Ted and The Blonde Mafia

Space Commander Ted.

2011-07-18T12:22:00.004+01:00

Yesterday was a bad day for Ted. Actually it was a good day for him, but a bad day for a few of the house contents.
If he wants the girls to play, but they are snoozing on the sofas or in a spare bedroom, he'll try to get them off, by pulling on the throws or duvets they're sleeping on. I'm usually around to show my displeasure, but yesterday, he managed to sneak two acts of mass destruction past me. I was busy in the garden, repairing the damage Ted had done to the hedge and fence. The boy apparently has a delicate constitution ( nothing to do with his liking for long since deceased cats, Branston pickle,jam doughnuts, cow poop, and crossword puzzle books) and when his poor tum tum can't cope with his diet, he chews another hole through the hedge, so he can dump the putrified contents of his bowels, in next doors garden, because he sure as shit doesn't want it in his own, and I have to say I'm with him on that one. Anyway, while I was doing that, he was shredding a new throw that was on a sofa, followed by the massacre of a double duvet cover, complete with the duvet, and all it's fluffy wuffy entrails. In my best stern voice I asked him what he had done, but he just wagged, and looked at me with an expression that made me feel guilty for not being as impressed with his handiwork, as he obviously thought I should have been.
I don't know why I felt the need to kiss his stupid great brown nose, as it followed me round the bedroom, while I picked the duvets guts up, but I'm going to talk to the doctor about my decline.

Today I woke up to a lot of hammering, and sawing. As pathetic as it might be, my first thought was, what the hell is Ted up to, so I shot out of bed, and found the boy in the spare room, staring out of the window at a bunch of builders creating an International Space Station, on the roof of a house over the road. Yes, I know they are only installing solar panels, and it's wrong to lie, but I've told Ted it's a space station, and if he's very good, and very quiet, and stays there until it's launch, they'll let him fly it. He must believe me, because apart from a couple of pee breaks, he's still up there watching, and my house remains intact.
Tomorrow's another day, but today I'm the winner.

Where'd the time go?

2011-05-13T20:19:00.009+01:00

It's been a long while since I blogged, and I've missed it loads. So much has happened, which I'll write about next week. Madge and Ted have both had birthdays. Madge got cushions to go with her pillows, and Ted got nothing except a reprieve on the long overdue one way ticket to Battersea Dogs Home. Pie is happier than she's ever been. If Madge and Pie were human, and I was politically correct (which I'm not) I'd describe the two of them as 'life partners'. I'm very lucky to share my life with three wonderful dogs ...I hate odd numbers, I need a little orange girl to even the numbers up. Did you notice I said I share my life with THREE wonderful dogs? I must be warming to the brown bastard after all.

Pillows.

2010-12-09T12:43:00.009Z

As I've said before, Madge and Pie are best friends. They are pretty much inseperable, they eat, sleep, play, and walk together. They form a united front, against the constant attacks from Ted. The only difference in them, is, Madge likes to sleep on a dug up mess of a bed, and Pie likes the bed to be smooth. Every night, Pie grumbles, while Madge spends ages, digging, and circling, until she's got her side of the bed just right. I decided the best way to keep both of them happy, was to buy Madge some cheap pillows, then she could dig them under her tummy, like she does with the sofa cushions.

I found some for £1 each, and although I thought that was way too cheap, I reckoned I'd just replace them when they got stinky. I put Madges pillows inside some pillow cases and piled them on their bed. Well. it looked like a bedouin brothel, but judging by the way Madge flirts with the farm dogs, I thought she'd feel very comfortable. Bedtime arrived, and the girls plodded upstairs after another hard day. Pie got on her side, which was so neat and tidy, even the toughest US marine sergeant would have been impressed, while Madge leapt on her pile of pillows, and spent the next ten minutes, like a broody hen on speed, trying to get all four of them under her tummy. As one pillow popped out from underneath her, she stood up, and tucked it back with the rest of her clutch, until they were all safe and warm, and Madge had that weird, off with the fairies, smile of satisfaction on her beautiful face. Ted, is used to some of Madges slightly potty behaviour, and didn't interfere, but he kept looking at Madge, then at me, as if to say, are you going to give her some medication, she's being very 'special' tonight, before climbing into bed between the two girls. Madge was ecstatic, Pie was snoring, and for the first time in his life, Ted was totally bewildered. I drifted off to sleep, happy that for a mere £4, I had sorted out Pie and Madges sleeping arrangements. The nightime happiness lasted for two days
I woke up on the third morning, with fluff in my mouth, and a big brown spinone nose staring straight at me. In the blink of an eye, I changed from, good morning lovely boy, to the usual, I'm going to kill you, you little bastard. Madge was pillowless, and I'd woken up in Santa's bloody grotto. He'd disemboweled all four of the pillows, and the contents, were covering the entire bedroom, including the flipping walls. How the hell did he manage to stick it to the bloody walls? Ted was wagging, with that peculiarly vacant spinone expression on his stupid face. FFS, the idiot thinks he's impressed me, he really thinks he's done good!! The more he wagged, the more the clouds of synthetic pillow crap wafted about the room. Why did he choose today to do it? The hoovers drive belt broke yesterday, and I'm going to be spending hours clearing up what looks like the results of a hard days work in an Australian shearing shed, with nothing more than a knackered slicker brush. I needed coffee, I wanted intravenous valium, I should be calling his bloody breeder, and telling her to come and collect him. This dog is NOT what I ordered. I don't need this smelly, lanky, hairy, weapon of mass destruction in my life. I closed the door and stumbled downstairs, followed by Ted, who was still wagging, and oblivious of the fact that I was nowhere near as happy about the state of my bedroom as he thought I should be.
I don't know how long it took to clear up, and I don't know why Ted thought I needed his help to do it, but he did, and I don't know why I kissed him and said you're my special boy, but I did.
Madge now has four new pillows, that are sewn into pillowcases, and judging by the amount of time she spends incubating them, I reckon they should hatch before Christmas.

