Spooks and Spaniels
I have finally solved the ‘Poltergeist that turns the kettle on’ mystery. I had not told anybody else my concerns, just in case it really is the final nail in the coffin and I am carted off to the nearest loony bin (and yes there are quite a few round here) screaming and kicking. Now I don’t drink tea. I occasionally go through the healthy farce of buying loads of exotic sounding brews but really I think they are all yucky and I shall just stick to wine, gin and coffee (and lots of water…honest) so when the kettle is chugging away happily steaming up the kitchen windows in its happy effort to make hot water and its various tea drinking owners happy and there is no one in the house but me I was getting a bit concerned.
Since in the same time frame Mum has been visited by a ghost dog during the night, it had all started to feel a bit spooky. It’s a very old house and with Mum’s quarter space being the oldest of the building (300 years old and counting) then it kinda made sense that she might be haunted but the 1970’s extension kitchen? However it’s a very mundane outcome…the kettle lives next door to the cat food bowl (yes we feed our cats ON the worktop, otherwise there is no hope in hades for the poor felines to get even a morsel of food with six bouncy Spaniels anywhere in the vicinity). Sky the Springer can walk along on her back legs perusing the work surface as she goes, flopping her paws in a vain attempt to drag the cat food towards her and (of course in retrospect) turning the kettle on by accident.
With that rather boring outcome I turned my attention to mine, Billy and Bubbles nighttime shenanigans. To which, I hasten to add, that I have not come to an adequate solution as of yet. My very well behaved dogs who, of course, sleep in their own beds and never ever bounce enthusiastically on my sleeping head, are quite light sleepers and easily roused by the slightest ‘out of place’ noise.
Over the last few weeks: in the deepest darkest dream filled drowsy moment I have been rudely awakened by anxious dogs hurriedly telling me that there was something out of place in their nighttime nirvana. The first few times I crossly hissed at them to be quiet and leave me alone, until the night I heard it too. Sitting bolt upright in bed, I heard the scratching and scratching moving along under the floorboards….the dogs finally seeing that I was paying attention to their quest eagerly joined me on all fours. As a team we edged round the room, shuffling along ears pressed close to the floor, pausing in joint suspension waiting for the noise to return. When it did, we all three shot backwards at a speed previously unknown to all three of us, and crouched bundled into a startled ball in a far (dusty) corner of the room.
Then it became very quiet. Apart from the staggered nervous breathing apparently coming from me nothing else could be heard. And nothing else was heard for a long long while. We eventually gave up and all got back into our respective beds. And so the nights went on. There always came a point, just when I had finally relaxed and had dozed off to that miracle of a place ‘where every sentence doesn’t start with ‘MUM!!!!’ or ‘BABE!!!! that I would be whacked awake by a volley of stressed woofing and whining, and so the farce continues. I have worked out that the noise is created by a small world of little mice rushing about their night time business in their planet under the floorboards, but apart from pulling up a board and sticking one of the cats down there with them I am yet to come up with a solution that the RSPCA would approve of….and as for the Ghost Dog, well that’s another story in itself.
July 2012
The Riding Lesson
I am a very slow learner – people instruct me, the words go into my brain but do not follow through into bodily actions. I do wonder why I make myself learn things that I am clearly not a natural at. I spent year and years working my way up to a black belt in Tae Kwon Do: better people came and went; I returned home bruised, tired, slightly deflated but still carried on.
But with my horses I have been having lessons for decades, it is a skill that only the great and the good really master I tell myself as I am picked up and put back on. I started learning to ride in primary school, had my first pony (in London) when I was 11 and have had horses on and off since then. But I still need lessons. If I was happy (and I probably should be) pottering around on country lanes on a nice safe sensible horse then I would be ok, but I seem determined to jump over things on my horses. I don’t think I actually understand why but I just do.
Hence every Saturday our horse box is filled up with horses, ponies, saddles, all matter of body protectors and gear, children, toys, food, dogs, and occasionally my Mother and off we rock to a friend’s yard where she keeps her (and other peoples) horses and their rather lovely (soft) outdoor ménage.
Here lessons are held by one of the rudest men I have ever wanted to call a friend., I, since I am the senior of the day, get slightly less verbal abuse than the others but I still get a bollocking if I do something wrong. I am made to do ridiculous things (jumping with eyes shut and letting go of the reins on my high powered German machine and end up having a panic attack when I actually stay on for a change). Adam is also subjected to a lesson on his pony Amber – he doesn’t really LOVE it, which is a great shame because he is really good. I think he is annoyed that his sisters being so much small just get led round on a pony chattering away but he is in with adults. However he is surrounded by young pretty girls with flowing locks hopping on their horses so there are some good things for him to muse over.
Tabitha and Matilda spend most of their time here stealing better food from other people’s picnics, annoying the Brave Miss Boggis who they adore with a passion and charging around bare foot despite what I scream at them. Adam hangs out with the grown-ups who treat him like an adult which is another which he seems to like and the biggest outcome of the weekend was that he won his first ‘First’ rosette the next day – sometimes Mums are right.
September 2012
Noises Off….
I can now breathe. Blue and Billy’s litter of nine have all been accounted for by (hopefully) happy families. It is not the pressure of selling the beautiful pups that stresses me out, it is trying to exude a calm, dignified, rural rustic bliss to all prospective Springer owners when they come to visit.
My first concern is making sure all the dogs are ‘away’, not everybody I have found finds being greeted by my 7 bouncing happy canine faces is a good start to the process of meeting and greeting. It would a seem a simple process one would consider, putting the dogs in the house behind various closed doors and corridors, issuing hissed venomous statements to various members of the family not to open said doors releasing the beasts. The dogs, naturally, consider this some form of ‘Crystal Maze’ game and like to find their way through the snaking dark corridors into the daylight beyond, belting out to find me whilst wildly barking their pleasure at beating one at their own game. If a prospective buyer does not flinch at this delude of dogs then I know that we are all on the same game card.
My second concern is my family; I would feel this goes without saying. The kids are virtually banned from meeting anyone who has any remote thought of buying a puppy. It is not that I have anything to hide, I just don’t feel that everybody needs to know that Billy is busy dissecting something dead on my bed or that Bubbles has eaten yet another pair of knickers.
These statements are always presented to me in a high clear voice, with just a hint pride at their cleverness (dogs and their selves). Tabitha happily snuck through my radar yesterday to announce that the septic tank was over flowing AGAIN and Matilda was considering using an old fishing net to catch the unmentionables. Fortunately the lovely people here were more concerned that their toddler was partially stuck in a tree than to listen to Tabitha’s gleeful remarks.
And so we carry on. With puppies being weaned my life is now centered around the stuff than can hit the fan. Until next time, of course.
