Son and Little Man over an xbox game, builders shouting to one another over a neighbours hedge, Muttley snoring gently at my feet -all of those faded, as if a mute button had been hit.  Eldest Son had been involved in a boating accident, and although the others had been recovered, he had been reported missing.

The rest of the evening went by in an organised blur – I remember ordering the two youngest to get into the car, whilst throwing all the coats we owned into the boot, plus for some reason, an enormous bar of chocolate… I remember that Middle Son took over the Sat Nav as I set off shakily to God Knows Where in rapidly descending darkness, and he took the blame without tears as I made wrong turnings and sharply reprimanded him. I remember the sight of Eldest Son in hospital, pale, covered in blood soaked blankets, surrounded by strangers, yet determined not to cry, until he saw me and broke down. He had been rescued and revived by two members of the public to whom we will always be eternally grateful. His experience involved police, helicopter ambulances, plastic surgery and the Press – and yet Eldest Son emerged a hero, unscathed by trauma and with a fabulous scar.

Suffice to say that over the past few weeks our little family unit has been tested to the limit, and grown stronger because of it. During the first few days we kept checking on each other, not quite believing that we were all together.  I barely slept, tears never far from my eyes, G wandered around in a daze.  Well meaning friends and family simply sent texts, or cards.  We couldn’t talk. 

But life goes on.  School days continued. Muttley still had to be walked, and three days after the accident Eldest Son accompanied me, looking tired from the 20-30 tablets that he had had daily, but taking a fresh enjoyment in his surroundings, and the playfulness of the dog. Little things become milestones in your life. Perhaps realizing that he was incapacitated in one arm, perhaps as a result of now being nearly 9 months old, Muttley for the first time started to bring the stick back to him once it was thrown.  That walk was the first in which we used one stick from beginning to end – and it went into the car on the journey back as a little trophy.

No, you never can tell how you would react in a crisis – but I am enormously proud of my family for how they handled themselves… I guess in our own ways we have all grown up little over the past few weeks…      

The Food Chain

Little Man asked me yesterday what Eco Friendly meant, and this necessitated a whole lecture from his obliging mother on the Eco System, the Environment and the Food Chain.  He was bored within twenty seconds of my starting, and his mind quite visibly jumped out of his head and ran amongst the bushes with the puppy, but he nodded knowledgeably as I rambled on. Realising that I had lost my audience, I then offered him a manky mini mars bar that I found in my pocket and he was alert again – offering me the wrapper because it was ‘Eco-friendly to do so.’  Job done.

Pre- Muttley (or 2012 PM as we like to allude to it – G with some fondness for the good ol’ days…) the cats had the run of the house, and were pretty much fed on demand as none of us could ever keep track on who had fed who, when.  The on tap food was so good that they began to invite in their friends, and often we would stagger down in the morning to make the coffee to find an uninvited guest kipping on the sofa or staring miserably at the empty food bowls.  It was worse really, to see their gratitude at this munificent time of feasting – as it inevitably involved the bringing of presents… Now those of you who have cats will know exactly what I mean…

It all started with a leaf.  A very excited kitten chased and caught a leaf and brought it indoors after parading it outside in front of his sister.  Of course we all cooed and praised him and took pictures of the leaf. Then one night we woke up to the wet whoomp thwack, whoomp thwack across our wooden bedroom floor of a startled frog trying to get away from the cats.  We have had dead pigeons, half dead pigeons, pigeons trying to make a break for it as one opens the door, and of course, hundreds of mice.  My dining room curtains have been pulled down three times by excited cats trying to get a mouse escapee who is hiding in the lining.  Lap Cat will sit for hours focusing her intent stare on a corner of the room –which we all instinctively avoid.  I have had mice leap into my lap, run over my feet and there is absolutely nothing worse than standing on a dead mouse in your slipper first thing in the morning. 

They even managed to drag a chicken carcass through the cat flap.  Unless they have mastered cookery, one assumes it was the remnants of someone’s Sunday Roast, but it wasn’t ours and wasn’t pleasant… Then there was the day when I was searching for a shoe under our bed, and amongst the usual detritus of sluts fluff and bits of lego, there was a animal in full rigor mortis – its face set in a rictus snarl.  It was huge.  All senses leaving my mind (it was, after all, dead) I screamed to G that they had brought in a rat.  In actual fact it was more amazing than that – it was actually a dead grey squirrel, bushy tail and all.  We still don’t know how it got there – alive it would have put up quite a fight and our cats were as glossy and unscarred as normal, and dead it would have been quite a two cat job trying to negotiate the solid beastie through the cat flap.

So there is a benefit to Muttley joining the crew.  The cats now live upstairs and come down first thing in the morning and last thing at night for food.  They punish us for bringing the dog into their lives by not bringing us presents any more, and Muttley loves nothing more than cleaning out the cat bowls once he is allowed up to start the day.  TomCat views him with dislike from behind the stair gate as the familiar clack clack of a metal cat bowl being rammed against a skirting board in the quest for the last lick begins.  And then it is Muttley’s turn for food, and after speed eating his biscuits he hovers hopefully in the kitchen for extra bonuses throughout the day. 

He is partial, as you know, to cheddar, absolutely loves peeled clementines, and goes potty for the leftover meat that Middle Son suddenly seems to have left on his plate after every dinner.  He eats the raw bits of broccoli that kamikaze off the chopping board on to the floor, the toast crusts that fail to land in the bin and puppy school is the best ever – because of the treats. So understandably the cats are getting miffed, but accept that if they won’t come downstairs, they don’t get the previous benefits.

But they have been cooking up a plan… and this came into fruition last night.  After an evening of pure cat love, where we were jumped on, batted playfully and purred at constantly, we woke up this morning to a dead mouse lovingly placed just outside our door.