Safely defused.

2010-10-30T13:18:00.007+01:00

By Thursday morning, Ted was really unwell, and as the bloods had come back clear for pancreatitis, it seemed like the only option was surgery. They all had another feel of his tummy, and said the lump was much closer to his out pipe than it had been the night before, so they'd push fluids through faster, and operate after consults if there was still no change. At lunchtime Ted seemed much brighter, the lump had shifted even further down, so they thought it would clear itself, if he was supported with fluids, antepsin (which he hates) cerenia (which is painful and makes him cry...for anyone elses dog who has to have this antiemetic, it hurts much less if given freezing cold) and pain meds. They then checked his bum again, and pulled out a few more bits of Pella, which seemed too small to have caused any problem, but were very sharp. Sam had been telling me that the boy was very gassy, and I just knew that at some point, he was going to explode, and some poor bugger was going to be caught in a hail of Pella shrapnel. In a way I hoped it was me, because I really didnt need a law suit being brought against me by some old lady who just happened to be standing too close to Ted, when he detonated. By late Thursday afternoon, nurses, vets and receptionists, were taking it in turns to try and persuade my little time bomb to eat, and by the time he came home, he'd eaten almost a whole can of tuna. So not only was he going to explode, and cause facial disfigurement to anyone caught up in the blast, but his victim/s were also going to be picking fish out of their wounds. He came home late Thursday evening, as it was thought he'd eat more at home, and that would push the obstruction through. By this point, I was ready to call in Dyno-Rod, or connect the hoover pipe to him, or roll him up like a tube of toothpaste and squeeze it out of him, but they promised Ted would soon no longer be a danger to the public. He fell asleep as soon as he got home,( in his very pink bandage, that the nurses had put I love you stickers on...aww) but woke up at about 11pm, and went out into the garden. I was following him around with a bloody torch, but he certainly wasn't enjoying his new found celebrity status, and hated being stalked around the garden. He did a few pee's, and I did a few sighs, followed by, ffs shit you little sod, and like the well trained, obedient boy that he isn't, he assumed the position, and did the dump of his life. I really didn't want to pick it up and have a look, but I knew I had to... not a single piece of dear old Pella to be found, just enough Madge fur to knit a pair of ear muffs for every Spinone in the UK.
What we think happened, was, he ate the cats leg, and that slowed his tummy down a bit, because he didn't eat the day he did that, then the next day he had chicken wings, which dehydrated his gut a bit more, then on Monday, I spent ages grooming Madge, and had a huge pile of her on the floor, which he obviously helped himself to, and that combination of events, turned the boy into Surrey's very own, weapon of mass destruction.
He's now safely defused, and slowly getting back to eating and being a pain in the bum.
The practice sent him a present, of a camouflaged Kong Wubba this morning, for being such a brave soldier, but within twenty minutes, it became a victim of a random act of Ted violence, and joined an ever growing list of missing in action casualties, I keep in the, must mend one day drawer.

Poorly Ted.

2010-10-27T17:25:00.013+01:00

Poor Ted's not feeling too good. It might be that karma has bitten his arse good and proper, as I picked up what I thought was a chewed up stick from the sitting room floor the other day, only to realise it was Pellas femur. Ted went to the vets yesterday, as he'd stopped eating and pooping,
after a thorough check over, he was put on a drip. He then had a rectal examination, which he fought like a real man, thereby dispelling all rumours about his sexuality, Sam pulled out a few tiny fragments of very familiar looking bone, so they carted Ted off to xray, but unfortunately, he was so full of gas and fluid, they couldn't tell if he had a blockage. He came home and stayed on his drip all night, in the hope that it would rehydrate his gut, and enable him to pass Pella, if that was what was causing the problem. It didn't work, so he's been back in hospital today, and blood test results have them now thinking he's got pancreatitis. So now Ted is having IV antibiotics, anti puke meds, and fluids, before having another xray tonight. If the antibiotics haven't improved his bloods overnight, he will have an ex-lap in the morning, to see just what is going on in his very skinny, very sore tummy.
He's not the bravest boy in the world, but he's my wimp, and I quite like him.
Get well soon big man xxx x