February 2013
What is it life? You meet someone and everything looks like it’s coming up roses with babies and a brand you exciting way of life but then you realise that neither of you are happy. The upshot of this is Husband and I are no more. The children brave it out – Adam goes to live with his Dad and Tabby and Tilly stay with me – a new chapter begins for all of us I guess.
Now our life is becoming solely around the dogs – there are dogs in every conceivable chair, sofa, and room…Springers and Cockers have taken over the house.
March 2013
Mid Life Crisis…
There have been some days recently when I just wonder ‘why?’, and when no one or nothing answers me I just carry on with a stoic air (and possibly a slight sulk). Due to some ‘financial difficulties’ (which is the polite term for being ‘effing’ broke) a lot has changed. Mother in her infinite wisdom is selling everything and anything on EBay in her usual fashion in order to help me make ends meet. I do try to turn a blind eye when I see her wandering past carrying an odd assortment of bits and bobs, silver ‘Georg Jensen’ salad servers anyone? Fake gold Rolex? I did have to wrestle one of the kids laptops off her though which, for someone of 76, was surprisingly hard to do. However there are various dust free places, and clean paint on walls where there occupants have been removed for re-sale and since it is for the general well-being of the family I am just going to go with the ‘shut up and get on with it’ philosophy.
In the light of this my beloved horse-box had to go. I actually cried. Then picked myself up and went and bought 1973 Land Rover station wagon from which I am now busy channeling Felicity Kendall in ‘The Good Life’. To add to the effect I have re-jigged my wardrobe from 1940’s Land girl (so last year) to’ shabby country chic’ which means I am in my element of not having to brush my hair too often or worry that my jeans have yet another hole in them. Have not got quite to the point of re-naming myself ‘Barbara’ (the inner Margo in me is a little too snotty for that) but am on the lookout for my version of ‘Tom’ to help me pull my rather fading Small Holding back on track.
So with my horses gone on a long-term holiday (and apparently so happy that they have no intention of coming back), the pigs safely tucked away in the freezer and a much reduced flock of hens (not a good story) the holding is looking rather lacklustre. But today I feel better. Something inexplicable has changed and as they say ‘things can only get better’….I do hope that is right….
April 2013
A Shetland Love Affair
It’s official. There is love after sheep. Elvis (the Shetland pony for those who are new) has long been known as one sheep pony which, although possibly slightly odd, made perfect sense to me seeing they shared the same stable and love of midnight meanderings.
It was a few weeks back when, on going out to check the water situation in the main field, that I noticed it was all very quiet on the animal front. So quiet that is was completely desolate. The initial phone call to the police went something like this: Hi, this is Anne-Marie from The Old Forge in Brampton (long silence from female police officer as though she was recoiling in polite horror dreading the next thing I was going to say to her) I have lost my small holding stock (more silence) – that will be one sheep, two goats and a Shetland. Now, gaining confidence the officer spoke ‘what do they look like?’. The next two minutes were a garbled mess as I attempted to describe what made my animals different from any one else’s. To me it was perfectly obvious that a herd such as this, even if travelling partially across country, would be quite noticeable. Apparently not.
Several hours down the line and with the aid of my lovely friend Rianna who is always my optimistic rock in these cases, we had searched hill and dale, barn yard and field to no avail. Just as I was about to give up and was desperately trying to find a way to explain to Matilda how her darling pony has disappeared a very chuffed sounding police officer phoned to say that a group matching my description had been sighted a few miles North in someone back garden.
And there they stood. As though it was perfectly normal for them to be eating prize dahlias in a semi-detached back garden. However Elvis took one look at Rianna, and since clearly scarred by the idea that she was the one who taught Matilda to ride on him and had actually forced him into having a saddle put on and doing what he was initially expected to do (and not wander round getting portly and chatting up sheep) that he decided to bugger off as fast and as far as he could in the opposite direction to us both (of course with Lambert and goats in tow) out of the garden and into a rather large field behind the house.
Several hours later and without Rianna (someone had to do the school run) I eventually cornered them all, hooked leads onto the goats collars (you see people scoffed at me putting collars on my goats but it paid off!), got a head collar and lead rope on Elvis and just hoped Lambert would follow. And so we trundled home, a walking cross-country Nativity scene.
I would like to say that was a one off affair. But I can’t. So my new tack has been to introduce another Shetland to the party. Priscilla ‘gypsy’ Presley is possibly even more belligerent than Elvis himself. I didn’t actually think that was possible. She refuses point-blank to go into a stable with him. Rears up at him if he even considers sniffing her buttocks. And leads him in a merry dance on an hourly basis. The boy
is in love.
Fences, Fields and Frustration…
With the majority of the puppies left, only the most boring of daily tasks remain, that of fence mending and building. On last count I have about 8 different types of fencing from ‘feeling flush’ a beautiful solid wood fence dividing the main field down the middle (of course it had taken Ella and Evie approximately 5 minutes to work out that given a gently canter and even when weighed down in winter rugs they could easily sore over the 4″ fence) to ‘very broke’ fencing which lived up to its name in many ways and finally the ‘Ken Millard’ memorial fence which was built and paid for by my late Fathers Rolex watch.
‘Mother’ is also an avid fence builder. Armed with tools and surrounded by interested parties and helpers she can often be seen high up in the little wooded area which borders our boundary line. This dividing line of fence is our ‘Berlin Wall’. Without it the goats, sheep and Elvis can meander and sneak their way down to the house and happily munch anything and everything in sight. Elvis will stand as close to her as possible with little equine puffs of interest into her ear. He does occasionally magically reappear on the other side of the fence, equally interested but never seemingly surprised at my Mothers yell of frustrated indignation as she has to stomp off and find out exactly where he managed to sneak through.
On a final note I have to say how impressed I was by the new Tesco delivery man. Not only did he find the house (which is surprisingly hard given the postcode usually directs people 5 miles North) but without my realizing it he must of negotiated Elvis, Priscilla, Lambert and the 2 goats plus a smattering of the dogs. All done with a smile and grace. Go Tesco!
May 2013
A cornucopia of Cockers
Jade is so heavily pregnant that she is now at the point that every move looks heartfelt and lumbering. Apart from throwing menacing glances at Teddy (JUST LOOK what you did to me you blundering oaf) our lives now revolve around each other. Whether she actually likes sleeping alongside me, watching me bath and accompanying me (and her whelping emergency kit) anywhere and everywhere I guess I will never know.
Any Mother we meet falls upon her with heartfelt memories and passion of what it was like to be at this particular stage. My eldest daughter Tabitha was early which caught me by surprise, my pregnancy with her seemed fast and furious, scoffing carrot cake and gulping lemon Fanta as I went about my work running and training with my Fitness business in central London. With Matilda on the other hand, I just sat in a chair at the 6 months stage and refused to move (seriously). I truly believe that the two such different pregnancies shaped the kids to come. Tabitha is still a fabulous high pitched full speed whirlwind of a girl, whilst Matilda is calm and collected a sticky and beautiful level headed machine of industry. Both of whom I love to bits.