Going down to feed them, they ate with little evil smirks on their faces.  Muttley came charging out and they hovered by the bannister of the stairs watching.  He finished off their breakfast, as I staggered over to fill his food bowl.  He backed off with a yelp, me with a shriek.

There in his food bowl was a dead mouse. 

I imagined the cats doing a high five and sniggering all the way back upstairs…

Puppy Training

Rather like when one has a baby and is immediately asked whether it is sleeping through the night, one of the first things you hear when you get a new puppy is ‘When are you starting training lessons?’ Both questions are, I am afraid, inevitable, but hopefully not inextricable, and definitely not mutually exclusive.  The day after we got Muttley, we actually got asked both questions by the same person.  This either meant that she was genuinely concerned for our welfare, or that she wasn’t sure which one was appropriate in the circumstances.  Needless to say, the dog has never had a problem sleeping, and indeed puts himself to bed in his covered crate at 9.15 on the dot every night, stirring at 7.30 the next morning. He sleeps better than anyone else in the house…

On the training front however, I wasn’t sure exactly how we were doing, and so as soon as I could I booked into a training class that started in the New Year. Muttley at 7 months is now nearly full size, and getting stronger by the day, and although very good on walks, coming back the majority of times – I still cannot hand on heart swear that his recall is 100%, and it only takes the once to cause chaos.  However, dog trainers are a breed unto themselves, and so I looked around very carefully before picking an evening class run by a trainer that had been recommended to me.

The morning walk went well that day.  I was strolling along with Muttley and Middle Son, who was taking a break from revision and throwing sticks happily for the dog to fetch, but not bring back (we are still working on that one).  Behind us we could hear some shouting and a man appeared with four leads around his neck and the same amount of dogs charging ahead of him.  Two shot off into the bushes despite his repeated yells to ‘Come Back’. Two, a curly haired labradoodle and a very smiley black dog came bounding towards us, with Smiley sitting down by me whilst Curly mounted him energetically.  Middle Son began to giggle whilst I adapted what I hoped was a neutral expression and Muttley came in curiously for a closer look.  ‘Stop It!’ yelled the man in embarrassment as he neared us, and we began to move off, Middle Son throwing a stick for Muttley which broke his concentration on his biology lesson as he charged after it.

‘Don’t throw the stick!’ yelled the man angrily.  I looked back at him.  Now those of you who have met me, know that Shrinking and Violet are not words that I would put down when describing my personality.  My language (being of part Irish descent) has also been called colourful, amongst other things, and Middle Son looked at me cautiously as I stood tapping my foot and waiting for Yeller.  I can only say that as he launched into reasons why I shouldn’t throw a stick for my dog whilst other dogs are coming towards him (it could cause a fight etc.) I thanked him ever so much for his advice, but I had instinctively felt sure that his dogs would be okay, as I was certain that if he had seen us throwing sticks as he came up, he would have put any problem dog on a lead.  Going a little red he said angrily ‘I do know what I’m talking about, I’m a dog trainer you know’ and off he went, shouting as Curly and Smiley started up their lovefest again in some undergrowth.  For the remainder of the walk all we could hear was his shouting and a dog whistle being blown in an attempt to round up his dogs.

I have no objection to be given advice, but not to be yelled at - the fact of the matter was that he had said that he was a dog trainer, and I hoped fervently that our evening training session wouldn’t reveal him to be ours…

We turned up, Little Man and I, to a hall, entering through the side door with a small brown terrier-like puppy. The floor was slippery and the puppies scitter scattered towards one another, straining at their leashes. Muttley looked huge as Hanks’ parents confirmed that he too was 7 months old and very feisty (despite recently being neutered) with an enormous small man syndrome, snarling and yapping at our pup.  Then in came Willow, a very dippy looking tiny English Bull Terrier puppy, who would apparently reach about 3 stone at her peak.  A big bouncy Rottweiler puppy came bounding in and Muttley and he charged around in a tangle of leads and bottoms.  Last to arrive was a beagle, with that mopey, dopey hang dog look and two anxious looking parents.  (Having had a beagle in the past I knew how they felt…)

The trainer turned out to be a lively woman who dispensed with our specially bought-to-impress organic dog biscuits and quickly got us all sorted out with smelly treats of cheese and frankfurters. We started on the basic training Sit, Down, Stand. 

The Rottie and Muttley got the hang of it easily, with Muttley utterly confused (but absolutely delighted) why he was suddenly being given treats for doing things he had been doing for months. Willow kept on scrambling into her mothers lap, yawning, and was more interested in batting her eyelashes at Muttley. Hanks had no idea what to do, so started barking madly, chasing his tail and snapping at  Luigi the beagle, who it turned out was actually blind.  Now whereas a blind beagle sounds like the stuff of farce, I suddenly had enormous respect for his owners who had voluntarily taken on a disabled puppy. The trainer spoke gently to him and within minutes he was literally eating out of her hand. Luckily he had a great sense of smell, so the treats were successful, but it soon became apparent to me that the trainer was actually training us as puppy parents rather than the dogs.

This suspicion was confirmed when she gave us a sheet of homework, with the explanation that if we didn’t do it, the dogs would tell us at the next session...and they wouldn’t get their certificate of training at the end of the course. Little Man rolled his eyes as if to say what would Muttley do with a certificate (well, we can hazard a guess), but of course none of us parents wanted to be the one that didn’t pass – so she was on to a good thing.

We got home, I was covered in dog hair, and Muttley was waddling with a big ball of cheese forming in his stomach, panting happily.  Little Man started cutting something out of cardboard.  What was he doing? Creating a frame for Muttley’s certificate (when he got it) to hang on his crate. 

I guess if he wakes earlier than 7.30 in the morning, at least he will have something to look at and admire until his family gets up…