Just Madge

2010-10-21T20:29:00.006+01:00

I took the dogs out early, and let Madge take her tennis ball. I don't very often take it, because she just trots beside me, like one of those dancing dogs, in the very weird, boring bit of Crufts.
It was frosty when we were getting ready, so I thought I'd stick Madge's coat on her. I shouldn't laugh, because she really thinks she looks special (aint that the truth) but once it's on, she spends five minutes swaggering about, looking at her reflection in the bookcases, and Ted, being a true, redblooded, Italian male, spends just as long trying to get her naked.
Anyway, I shouldn't laugh, but I do, because I can't make up my mind whether she looks like Pamela Anderson, in Baywatch, or a reject from a long disbanded RNLI lifeboat crew. Either way, she thinks she looks good, and is nice and warm, and that's all that matters.
I tried to sneak the ball into my pocket, while she was busy on the catwalk, but she saw me, so we ended up walking all the way to the field with Madge glued to my leg in case I gave HER ball, to anyone other than HER.
After fifteen minutes of ball chasing, we walked over the Chimney Pots (it's just a big hill that overlooked the chimneys of the lime kilns, when they still dug chalk out of Box Hill) Ted and Pie were heading off for the woods, but Madge and the ball were right beside me, until she saw a pheasant fly out of the cover. Bloody hell, this sedate lady can turn on the speed when she wants to. Within seconds she was out of sight, but I could hear her crashing through the maize. No patient flushing from Madge, she put over two dozen birds up, and the noise they made, brought Dumb and Dumber over from the wood, to see what on earth 'the special one' had done. Poor Ted went into full gaylord mode, and clearly wasn't sure if he should catch them all at once, or one at a time, and if it was one at a time, which one should he choose first, decisions, decisions. Pie had taken a look, but took the opportunity of me being occupied with Ted hopping from one front leg to the other, and Madge on a murderous rampage, to go and eat a freshly made cow turd. After yelling myself hoarse, Madge finally, came huffing and puffing out of the cover, and STILL had the ball in her mouth. I took the coat off her, because she looked like she'd been sat in a gas mark 9 oven for three hours, and was getting crispy at the edges, then we all headed off towards home. In the last field we walk through, there's a huge water tank for the cows, that Pie and Ted always get a drink from, but I think in all the time I've known Madge, she's only drunk out of it two or three times. Today all the running about had made her thirsty, and she made a bee line for the water, jumped up on her back legs, with her front paws on the top of the tank, and started crying like a girl. I was crapping myself as I ran over to her, because I thought she'd hurt herself. She hadn't, but she had forgotten the object of her deepest desire was still in her mouth as she went to drink, and the ball was now floating about in the water tank, and all three dogs were playing apple bobbing, Madge was bordering on complete hysteria, and I was bitterly regretting the last cup of coffee I'd had before we left home, because I wasn't sure my bladder would hold out, and PMSL was becoming a real possibility.

Rambler ramblings.

2010-10-20T12:47:00.006+01:00

I'm not very keen on ramblers. Probably because I've never felt the urge to walk the downs with a bunch of anally retentive people, wearing my trousers tucked into a pair of red itchy socks, with a laminated map, and Christmas cracker compass hanging round my neck. It also annoys me that they take up all the outside tables at the pub, to eat their own sandwiches (invariably Shippams Bloater paste, on thin white plastic bread) and share a communal half of shandy with twenty four straws.
So yeah, up until today, I wasn't keen on ramblers, but my tolerance was pushed to the limit this morning, and as a group, ramblers moved above wet socks, and just below okra, on my list of strongly disliked things.
Why? Because today, this bunch of intrepid explorers, upset Madge, and that really isn't going to happen without incurring my wrath. Not content with wandering around, dressed like Worzel Gummidge wannabes, these fishpaste munchers have now added walking poles to their endless list of must haves. Gaylord was skipping along, with a teasel stuck in his beard, tossing acorns, Pie was trying to get as much of a cow pat down her neck as fast as possible, before I could catch up with her, and Madge was bumbling along, with her nose to the ground, on the scent of anything that could potentially be dinner. We were just about to walk through a stile, but as I saw two people walking towards us, I made the dogs wait, because Pie's beard was dripping with green stuff, and I just knew she'd feel the need to sniff at least one of these strangers in an area where a green stain wouldn't be appreciated. The dogs were really fidgety, because as soon as they get through the stile, they know they are seconds from the river, but the ramblers were taking their time, and Ted wasn't prepared to wait any longer, so he squeezed through a gap in the hedge. The girls stayed with me, and finally the fishpaste munchers emerged on our side of the stile, complete with rucksacks, that looked like they were carrying enough crap to survive in the wilderness for at least six months, and a walking pole each....bare in mind I live five miles from the M25, and manage this walk with just an iPod, and a blue, made in Taiwan, Pets @ Home, tennis ball thrower. I really don't give a monkeys, that these people are as overdressed and overprepared, as I'd be, turning up at McDonalds in a cocktail dress, with a table cloth, silver cutlery, and a cut glass decanter to pour my milkshake from, tucked under my arm, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't seriously pissed off, when these idiots, started using their damn poles, like extras in some third rate swashbuckling film, to fend off two well behaved ladies, who just wanted to go swimming. What the hell was wrong with these people? I'll admit Pie wasn't looking her best, with cow shit dripping from her chin, but the only danger the ramblers were in, was the distinct possibility that she'd shake her head, and they'd get splattered with green spin gloop. Then the female rambler made a HUGE mistake, she hit Pie with her pole, and was screaming at me to control the dogs. It really wasn't the dogs she needed to worry about, but she didn't seem to have realised that. This stupid woman had walked towards Pie to hit her, but it wasn't Pie who was bothered by the whole bizarre event, it was Madge. She was leaning against my leg, shaking like a leaf, and drooling for England, while the ramblers continued to fend off a bemused Pie, who'd now been joined by a soggy, overexcited Ted. Mr Rambler, was yelling at Mrs Rambler, to stop being daft, Madge was having a breakdown, Ted was shaking the River Mole over both Mr and Mrs, Pie was prepared to go another few rounds with anyone who was up for it, and I had lost all sense of decency, and was explaining that we were on the North Downs, not the frigging foothills of Kilimanjaro, but unless Mr Rambler, wanted to see his wife skewered on her walking pole, he'd better drag her sorry arse out of my reach.
Yes, I know I've blown my chances of joining the WI, but I think that might have happened last week, when Madge ran into the allotments and took a dump on Mrs Meadows plot (head of flower arranging), and had Mr Rambler not carted his potty wife off, I could well have ended up being the second person from my village to stand trial at The Old Bailey, but, the rectal insertion of a four foot six walking pole in a rabid rambler whilst defending my dogs, is a marginally more acceptable crime, than the last person to appear there, who was accused, and found guilty of several close, loving relationships with pigs at a local farm.