This time with Jade though has given me plenty of moments to ponder over the differences between Cocker and Springer. It was not that long ago that the two (now separately recognised breeds by the Kennel Club) were actually just one. The best and most fitting description of their differences I have been told was that if you asked a Springer to jump into a freezing pond after its ball he would say to you ‘but of course’, but a Cocker would say ‘why??’. It sums them up perfectly.
Our stud Cocker Teddy is one of the sweetest natured animals you will ever meet. Having said that he is currently doing laps of the field carrying one of my muck boots. His determination to bring me my shoes has gone past normal to being maniacal. We have a constant battle. I put shoes and boots up high so he can’t reach them, he treats this like a test of some sort and is awfully pleased with himself when he manages to bark at any passing cat who will naturally jump up to said high up object, jolting my footwear to the ground, fodder for the waiting Ted.
His new trick is run off with my Mothers slippers while she is having her morning shower. These he hides and will pretend to be part of the hunt, following her quest for said shoes with an interested air. Finally he will go and get the slippers from whichever hiding place (as long as another Cocker has not found them first) and bring them to her with a look of ‘oh aren’t I a clever boy!!!?’.
Jade on the other hand likes ‘personal’ items. These as basically your life essentials. So car keys, purse, mobile phone and on one occasion my entire handbag are a cunning test for her. To her merit she never chews or bites them. Just teleports them around the house. She brings Matilda her favorite soft toys off her bed, Tabby’s pencil cases are always an interesting item. Watching Jade trying to pick up the fallen pencils is always a charming way to wile away few moments.
Now I have learnt to secrete things in ‘safe’ places (though my reputation for then finding them again is not a good one). My Mother (and the rest of us) spent a week recently searching for her car keys since she had cunningly parked her Volvo blocking in a full over flowing tip overdue for collection. It wasn’t until I had to have ‘one of those’ conversations with the nice man from Volvo, that the keys were found the next day. Unfortunately I think our reputation for odd mishaps precede me and I should gently ignore other people’s opinion of us. At least our lives are never dull.
The final cocker is the sleek and slinky ‘River’. Clearly being tutored by Teddy is not a good start in life, but for one so young I am passing off any misdemeanors as just puberty. She, like Jade, has the most enormous leap and will at a blink of an unsuspecting eye leap into your arms with gay abandon.
Their quirks are so over shadowed by the immense individual character each one has. There is no way you can be cross with them for more than a flash. Cockers just LOVE you and want to be in your arms, paws around your neck, muzzle deep into your armpits, sitting on your lap at any chance or just snoozing on your feet whilst you sit. Jade is an enormous chatter box. Once she has your attention and fixed you with a sideways gaze with her deep midnight amber eyes, she will be off describing exactly what she thinks of the day’s events and can only be placated with a cuddle. But give her a fresh smoky autumn day; let her feel the leaves crackle under her feet, and sniff the air she is all yours. Quivering with excitement from the tip of her tail through to her nose she stares at you waiting for instruction, not even an eyelash moving until told to do so It is then you realise what an amazing dog the little working Cockers are. There to love to you and there to work for you. And, of course, there to hide your belongings.
A solution
I am fed up with being nagged for more pocket money, fed up with giving girls ‘tasks’ to do and then one of them will do more than the other, then there is the tears and so on. Who knew being a fair Mother was so hard. Anyway in an attempt to increase revenue (again) I have started working all the Farmers Markets with my hand made organic gluten free tasty dog treats – cannot say I am in profit but I am meeting lots of new people (I don’t get out THAT much) and taking Tabitha and Matilda with me as ‘staff’. My final push was to hire them part of my stall for them to sell homemade sweeties and jams. Armed with a toy till, a sticky face and charm they have both worked out (horribly quickly) that if they are full of smiles and guile they produce sells out well before mine and lots of people are telling them to keep the change….
The case of the chickens
Miss R. is a bad influence on me. Most people who know we would understand the line ‘I was just thinking I might…’ probably means that I would (unless reined in by a sensible well-meaning person). The sort of person that would say ‘now why would you buy chickens before you buy the fencing for them?’. A very fair comment I believe, but a rather too grown up one for my liking.
It was a rather dreary Sunday morning here in Suffolk and since there was not too much else to do we bundled the girls (with surprisingly little amount of persuasion) into Miss R.’s (small) car. The method behind this madness was that unlike my poor long suffering Mothers Volvo in which I have transported various livestock around the county (sheep, goats and pigs) that it would be impossible for me to actually buy anything since I had no room to put it. Oh so I thought.
After mingling around the goats, sheep with funny horns and some dreamy looking pretty cattle (I have so moved on from lunching at SoHo House) we moved on to the ‘fowl’ section. And oh my goodness it was like a candy land and an enormous sweetie shop rolled into one. There were fluffy footed lavender ones, aloof creamy pale versions, delicious ducks and enormous hairy cockerels all there for my delectation. That was it. I was off. Now I am not naturally a competitive person, but put me in an auction mode surrounded by throbbing testosterone pipe smokers pushing me in places I don’t want to go, I get the wind in my sails and I am off.
Bribing the girls with ‘just bear with me a minute or two and I will buy you a hamster at some point’, I shot off into the thronging mass clutching my wad of school dinner money. In a very short time later I reemerged triumphant, disheveled and a tad sweaty. The original problem now reared its head. We had bought nothing to transport anything in. This was resolved by my actions of me trying to remove two very cross Aylesbury ducks from a cage, it was closely monitored by a bunch of hysterically giggling youths who within a matter of moments (clearly feeling very sorry for the ducks) rammed all our purchases into 7 cardboard boxes and delivered them all to the side of the car.
My daughters are long suffering angels. They are quite used to various odd things happening around them. So when they were loaded into the car with boxes of quacking, quivering, shaking and thumping stuff in between them, under their feet and stacked up over their shoulders they took the journey home and through the MacDonald’s drive in all in good humour. Did they get their hamsters? What do you think?
June 2013
Today’s conundrum
I was trying to explain to a potential puppy buyer the difference between bitch and a dog in character. I am not sure if I came across as a complete nutter…however they are still buying a dog from me though I feel I might have regain some sense of average human behavior before I am put back into the realm of ‘possibly completely normal’.
The trouble is, spending day in and day out with animals does tend to lead you into a fantasy world of Dr Doolittle. Talking to the animals is nothing compared to the fact I often find myself having an elongated conversation with Lambert using various differing tones of ‘BAAAAA’…The rest of the household have long since stopped even noticing and possibly even join in.