Two Teds are better than one?.

2010-10-15T13:53:00.002+01:00

I was adopted when I was three months old. My new mum died when I was nine, and dad went and did the same thing just before my eighteenth birthday. I'd never been that interested in finding out more about my birth mother, but years ago, Peter was working in London, very close to where the old public records office was at Somerset House. Unbeknown to me, he'd spend all his lunch breaks trying to find my mother. Eventually he did, and I met her. She lives in Wales, but had gone to London during her pregnancy, to save her family the shame of an illegitimate baby. It was a very uncomfortable meeting. I've never really thought about the nature/nurture thing, but it was freaky to meet this woman, who should have been the most important influence in my life, and feel nothing at all, except how weird it was, that we were the same size, had the same haircut, and were wearing identical clothes apart from the stripes on my shirt were blue and hers red. She wouldn't tell me anything about my father, but asked me not to try and find him. How could I, I didn't even know his name. That was the end of that, and I didn't give it another thought for a long time, until I was diagnosed with Ovarian Cancer. Suddenly, I was faced with the fact that I might not be quite as immortal as I'd always assumed. Peter and I had divorced, and he had gone home to live in Australia, while I'd stayed in the UK raising our two daughters. Once I'd got through the surgery, and begun chemo, it became important to try and find out more about my birth family. I joined a site that aims to help people build family trees. I had so little information, apart from the names of my birth grandparents, and mother, that I didn't hold out any hope, which was just aswell, because I didn't hear anything for years. During those years, the girls finished school, I remained in remission, and Peter came back to the UK, and we remarried. Then out of the blue, I got an email from a man in Canada, who had been researching the family name. He sent me as much of the tree as he'd completed, and said I had an aunt in Kent, and an uncle in Wales. He suggested I contact the uncle, as that was where he'd got most of his information from....he even gave me this uncles phone number. After a few days mulling it over, I decided to call the number, and the phone was answered by a very softly spoken Welshman. It turned out he is my birth mothers brother, and knew nothing about my existence, or that his sister had even been pregnant at that time. He told me my mother had been dating a soldier called Stewart, who was a piper in a Scottish regiment stationed near their home town, and that shortly after the regiment returned to Scotland, my mother moved to London for a number of months, before returning to Wales, marrying a man, and giving birth to another daughter the following year. I could have talked to this sweet man for a long time. If I'd known him as a child, I think he'd have been my favourite uncle, but I doubt I will ever meet him, or even speak to him again. My uncles name is Ted....funny old world, innit?

The other Ted, was in disgrace today. He'd eaten his second laptop cable in ten days, and I was seriously planning a one way trip for him, to Battersea Dogs Home. I mean come on, I'd just found a nice Ted, did I really need two of them in my life? I decided to take pain in the arse Ted out for a walk, and my great big, stupid, clumsy, lolloping lump of a Spinone made my cheeks ache with laughter, as he played with his mate Oscar, the Manchester Terrier. For today the trip to Battersea is on hold, but I've saved the route plan to bookmarks, and will bring the page up everytime he wanders in here with that look on his face.

Happy Birthday Pie.

2010-10-14T10:03:00.005+01:00

It was Pies sixth birthday yesterday, and as I had to post something, and the post office is in the next village, I decided to take the dogs with me, and stop off at the pet store on the way home, to get Pie a present.
The best part about going to the post office, is that we don't have to walk through any cows, which means Ted comes home smelling as bad as he did when we set off, rather than worse, after applying more Eau de Bovine Shite. So Pie was plodding along, still not able to run after the mortal foot injury, boy was throwing conkers up in the air and skipping after them (and BTW, why does everyone I know under 20, call Ted, gaylord, when they see my happy boy skip?) and Madge had gone into the maize after pheasants. A little bit further along, I saw an elderly lady walking towards us. I've met her many times before, but she doesn't remember, and always tells me that she's having a stroll before lunch. She's very kind, and used to make a fuss of Dooza. Ted was up for a snog, and Pie allowed her ears to be scratched, but Madge was still on pheasant patrol in the maize. I said goodbye to my elderly friend, and walked on, until we were almost at the road. I put Pie and Ted on their leads and had to yell for Madge several times before she finally gave up the hunt and emerged from the crop, without any sign that a massacre had taken place...bonus! Did what I had to do in the post office, bought myself some wine gums, and wondered why plum jam is kept next to the thermal socks. Where is the marketing logic in that? Do people who wear thermal socks, like plum jam? Does anyone like plum jam? I think it's probably to do with the village being in a valley at the foot of Box Hill, and a combination of air pressure and inbreeding.