My daily life is now split between several camps. I have the puppies, the potential ‘Mothers to be’ and the rest of the dogs. For the sake of my sanity they are all split up into groups to which I a lot segments of time. That does sound amazingly efficient and to anyone who knows me might also sound rather disbelieving.
My original point was the difference between dog and bitch. My lovely girls follow me around in a rather unnerving fashion. As I proceed from one place to the next I have a crocodile line in order of seniority and bossiness behind me, dare I turn too quickly I find myself in a whirlpool of tails as the whole line has to rapidly change course and re group in its forward moving formation. And off we go again.
The boys have a much more disciplined way of dealing with me. Bobby completely ignores me if Mum is here, if she has had the temerity to go out, he hides sulking in the hedge by the top gate awaiting her return. Billy just sits and watches where I am off to. When I have (in his eyes) reached my destination he will then trot after me and settle down dozing whilst I complete my task. I move on, he watches, I stop and he joins me. Simple. It didn’t always work like that. When I look at the sad eyes, ears flopped trailing over the ground, muzzle on a bent paw I easily forget quite now naughty he was for a brief period of puppydom.
In a normal ‘young dog’ fashion though Teddy just runs round me in circles and I proceed forth. This is accompanied by me tripping over him and swearing. This can carry on from end of the field to the other. Add a full wheelbarrow to the equation then you can expect a much more high-pitched frenzied squeal from me. Teddy drops his ears in remorse for a split second; he then drops to the ground and then pretends to play fight a goat awaiting me telling him off. And so the game continues.
Since it’s the time of year the paintbrushes come out (i.e. its stopped raining for a few days) the dogs en masse have had to put up with less action and more static activity as they watch me paint. Billy, being the senior, knows this time of year of old and now uses his time in a more useful fashion that of digging for rats. Since we now have Mr. wonderful Pest Control Man, Billy’s quest is virtually always futile but it keeps him very busy and covered in black dust which apparently makes him very happy. The younger girls just sit and watch me in basic disbelief. Heads cocked to one side. eyes slightly narrowed their gaze follows the paint brush up and down. Sky (since sitting still is just never in her narrative) fills the time by bringing me every conceivable type or bit of ball she can possibly find. These are piled up high next to where ever I am and then stared at, with an occasional quick glimpse upwards to see whether I have actually cotton on to the amazing task she had completed.
I guess to sum up the difference is that in the long run the boys will happily lie on your feet whilst you cook, type or iron. Their devotion is of a quieter more settled form in the long run, their incredible naughtiness as puppies far seemed to outdo the sisterhood is lost in the distant memory like giving birth. The girls love and need you, want to smother you in kisses. When heavily pregnant they look up to you, listen to your footsteps across the floorboards upstairs, their tails thumping heavier as you get closer. Their faces register ‘please don’t leave me’ when you pick up your keys. Girls are chatty, happy, and occasionally awful with each other. Boys are more thoughtful, but always eager to please. I could not choose between them. You better have one of both then!
The hamster – the beginning
I have had to give in and buy hamsters…..
July 2013
Ernest
I don’t normally introduce people to such a young pup, but Ernest Winston has proved to be such a character in his first four weeks of life I feel he will need a biopic of his life in full at some point, so I might as well get started now.
His life didn’t begin well. Born 9 days early, the first (and now only) Sprocker son to highly educated, well-bred career women of a Springer, his life hung in the balance for the first couple of weeks. His Mother, Sky, would be (in real life) wearing a sharp Jaeger (or possible Vivienne Westwood) suit and a slash of classic Chanel lipstick. Her autumn weekends would be full of tweed and shooting sticks, her summers lazing on her private yacht on the French Riviera. All of which would be funded by her own serious hard work. What I mean by all of this, is that Sky had a choice she would have a fleet of highly paid nannies and she would have went back to work and regained her figure pronto. In this life she has me, and lots of tennis balls to collect.
Thus Ernie, now we know he is in fine health, is ours to keep. His gait resembles a heavy oak dining table on casters. Given a slope he can pick up quite a speed. Sideways only though. He immensely cheerful and staggers along snorting with pleasure at the sight of his Mothers full nipples charging ahead. When she finally relents and lets him catch up, he lies there rather hippo like, his bright blue eyes misted over with happiness as his slurps his way to nirvana. Presently he is sharing his kennel with his Mother and an 8 week old puppy called Ripple. Though he is actually bigger than Ripple (I do produce value for money in my pups) she is certainly more agile. Basically she leaves him standing as she flutters ahead over my Mothers precious Pansies and into the orchard. But to give him his dues he trundle along behind, his tail acting as a happy rudder, until he reaches the border of the orchard where he will stand and peer uncertainly round until he fixes in on where the action is. And then he is off again.
At this precise moment in time he is learning a valuable lesson in ‘don’t mess with the cat’. Then settling down for a moment of serious scratching and then, I expect will find his way back to his little bed where he will curl up for a much-needed nap. Destined to be a serious grown up gundog in later life I will try my best not to ruin him in the meantime by giving him stuffed squeaky toy pheasants to play with. However you have not heard the last of this gorgeous young man, watch this space
August 2013
Rivers diary
TUESDAY NIGHT
River just loves socks. Which, in the house of odd socks (58 single kids socks last count) is not a huge problem however the fact that she is heavily pregnant is leading her to behavior slightly out of the ‘norm’. Now that I am sharing my bed with this hyperactive Cocker, falling asleep whilst trying to wiggle away from her adoring company is enough without being woken in the night with her determined little snaking body under the duvet pulling my much beloved bed socks off my feet. She had obviously been working at it for a while since my toes were drenched with doggy saliva, and sock was half way off. I know this is not good dog or gundog training practice but with the thought of yet another school morning ahead with wildly over tired children and a day of poo picking and other activities I just wanted to get back to sleep so I pulled the socks off and let her have them.
WEDNESDAY NIGHT
The following night was a little more adventurous. I always say (and stand by this theory for the time being) that Cockers do steal things (or ‘transport them round the house’ to be more diplomatic) whereas a naughty Springer might just eat an offending article. As we all know Teddy just loves bringing me my shoes and now, since I have taught him to bring a pair of everything, a happy collaboration is a work in progress. Ernie, on the other hand, being half Teddy and half Springer can’t quite make his mind up to which camp his policy lies. The majority of the time he brings me something and if I don’t take it immediately off him he will scamper off as fast as little hairy legs will carry him chewing said article to pieces.
So the next night in question was a challenge to get to sleep, mainly since Bubbles had deigned us with her presence and River was prancing all over my head. I have no idea exactly when I fell asleep but I was rudely woken by a kerfuffle at the bottom of the bed. On turning on the light I was rather shocked to find that the majority of Matilda’s stuffed toys now occupied the room. It must have taken River quite a while to deplete Tilly’s bed one by one but she had done a very thorough job of it. Even down to the enormous stuffed dog which was twice the size of Tilly and would have towered over little River. Bubbles was giving us the ‘one is not amused’ look, which to anyone that has met her knows it is her signature Diva face.