We set off home, and Pie had worked up a head of steam, because number one, we were now going in the right direction, and number two, she knew we were going to the sweet shop. Walking back down the path we saw the lady walking home from her pre lunch stroll. "Which one of your dogs is called Madge?" I showed her which one, and she told me that her name was also Madge, and she'd thought I was calling for her to come, so I asked her if all Madges were deaf, stubborn old buggers, and she said yes! Human Madge gave Ted another pat, (after telling me her brother in law was called Ted) and then scratched Pies ears again, saying, "you're very beautiful Madge" The real Madge had long since disappeared back into the maize. I'm living in the bloody twighlight zone, and it's not doing me any good, but I quite like it.
Gaylord was still skipping along the path chucking conkers, Pie had a wriggle on that makes her look like a 20k walker in the Commonwealth games, and canine Madge was busy flushing out wildlife. Should I be worried that I'm really happy with my life?

We got to the pet store, and yet again the guy who owns it tells me he used to make bird feeders and tables, but the council put up his business rates, and that combined with cheap imports from China, were the reasons he expanded into pet food etc. I really wanted to go home. I have this conversation with him every time I go in there, which is about twice a month.....for the last six years!! Madge and Pie chose a pigs ear, and gormless balls picked up a can of Chappie. I was almost tempted to buy it, because although it smells disgusting, it would make a pleasant change from his current stink of choice. Anyway, I swapped it for a bulls willy, and all three dogs trotted home, ate their treats, and crashed on the sofa for the rest of the day.

If the person in charge of reincarnation is reading this, I've changed my mind about coming back as a bee, can I be a Spinone next time please? Thank you.

I'm a lumberjack and I'm ok...

2010-10-11T21:31:00.006+01:00

As Ted's grown bigger, so has his hovel. It covers at least two thirds of the garden. He used to leave the stuff he dragged outside, under the willow tree, and 99% of the time, it was the first place I'd look for a loo roll or potato masher. Now it's almost as if he senses his kleptomania isn't healthy, because very few of the stolen items remain visible on the surface. I just make a mental note of where the most recent pile of freshly dug dirt is, should I happen to need the can opener, or feel an overwhelming desire to wear a matching pair of socks.

After the travelling gentleman tried to steal my treasures, a very strong, very expensive padlock, was added to the non existent security on the back gate. How happy was I, to have not only made my back passage secure from intruders, but also to have outwitted the traveller? I put the keys to the padlock on a keyring, and left them in a very safe place, and then temporarily (from that day until this) forgot where the very safe place was.

On the closest Saturday to November 5th, my village celebrates Bonfire Night, with a huge fire, and fireworks. From the last week of September, when they start building the damn thing, until the end of October, tractors drive around the village collecting everything from chopped down trees, to the seriously crap DIY projects, that Mrs Bailey, makes Gordon chuck away, before her mothers annual visit. If it's made of wood, and will burn, it goes on the bonfire.
Now, I don't like to brag, but I'm pretty handy with a saw. Hand saw, chain saw, circular saw, saws with big teeth that I don't know the name of, you name it, I'll have a go. Trouble is, once I start, I'm not very good at stopping. I went out to trim the hedges, and take a bit off the willow and conker trees. By four o'clock yesterday I was in lumberjack heaven. Thoughts crossed my mind about leaving the dogs in the house, and building myself a log cabin in the garden, with the results of my over zealous tree pruning. I'd pop in and see them a few times a day, but my cabin would be a Spinone free zone. No more waking up with someones beard in my mouth, or turning over to inhale the fumes from some spins gassy arse. I wouldn't have to share anything I ate, I wouldn't have to adopt the foetal position on the sofa, whilst apologising to snoring dogs for disturbing their afternoon nap by trying to curl up in the remaining four square inches. I could go to the loo without an audience, take a shower without seeing flaming great honkers pressed up against the door, while three tongues try to lick the water from the outside, as it runs down the inside. I was really starting to fantasise about my new life, in my cosy log cabin at the end of the garden, until I turned round, and realised I had infact felled what looked like an Amazonian rainforest, or ten, and as lovely as my life of seclusion hidden away at the bottom of the garden seemed, it wasn't really practical, and I owed my village the fruits of my mania, to ensure this years bonfire was the best yet.
One slight problem. I couldn't drag the rainforests out through the house, and although the sensible option was to take it all out through the back gate, I hadn't seen the keys to unlock the padlock, since the day after my victory with the traveller, when my back passage was made secure.
I'd have to sleep on it, and hope the whereabouts of the keys would come to me in a dream.
Well it didn't happen, and as Ted clambered over the fallen trees this morning, bursting for a pee, but being totally spoilt for choice as to which tree to cock his leg on, I decided to text Peter, and ask him to buy another padlock, and bring home some kind of manly gadget to remove my now useless defences from the gate. So, where's my phone? I tried calling it. It was ringing, but I couldn't hear where the ring was coming from. It couldn't be far away because I'd charged it on the worktop, in the kitchen.....right beside Teds breakfast. He promised me he'd be good today, so he wouldn't have taken it into the garden. I tried calling my mobile from outside, and sure enough, a muffled version of I hate you so much right now was coming from under the rainforests somewhere. I finally found the phone, still wet with spin slobber, partially buried in a burrow my rabbit had dug. This is obviously where Ted hides special stuff, so I had a poke about in the burrow, and found a $10 chip from a holiday in Las Vegas, a rubber glove, a pack of Blu-Tack, the lid of a can of Indorex, and two very shiny padlock keys dangling from a rusty key ring.
Oh yes!! Me 1, Ted 0....life is GOOD.