THURSDAY
The upshot of this diary of disturb night’s sleep, has me propped up on the floor next to the whelping pen, River sound asleep, her first beautiful puppy suckling away. I am clutching a glass of wine, a cup of coffee and a golden syrup cake in an attempt to shock my body into staying awake past its normal watershed. Gluten and caffeine duly kick in, my hands swelling to monstrous size and my brain/fingers busily texting anybody that would answer. I fall asleep the wrong way round on the bed at some small hour, my chin propped up with pillows as in attempt to peer down into the whelping box to watch a snoring River, my hand on her belly feeling for anymore contractions.
FRIDAY
Today: The basic upshot of the week is that River is cavorting around pleased as punch with herself, bright eyes and bushy-tailed. I am reaching for the concealer and extra strength foundation, plus more coffee. However it has to be said that Motherhood suits her beautifully. Her coat is gleaming, her little dark eyes sparkling away and with three stunning little pups suckling away, all the black bags and exhaustion has been worth it
The hamster – part two
Two daughters sharing a room would lead you to believe that they would both manage to share responsibilities. But no, of course not. I think it must have been a week of hushed conversations and whisperings between the sisters before I resigned myself to actually asking what was going on. Part of me did not want to know. The hamsters were to be their responsibility completely – I am obviously very optimistic. So it was with a heavy heart that I entered their bedroom and on seeing their feet sticking out from beneath a bed plus a tool box which had somehow been spirited upstairs without my knowledge that my heart really plummeted. The long and short of it was that the hamsters were certainly alive (I was reassured by two ashen faces) but they now reside under the floor boards…..
September 2013
Beautifully Bubbly
My beautiful Bubbles no longer deign us with her night time presence in favour of my Mother. A worthy cause no doubt, but part of me thinks it’s simply because there are less stairs to climb. Bubbles, to give her some dues, does appear at about 5.00am every now and then and insist to be let in to our boudoir. At first it’s a gentle thump of a paw, then a thump thump and then, if still ignored, a THUD THUD THUD which must involve her using her entire body weight in an American footballer style and throwing her shoulder up against the door. This normally gains access, one day the door will just come off its hinges which will probably make life simpler for us all. However since I am fed up with cats sleeping on my head, the door will remain closed for the time being.
This time of year she is sporting the ‘King Charles 1st ‘ meets ‘Cheech and Chong’ school of hair dressing – one day soon I will trim her and relocate her eyes. In the meantime she is subject to my daughters putting clips in her fluffy bits so she can actually see where she is going. Since she has been wearing tiaras, hair accessories and bling paraphernalia since she was a pup it passes unnoticed…
Though this might portray her as not the average gundog she has many a quality that the others can not possess. Being a true house dog she rules the roost. Every litter that is born is in the house has to be overseen by her majesty. Woe betide me if do not call upon her watchful services as maternity nurse. A reproachful look is slithered in my direction as she barges in the door and her place is taken on the bed. There she will sit for hours, not moving, not interfering, and just simply watching pups being born in an interested fashion. Her own pups, since she has deigned us with one beautiful litter, turned out to be a sheer delight. As fluffy and beautiful as their Mother, people might be surprised to hear that three of them at least have gone on to quite active careers, one as Field Trial dog, one in Agility classes and other a ‘proper’ working gundog.
It’s not that we don’t want to breed her, believe me we have tried. However since Bob and Billy are like brothers to her, their amorous advances when she is in season has resulted in one of two differing approaches by her. First she tries to bite them, swinging round with a roar, throwing which ever dog it was trying to mate her off her back and on to theirs. Secondly option (and a very successful one) she just sits down on her backside and refuses to move. If the interested party refuses to give up and this point, she then just lies down on her tummy, legs spread out like a fireside rug and goes to sleep. They get bored before her.
Its Teddy now who is causing her to get a bit of a fluster on. With his gallant flowing gold locks, he charges pass the window throwing her a cheeky wink as he goes. You can almost see her blush. They are yet to have any midnight shenanigans’ amongst the rose bushes, Bobby is most protective of her and sees poor Teddy off, but since Bubbles visit to the handsome stud dog Twist resulted her adopting her ‘I am going to sit down now – and what are YOU going to do about it?’ stance I might have to be playing matchmaker. We will keep you all informed!
The hamster – the end
Two o clock in the morning saw hysterical screaming from both daughters – Alfie had caught and digested one of the hamsters on Tabitha’s bed. The second hamster remains at large.
November 2013
Sussing out Sally
I am not a fiction writer: I have to spend time mulling things over in my head, coming up with a fabulous idea at 4.00am which by the morning I have annoyingly forgotten. Some bright spark did suggest I kept pen and paper by my bed but anyone who has ever met my daughters would know that’s an idea not even worth considering. So this is about Sally the Springer. I have had her quite a while but it’s taken me a long while to work out how to describe her hence she only recently appeared on the kennel website and I am only now figuring her out enough to pop her on the blog.
She came to me via Essex (as you do), my new friend Mel (who should be a shining example of courage and dignity in the face of medical hell) was more than honest with the fact that somewhere along the line Sally had experienced something that made her terrified of most people (especially men) and although she was a beautiful example of a gundog she wasn’t the easiest to handle.
With the words ‘whatever you do don’t let her off the lead’ ringing in my ears I drove her home. And promptly let her off the lead in the orchard. It’s quite big my orchard. This I realised as Sally and I cavorted around it, her several metres away from me at any point. In the end we both gave up. Me by sitting down on the grass, and Sally sitting down too (a few metres away) her head cocked on one side, beady eyed and ears lifted, if I shuffled forwards she shuffled back. This went on for rather a long while. I did bring out the troops who admired Mummy’s new ‘investment’ and then went back to painting nails, coiffing the cat and generally other stuff which was no help to me at all. I genuinely cannot remember how I actually got hold of her; it’s clearly a suppressed memory of such longitude that my brain has hidden it away for another day’s recollection.
But I must have done, because her she now lies in front of me in her whelping pen, snoring gently and contracting away, delivering her first litter. We still have the ‘come and put your lead on’ dance, Sally scuffling off backwards as I approach with a slip lead, a little jive to the right and a shimmy step, other dogs flying into me as I attempt to lasso her. Teddy and Ernie have got annoying me at this point down to a fine art. Father and son launching themselves at me like a cross between a fine footballer and a pair of circus seals trying to get their heads in the awaiting lead. Half the time they manage it, one will get their head in whilst the other attempts to take control of the lead of my hand. ‘Look Mum, we can walk ourselves’..