The trouble with Ted.

2010-10-05T15:50:00.009+01:00

Ted's eaten the laundry basket. Well of course he has, why wouldn't he? It's been here all his life, and he's never payed it a moments attention..today he made up for it. The contents have been spread far and wide, but thankfully, all within the boundary of my own property. The trouble with Ted, is that he needs to be kept busy every waking nano second. Usually Pie helps out with this, but as I've already explained, she has suffered a mortal injury to her paw, which has meant she's taken to her bed to await the end. I swear if I hadn't seen the cut myself (all half inch of it) I'd believe her version, which is, that her leg is almost amputated, save for a very thin sinew thats barely keeping it attached to her shoulder. The drama surrounding this cut, is completely out of proportion, but this is Pie I'm talking about, so I'll wait for the Grim Reaper to come knocking, and let him in if I feel the time is right.
With Pie out of action, Madge can usually be rallied into a game or two, as long as balls aren't involved, because she doesn't share, and it always ends in tears. Today Madge was too busy to play. She looked like she was counting the hairs on her leg, and was far too preoccupied to give Ted the attention he needed. I think she smokes weed, because she seems to be spending less and less time connected to the planet. I must have a chat with her about it.
In the end I caved in to Ted's nagging, picked up the leads, and yelled the magic w word. Ted and Madge appeared within seconds, but death bed nellie stayed put, so I just took the enthusiastic ones.
Autumn is really here, and as we walked I was looking at the changing leaves, the acorns, conkers, sloes, blackberries, and the relatively new addition to the flora of the English countryside, that seems to have spread amongst the trees and hedgerows at an alarming rate, the plastic dog poop bag. They come in an infinite array of colours and sizes, and this year there seems to be a bumper crop. They will be hanging from the branches like some kind of exotic fruit, long after the leaves have fallen and the trees are standing naked for the winter. Why? Why go to the trouble of clearing up after your dog, packaging the crap up nicely, to fling it into a tree, where it will be preserved for all eternity?

Happy Gotcha Day, Bucket Arse.

2010-10-04T15:14:00.011+01:00

It was about 18 months after our German Shepherd died, aged 14, that we started thinking about getting another dog.
Catherine had seen a Spinone in the next village, that belonged to the gamekeeper, and after reading about the breed, we all decided a brown roan dog puppy, would fit in perfectly with our family.
Long story cut short, an 11 month old orange roan bitch needed a new home. Pie arrived, five years ago today. She was one of the most pathetic things I'd ever seen. Thin, and scared, with eyes like saucers, the rubbish picture is the only one I have of her the day she turned up, and for whatever reason, it doesn't get any bigger....maybe just as well.
It took no time to get weight on her, but over six months before she stopped running upstairs to hide under the desk in my bedroom when anyone called in, and probably a year before we started to see the real Pie. She flinched if we moved too fast, she'd pee herself at loud noises, she'd shake and drool at what seemed the smallest upsets, and she'd cower if men wearing hats stopped to talk to her.
She was an only dog until we got Dooza, but from the day he came home, Pie's confidence grew. He ran her ragged, and she adored him. Pie encouraged him to swim, and Dooza showed Pie how to dig. She showed him how to open the fridge, and he showed her how to steal from the top shelf. She showed him where the loo rolls were, and he showed her how to eat them. Wherever one was, the other wasn't far behind. When Dooza first got sick, he was at home on a drip. She would lie as close as she could, without actually touching him. I think she needed to be near him, as much as he needed to know she was there.
The day he died, it was Pie who came and told me that he was in trouble, and although we brought his body home from the vets, so she could spend time with him, and understand what had happened, she still sat for days looking out of the bedroom window. I think, like us, she hoped it had all been a bad dream, and if she waited long enough, her boy would come home.
Since loosing Dooza, Pie's life has changed again, with the arrival of Madge in March, and Ted in May. I think for the first time, Pie is truly happy (although not today because she's cut her foot, and isn't impressed to be wearing a drip bag as a welly boot to keep it dry....drip bags are soooooo last year darling) She and Madge are the very best of friends. They seem to instinctively know when the other needs reassurance, they sleep together, eat together, play together, tease the boy unmercifully, get up to mischief, and always nudge each others faces when they've been apart for a while.
Pie adores Ted, and whilst it's always Madge he goes to when he wants his face washed, or his ears cleaned, it's Pie he nags when he wants to play. It's Pie who shows him where the pheasants are, and how to get the rabbits out of the hedges, it was Pie who showed him it was safe to jump off the bank into the river. Pie has a purpose. She has her very own canine family, who seem to think she's as great as I do, and she's thriving.
I love you Bucket Arse.xxx x

Burke and Hare.

2010-09-30T22:40:00.004+01:00

I got to say goodbye to Pella again. A three foot square paving slab, wasn't enough to protect her grave from Ted's desire to have just one more look. He's nowhere near as stupid as he appears,( I lie) because after several days of very effective nail filing on top of the slab, the penny finally dropped, that he could get where he needed to be, if he took his JCB feet slightly to the side of the annoying lump of concrete, that was standing between him and yet another smelly reunion with poor old Pella.