But Sally trusts me now and that is just wonderful. My metamorphosis of her character suddenly appeared in my head. She fitted in with the other dogs, in looks and general gun doggie stuff, but in general she didn’t fit in at all. Teddy adores grabbing her ear at full flight and trying to drag her along. For such a good natured boy it is off behavior. But that’s when the brain wave happened. Sally is me. When I was growing up I was the fat stubby not posh enough girl at junior school and then the too tall and lanky, and horribly posh girl at my next school. I just didn’t fit in at either place. And that’s the moment I fell in love with her. I feel we are kindred spirits, looking obviously like we should fit in with the crowd but never really managing it.
It’s nearly dawn as I write this, even Bubbles has given up staying awake awaiting Sally’s litter, both dogs are snoozing away, Bubbles with her ears drooping off the side of the spare room bed and Sally curled in an awkward ball around her first pup born. I (of course) am wide awake trying to work out who in the family I wake first. So I shall now go and give Sally’s belly a little prod, trying to awake the clearly sound asleep pup lined up in her internal conveyor belt, have yet another cup of coffee and go awake ‘mother’, a long day supervising pupping awaits….
January 2014
Following in the footsteps of Ernie
Never a dull moment here, though I often wish for one. How can a girl ask for more excitement then keeping those eyes in the back of one’s head on a chocolate Sprocker intent on mischief? Fortunately for Ernie we are in a Sprocker selling month so he is free from the shackles of the kennels allowed to run freestyle and boy does he do ‘freestyle’ well.
His last trail (which led to me writing this) consisted of a bunch of half eaten bananas, a slipper in a water bowl, one fake grape and remnant of a cherry tomato plant. Nothing too awful I hastily add and it is quite amusing (well to me anyway, some other parties might not agree that a potential working gundog wearing a patent purple leather collar should be depositing ANY items anywhere at all).
Fran my lovely ‘Lady who helps’ and I had a joyful few minutes this morning watching Ernie try to get at the pheasants from yesterday’s shoot, they were hung up high swaying in the morning breeze, tantalizing in the golden heavy sunshine. First Ernie tried jumping up, then walking on his back legs and then jumping up, followed by running and jumping. When none of this worked, he sat to take stock of the situation, head cocked to one side in deep thought. His final piece de resistance was to climb on a nearby garden chair and take a leap from there. The clatter as the wrought iron chair hit the stone was enough for him to take fright, charge off in a panic, crash into Blue the springer who gave him the sternest telling off I have ever seen her give ANYONE. As she and her milk filled teats undulated away Ernie hid under a table and was surprisingly quiet for a surprising long time.
But of course, the son of Teddy was not subdued for long. He ran off with my mums knickers from the laundry room and was found munching them in a corner. And now he sleeps, beneath my feet, fluffy legs twitching away as he chases something or other in his dreams. There is nothing like an Ernie. There is nothing like a Sprocker.
Tabitha’s torment
My oldest daughter is a different creature to her younger sister – when she was born she was so small and delicate that I thought she was a changeling. These days her sensitivity is still much more heightened than Matildas. Matilda is happy going to Tesco’s wearing a pair of tights on her head, whereas Tabby is mortified by such sheer eccentricity that she would refuse to get out of the car.
These days though, since our cars have seen better days she is more willing to jump out of the offending vehicle in case anyone sees her in it. She does have a sense of humour but it’s not dodgy car related. Since the last year has seen our rapid descent from brand new VW estate car to an ancient Land Rover that actually has wheat growing inside the door pocket, the kids have had to resign themselves that life was going to be a bit different whilst ‘mummy’ sorted something out.
Recently since the old Volvo not only refused to have a left indicator working and completely gave up on reverse our journeys were always ‘interesting’ to say the least. We could only go right (for obvious reasons) and never park anywhere we had to reverse out of. But having parked whilst amid animated conversation in Tesco’s, it wasn’t until I had turned the ignition did I realized we faced a brick wall. Oh good.
What followed was a great description of both of them. We were on a very slight slope. So, with the handbrake off and, if we bounced up and down in the car, we travelled an inch or so in the backwards direction every now and now. Looking in the rear view mirror I noticed we had accumulated a small crowd of interested men (women wouldn’t waste time with such things), at this point Tabitha could not take it any longer and curled herself into a small ball in the foot well. Matilda, on the other hand, found it hysterically funny and suggested we got these men to push by rolling down the window and bellowing at them. It worked.
We now needed to work out why we couldn’t indicate. I had to give in with the lack of reverse and take the car to our local hero’s at Wangford Petrol Station. Since I could still muster the deprived single mother look, with my urchins in tow I stood to listen that the gear box would cost as much as the car and the wires for the indicator appear to have been eaten by a mouse. Which makes perfect sense.
So we fork out for the work (very good value as always!) and retrieve the car a few days later. Another 24 hours past and the right hand indicator now don’t work. Since Tabby could not make up her mind which car she liked the least she relieved her position in front of a shiny screen (laptop, tablet, phone) to come and help find out what was going on. ‘Has Tilly been eating raisons in the car?’ she asked, ‘No they are fresh mouse droppings’ I answered. Long shrill scream is let out and it is the last I see of her for a while.
I have given up with finding the mouse now. There are various mousetraps under the seats in the car, so basically, if I offer you a lift. Don’t put your hand under that seat. You have been warned.
April 2014
Richard, Ripple and the river
I guess this story starts at a rather cringe worthy memory of an unpredicted descent off my horse (in the middle of nowhere) culminating in a broken hand. As I flew through the air my main thought was ‘do not land on your head AGAIN..’ so I broke my landing with my arm. The upshot of this was (according to a nice doctor) was that I would never play classical piano again…that (to those that know my musical and singing prowess) was possibly a blessing. Finding oneself in a middle of a field in full riding garb….hat, body protector, decent boots, and gloves and now muddy jodhpurs and no horse can look and feel a trifle embarrassing.
As I watched Evie sail happily away, stirrups flapping, reins bellowing in the wind I knew there was absolutely no point even attempting to catch her and I must begin on the loan walk home minus my animal. And so I did…until I came upon the local shoot and a rather nice man in good tweed who took pity on this rather high pitched scruffy female enquiring whether they had seen her horse (they hadn’t); However he bundled me into his rather nice car (blue Alfa Romeo), phoned the rest of the shooting party and beaters and had them block all the roads off and wait expectantly for a rather haphazard Irish sports horse to come careering into their line of fire. The upshot of this was that it was actually the dustmen that caught her and lead her home but I was enamored by these gentlemen in tweed and thought how lovely it would be to have one of my own.
And now I do. Have a handsome man in tweed of my own that is. The highly overstrung Chestnut mares have gone; too many accidents had been notched up and too much money wasted. So now I have more dogs, no horses (Elvis and Priscilla the Shetland ponies don’t count) and Richard stomping around mending and building things for me (and lighting fires as he just pointed out to me). Going off on a slight tangent my Mother and him have discovered an innate love of bonfires to bond them, there is nothing like heaven for my Mother to be dragging various bags of ‘rubbish’ down to the bonfire pit (or Shetland trap as Matilda likes to call it) and watching it burn. I often get into trouble since I forget to mention that I have dumped lots of aerosol cans on the fire (I don’t do ‘burning’ stuff) which, of course, go off like over filled excited rockets once lit. It wouldn’t be the first time I have seen my poor Mother appear over the horizon at speed with lots of loud explosions James Bond style behind her.
Anyway I digress…Richard takes the normal run of the mill whims and fancies of mine, and completely ignores them. Which to be honest is a good thing. There is no point saying ‘No’ to me since I just won’t listen, so this tact of putting up with the fact that pregnant dogs sleep in the bed next to me, fluffy ears on pillow, plus many other character traits that are probably not normal in lots of people’s lives, he just quietly ignores and carries on building and mending and looking after the place. This came to a case in point yesterday where all of the above was a sudden revelation of fact. I had taken Ripple, Ted, Ernie and Sally out for a walk in the fields. With the torrents of rainfall recently our stream is deep and babbling, perfect for a spaniel. However despite her name, Ripple has not taken to water as yet, until yesterday she decided that she must attempt to least join the others joyfully belly flopping into the water and dashing up a bank into a field completely cut off from our land.
And so she did….one minute she was in front of me, and next moment on the opposite bank, looking wet and confused. So I called her, first quietly with utmost confidence that she would return the same way. Did she? No, of course not…as my cries got more and more frantic (with the vague hope that Richard MUST hear me since he was only a hundred metres away) Ripple got more and more excited about the forbidden territory she was on and disappeared off into the distance. By now you could have heard me in London. Still no sign of Richard, though there was no way he could not have heard me, he was just carrying on as though this was perfectly normal activity. I resigned myself to my fate. Off came my coat, my phone put in its pocket and it was hung over a tree, and in I waded through the river, clambering up the other bank my wellies filled with water and jeans sodden and cold muttering obscenities under my breath. No sign of Ripple. She of course was now looking at me in an interested fashion from the correct side of the river bank. And so I squelched home, four happy dogs and one grumpy, wet, dripping with mud Anne-Marie. As I squished past Richard, drill in hand, screws clenched between his teeth he muttered ‘oh you got her then?’…..I don’t think I have any more to add to this….
Hamster update
Still no appearance of second Hamster – beginning to think she has run off with the mouse in the car.
July 2014
The seasons are a changing
The fact that one never seems to know it all and life is one big educational uphill battle is very evident here at the moment. What with both girls homework now getting to a challenging stage for me (prime numbers anyone? – I am ashamed to say I had to google that) and with Matilda having to work on her phonics I feel like I have gone back to primary school myself.
The dogs too are constantly adapting. Teddy, in his bid to avoid Bobby at all costs, now submerges himself in the pond up to his eyeballs until Bob has lumbered past, completely oblivious to the fact that our pond now hosts a gold tufty hippo. Bobby in turn, has merged into a super stud. Well to be fair he thinks he is a super stud, his problem being is that he can’t jump gates like the other boys. His learning curve is that he can now get in and out of any of the house doors. This involves either him making my Mother open one, barging into another with his shoulder or scratching furiously at the door and frame until he can lever it open. This leads to a theatrical farce with him leaving the room stage left and returning moment’s later stage right. Ernie (as only an Ernie would do) can now fly over the gates like a mountain yeti – his flight path is so high and clear is actually gives him time (whilst air born) to turn his happy gaze to you, and give you a Sprocker type wink. Apart from that life is carrying on as normal.
Though normal here for me is always a bit flummoxing. I am waiting desperately for several of the girl dogs to come into season. Five months ago saw me crawling round the living room trying to work out why even though Bubbles was clearly in season, that Billy couldn’t quite do the deed. All the signs were there, in fact Bubbles was getting so fed up with Billy’s teenage-like incompetence she was humping him herself. ‘WRONG WAY ROUND’ sang my girls as they were forced to stand on the sofa to get a clear view of the all-important TV screen. I was on my knees and elbows, head on the carpet staring up at Billy’s nonexistence erection as he tried to mount Bubbles from behind. In the end she gave up and sashayed back to a waiting comfy chair.
We are now waiting for both Bubbles, Blue and Bay to come into season. Bubbles will be whisked off down to Woodbridge, no questions asked. I am not sure quite what Twist’s and Danny’s owner Michelle will say at the sight of this foppish beauty, she might be a working springer but she has the attitude and looks of a 1950’s film starlet. Time will tell on that one I guess. Blue is also destined for this journey too. Since I have given up on my two Springer boys on procreating for the time being, I am now in the process of getting my ‘ready to mate’ timing just right. This is involving a lot of detailed examination of my dear girls ‘bits’. Blue bless her heart, just rolls over and spreads her legs akimbo and hums gently as I investigate her hidden lady parts. Bubbles now walks as though wearing a very tight 1980’s pencil skirt at the sight of me. Trying to pries her legs open is no mean feat. I am off on my last attempt to lasso her today. Think of me folks….
August 2014
The art of love
One of my happiest moments is looking out of my bathroom window and not seeing a dog in sight, This clearly means that they are all sound asleep in their respective kennels, curled up in their straw beds oblivious to the world. I do worry, you see, that they get bored. And no matter who tells me otherwise it still sits in my head that dogs need constant attention. Wrong, I might be, but at an early-ish age I read Nancy Mitford’s ‘Love in a Cold Climate’, in which Linda (daughter of Lord Montdore) was terribly concerned her Labrador was bored in her kennel ‘what a pity she can’t read’ (she being the dog)Linda said and it has stuck in my brain ever since.
But this evening there is not a nose in sight. Therefore I can write this in peace, with the harmony of a sunny day upon my dogs back meaning they are happy – and so am I. Well I would be happier if mine and Bubbles car journey down to see Twist the stud dog had actually come to something.
From the moment Bubbles took exception to the beautifully clad young girl off to her morning Ballet lesson, which resulted in torrents of barks and abuse from the said black and white springer, I should have known that it didn’t auger well. After wrestling Bubbles away from the car window and restraining her long enough to get a lead on her, I dragged a rather miffed dog into Michelle’s garden. Twist, the stud dog, gave me a look of vague recognition plus an appealing look to Michelle, which kind of stated ‘oh my God – her AGAIN – now what has she bought us’.