I didn't even know what he'd been up to, until he came and sat on the sofa and gave me a kiss. I don't know why I asked him what he'd been up to, when the stink told me all I needed to know, but I did. The routine of walking out into the kitchen, wrapping a tea towel round my face, going to the shed, grabbing the rake, and wandering down the garden looking like some third rate Al-Qaeda recruit, with the canine version of Burke and Hare trotting like a well trained Collie by my side was becoming boringly familiar. We arrived at the desecrated grave site AGAIN, and there isn't a nice way of saying this, so I'll just say, the rake wasn't needed, and reburial wasn't an option. So for the third and final time, sleep tight Welly.

On a walk several days later, the dogs met a woman walking a cat on a lead. What kind of nutter walks a cat, on a pink lead, through a field of cattle? How the hell did she get there? She was at least half a mile from the nearest road. Had she really dragged this fragile creature up a bloody hill that leaves hardened athletes puffing, over a barbed wire fence, through two stiles, manouvered herself and the cat round a minefield of cow turds, to have Fluffy meet it's doom at the hands of Ted? Pie and Madge are rock solid with cats, but I'd be lying if I didn't say that Ted has a history with them. Are the dogs ok with cats, yelled the cat lover. Funnily enough, theyve never met one on a lead up here before, but they are fine. I left the girls to carry on walking, but put Burke and Hare back on his lead, because I could tell the cat lover was as fragile mentally, as Fluffy was physically, and horrendous images of total carnage were flashing through my mind. But, you know what? He walked on by, with little more than a look of envy at the pink lead, and a fleeting sniff of Fluffys arse. I'm proud of my boy, and can now say in all honesty he's fine with cats, but only live ones.

Teds first kill.

2010-09-04T15:32:00.004+01:00

Ted had been annoying the girls since we got back from our walk this morning. They wanted to sleep, and he wanted to lavish Teddy love on them. Poor Madge had tried all the usual tricks, like cleaning his ears and eyes, which usually sends him off into lala land, and Pie gave in and played with the ragger for a while, but Ted wanted them out in the garden with the football, and it just wasn't going to happen. Eventually the girls went to bed, I got on with some stuff, and the boy wandered off. He then found a plastic carrier bag, took it out into the garden, and pranced about with it, looking very effeminate, in a second rate tranny, who wouldn't even be welcome in one of Brightons seedier clubs, kind of way. I'll admit I did have a very brief awwwwwwwwwwww isn't he sweet moment, but mainly I was happy that he was happy, and had found something to occupy him, that didn't involve pain being inflicted on another living being. I left him to it, and started tidying up. After about ten minutes I called him to come in, and he ignored me, so I called him again, and he started barking. I was getting a bit fed up, because although he is without a doubt, the most stubborn of the four Spins Ive had live with me, he's always been pretty good at basic commands. So out I go to have words with him, and find him sat down barking, looking scared, and obviously very upset by something. Then I spotted the mutilated Poundland bag he'd taken outside to play with. In fairness to the boy the gentle breeze that was blowing into what was left of the bag, did make it look like it was writhing in it's death throes, whilst taking it's last gasps, but the reality of his first kill, was clearly far too much for Ted to cope with. He cuddled up with the Mafia, who were still snoring, completely oblivious that Ted is a dismal failure in the Don department.

該死雄兽 !!

2010-09-03T11:44:00.005+01:00

I can't keep saying, "I'm going to kill him" because it's lost it's impact. Ted blatently doesn't think his life's in any kind of danger, and I'm not sure if that makes him very stupid, or if it means he's got me well and truly sussed?
We went swimming early this morning , well, they did, I just stood on the bank, screaming like a girl every time one of them got out and stood right beside me while they shook the water off. On the walk home, Ted (who must be going through the dog equivalent of adolescent boys and their Lynx phase) rolled in a fresh pile of cow poo, and then decided to hump Pie, who really wasn't feeling the love. So now I have two dogs with green goo dripping off their sides, and was thinking to myself that it's a testament to my mental state that it didn't seem like that much of a big deal. Madge was wearing her coat, to keep her warm till we got back, and Ted obviously doesn't feel it's much of a turn on, because she wasn't subjected to Teddy love. Once we got home, I dried Madge, stuck the other two in the shower, and rubbed them dry. Ted went and got a drink ( I should point out that he doesn't drink like a normal dog, he puts his face, right up to his eyes in the bowl, and kind of sucks the water up, whilst blowing air out of his nose) so he gets soaked. All three dogs crashed in the dining room, so I went and had a shower. I wasn't even gone for ten minutes, but during that time, Ted had taken several pieces of the coal stuff that goes in gas fires, chewed them up, turned his wet beard black, and had created what must be the longest sentence in Chinese calligraphy ever, on the walls of the dining room, the stair case, and the landing. I really think today's the day I kill him.
P.S. The black stuff doesn't wash off the walls, but the paint does....yep, today's the day!!

Sleep tight Welly....take two.