And so the dance began. To give both Michelle and her dogs the highest dues I can bestow on anyone – Boy did they try. First Bubbles didn’t actually stand up and turn her tail (c’mon Boys I am ready type thing) but being her she soon realised that sitting down was far easier than standing up, and of course being Bubbles in didn’t take her long to realise that lying down like a fireside rug was an even easier option to adopt – she did. This does not help mating in the canine world. It might work for the bored housewife of many a decade but it doesn’t work for dogs.
So here we are at home. Bubbles tarting around with Bill as much as she can and me muttering stuff under my breath at her. But all the others are happy. Jade is lying next to me as I type. Izzy B. downstairs being pregnant on a chair. I can’t grumble too much I guess. There is always next week.
March 2015
Puddles of pee
I now have my own army of puppies….a small elite crew that follow in my footsteps creating happy mayhem in my wake. It has taken a while for me to get us all in a sort of routine but we are getting there (most of the time). From my carefully thought through routine diary, painstakingly worked out via calendars and differing agendas, I have the path to follow.
But my path is not always smooth, it has to be said – small children are very good at throwing me off kilter – Tilly’s allergies have flared up again leaving her sneezing in a continuous fashion, cloaked in a suit of white loo roll she wanders around the house, with me following with her suitcase of medications. Behind us come Lunar, Briggs and Creasey completely fascinated by this explosive small creature chattering away, only interrupted by a mass of sneezing and more loo roll going flying in their direction. Breakfast time on a school day is now down to a fine art. Tabitha is up at dawn with Richard and I so she does not have to contend eating breakfast with puppies. Tilly, on the other hand, is on puppy training duty whilst playing with her cereal. ‘I am not sure I like this type of (GET DOWN BRIGGS) cereal any more….I know I said I wanted you to( GET DOWN CREASEY) buy it but (I SAID SIT LUNAR) I don’t actually like it at all…’ and so the morning continues.
By now I am sat at the kitchen table with my portable office, all alone apart from my trusty young spaniels. Eddie is asleep in his bed by my feet with Briggs laid across him, both snoring. Lunar and Creasey are having a good sibling discussion over who should have what, as I turn to remonstrate I find that they have given up on the who has what toy and have joined forces on ripping open the spare dog bed and are dancing in a sea of pale cream fluff. They take themselves off to separate beds, both with heads down in mock shame after their telling off. I can see Creasey eying his sister though almost mouthing ‘wait till she starts typing again and let’s go and investigate behind that cooker…’
To give them credit though they are great company – even if life revolves around a fascination of their toilet habits. All three of them have slightly differing signals of when they are about to empty their bladders or bowels – the majority of the time they make it on to the newspaper even if it means me flying across a room and hoisting them into midair to take them to their designated toilet spot. Tilly is enjoying seeing different shapes in the wee as it soaks into the paper. I am not sure if this is a good thing or not but it does show off a very vivid wide ranging imagination I guess.
Now the puppies are asleep looking as angelic as possible, all three curled up in a heap so I am going to take the opportunity to sneak outside to check on the rest of my charges before the next chapter of the day unfurls…
November 2015
Reintroducing Theo
For many good reasons Theo the Black Cocker has been returned to us. A son of Jade and Ted, now reaching two and half years old, his royal highness in naughtiness made his grand entrance back to the house about a month ago. A sneaky cock of the leg up against the kitchen table, a snuffle across the work top and then straight onto Billy’s green comfy chair followed by a quick power nap while we all gathered round to assess the situation.
Tabitha was keen for him to join Jade up in her bedroom – the basic premise behind this was that surely Jade would be delighted to see her prodigal son return? After all I would be in raptures if she, in later life, returned to the fold? An hour later this theory was soon put to rest when Theo made the vital mistake of giving Jade a good sharp investigatory prod up her nether regions with his nose, a red rag to a bull basically. Theo was chased at Hurricane Desmond speed across the kitchen by a wild dark-eyed snapping beast that had once nurtured and fed him from her breast. He now keeps himself a sensible distance from her – probably one of the few lessons he has learnt and remembered so far.
We did know that his coming back skills when summoned where a little lack in the luster. He was being tempted back into his previous home by a trail of socks cunningly positioned through the garden and into the house. I have to admire this tactic (I am storing it for later use) however since as anybody who knows us will understand that we just don’t have socks at all in this house so this idea falls (unfortunately) flat. On the first night I rather stupidly mistook Theo for his Mother and let him out into a wet and moonless orchard. Theo, not quite believing his luck, disappeared into the darkness with his pitch black body easily slipping away from eyesight. A child mentioned something along the lines that Theo seemed to be wearing a Harry Potter style invisibility cloak as I pulled on my boots for the billionth time that day and stepped out into the rain muttering under my breath. A long while later I returned cross and wet without the dog, as soon as I took my boots off he, of course, came back in by himself.
The house is rather full of boy dogs at the moment (not quite sure how this has happened) and my daily roll call is beginning to sound like the end of The Walton’s with the multitude of boys names echoing around the home. Richard, for reasons only really understood by him, took for a short while trying to rename this big black boisterous dog ‘Alan’. In fairness it does rather suit him, but Theo was less than impressed – ‘if I don’t come back to my own name why on earth would I come back to that!’ was the general feeling from the dog himself.
His main problem is the cats…due to a rather absent-minded woman who apparently does not have much common sense when it comes to feline reproductive cycle we are now breeding cats (purely by mistake of course). We now have twelve in the house and surrounding buildings and my Mother is beginning to resemble the little old lady that lives in a shoe. On entry to her part of our house this morning I found a cat nestling on top of the old gramophone, one in a vintage dolls pram, another blending beautifully into the fireside rug, two on top of the ladder leading to the attic space and the rest on her bed. The last litter was born on a particularly busy Saturday when I had puppies leaving – I was alerted to the fact by a bare foot Matilda who came out of her Grandmothers front door screeching ‘KITTENS’ at me and a rather startled family with whom I was conversing. She returned inside promptly and repeated the above five times as each new kitten arrived in her world. To give her and Tabitha their dues they did the whole birthing process themselves and did a great job of it. The new five kittens are now residing in our feed shed – we have already tried to pay the plumber in kittens to no avail and are offering one free with every pup to anybody who will listen.
So apart from Theo woofing at cats…and birds and the fact that he has just shred an entire packet of loo roll giving a whole new meaning to a white Christmas he has settled remarkably well into his new home. He was loved by us at first sight; I have even found Richard giving him a cuddle. When we have worked out how to get him to behave a bit better with the old recall then you are sure to meet him – either that or you will come across me chasing him round the orchard or see me being dragged down the lane by him. Despite all this he is fantastic and I hope you all that meet him will feel the same way too.
Quote from today:
Me to semi naked child: ‘where have all your clothes gone?’
Answer ‘Theo took them’
And so life goes on….
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