2010-08-31T15:00:00.006+01:00

Things are back to normal now after a couple of nutty months, so I thought I'd see if I could remember my password for the blog, and go me I could.
The dogs are all fit and well. Madge has turned into a proper mermaid, who jumps in the river just for the heck of it. She's the first one in, and the last one out, but still moans like an old fish wife the whole time she's swimming. Pie still thinks pink fluffy thoughts most of the day, and doesn't spend as much time connected to planet Earth as I'd like, but she's happy enough, and is absolutely devoted to Madge.
Ted, where the hell do I start? I'm pretty sure he's six months old today, which means I've had him for a mere 17 weeks. It feels sooooooo much longer. He's finished teething, and is currently sporting a beautiful set of what look like sparkly white, ill fitting false teeth. He looks like a bloody horse, and has this permanently gormless smile on his face. His feet have grown a lot since I last wrote, and I know thats true because the holes in the garden have got much bigger. The boy has JCB buckets for feet, and they just eat dirt. I can cope with the digging obsession, and see it as his way of having fun and letting off steam, but he pushed things a bit too far a couple of weeks ago. I couldn't work out where he was getting brown fur from. He was bringing it into the sitting room, chewing it for a while, then spitting it onto the floor. I really wasn't worried, as he's the only brown animal I have, and if he was eating himself, I was wishing he'd hurry up and get to his feet, because then my life was going to be so much easier.
Eventually, I went out to see where fur was coming from, and sure enough, there was brown fur all over the garden.That was when it hit me. The little bastard had dug up Pella ( my dear old cat, who's funeral he'd attended several months earlier) and she was in no fit state to be above ground, especially on such a hot sunny day. So, I've got a manic Spinone pup jumping up and down beside me, who's thrilled to bits that I've finally got off my arse to come and see how busy he's been, I've got a gag reflex that's being tested to it's limits, and Ive got a cat I said goodbye to in May scattered around the garden, and draped in the box hedge. I don't know how I did it, but with a tea towel tied round my face, and my eyes closed, I managed to rake Pella back into her final resting place, all except one of her shoulder blades, which he swallowed before I could retrieve it. I apologised profusely to Welly, for Ted's behaviour, and promised her she wouldn't be disturbed again, as even JCB feet couldn't lift a concrete slab off her grave....could they?

Veni vidi vici.

2010-07-06T15:11:00.007+01:00

Well I did Rome, and very nice it was too. Saw lots of piles of ancient rubble, and lots of ancient rubble that had been partially stuck back together again. All very impressive, but not as impressive as the driving ability of the one armed driver who took us back to Fiumicino Airport at speeds that could only be measured by the G force effect on my rectum. Here was the only man in the entire universe who had the ability to multitask. He could change the radio station, AND answer his phone, whilst steering the dented Mercedes with his stump. Oh God ! Please dont turn round AGAIN and ask if this station is ok, its perfect, I promise you. We got to the airport, and even tipped the driver. Why we tipped him I will never know, but I'd bet my last Euro he made it back to Rome before his lunch got cold.
I badly needed coffee. I really wanted an IV alcohol drip after my spin with Stumpy, but I held out for coffee on the plane, only to have my hopes dashed after we took off, by the planes driver, who announced that as French Air Traffic Control were striking, we were going to have to go over the Alps, and because of the severe turbulence they were expecting, NO hot drinks would be served on the flight. Pffft! Severe turbulence, you expect me to get my knickers in a knot at the distinctly, imminent prospect of being able to count the petals on the Edelweiss, as we plummet 35,000 feet, when I've just survived ( and maintained control of both my bladder AND bowel) during a one hour taxi ride through the streets of Rome with a one armed, manic, wannabe DJ, cabbie, in a beaten up Merc? Bring on the weirdo's in their lederhosen, singing The Hills are Alive is all I have to say. Show me your very best severe turbulence, and I'll raise you a cab ride with Stumpy. Anyway, thats the end of the Rome trip, and Ive left out the part about the lady at the airport who was being attacked by a pigeon, because it was way too trippy, even for me.
The dogs are all great, and have been spending huge amounts of time at the farm, as Ive been helping Catherine revise for her finals, which are on Thursday.
I'm going to stick a few pictures on here, and write about the dogs tomorrow, as I'm drowning in stinky dog blankets that need to be washed, because Mr Hotpoint finally choked to death two weeks ago, and Mr Bosch has only just arrived to take his place.

Capiche?

2010-06-07T20:31:00.016+01:00

My friend booked a short break away for the two of us, as my birthday present. Rome, why bloody Rome? Rome's in Italy, and Italy's full of Italians. I'm surrounded by a pack of pasta munchers all day, every day. I'm watching Casabloodynova take it in turns to hump Madge, Pie, Trevor the turkey, and a knackered pair of Hunter boots. Do I give a monkey's when he screams like a stuck pig each time his willy gets caught on the object of his desires buckle ? Like hell I do!! Do I care that Madge is distraught because Casabloodynova has eaten her bright blue plastic, made in Taiwan, Pets@Home tennis ball thrower, and keeps bringing me the handle. Sorry Madge, do I look bovvered? Do I give a toss that Pie was so busy looking at her reflection in the shed window, Casabloodynova nicked her tea? Nah, no sympathy here bucket arse.
Do I sound deranged? I think I do, and for the safety of three Spins, I need a jacket that does up at the back, so I can hug myself while I sit beside the washing machine and rock gently.
For almost an hour yesterday I fought to get all the loose covers off the sofa, and into the washing machine. I fought for another hour to get the damn things back on last night. Ten minutes later, the dogs came in looking like they'd been to a very expensive spa, and indulged in a few mud treatments, took one look at the nice clean sofa and leapt on it. Strangely, I wasn't too bothered. I'm not usually a defeatist, but it really was a case of Spins 3 me 0. Got up this morning, full of the joys, bounced downstairs, got the sofa naked AGAIN, hung it all out on the line, and had my wonderful dogs out of the house by 8am. Oh yes!! I'm back, and Heaven help the Spinone who pisses me off today. By three, the covers were completely dry, so I lowered the line, and the phone rang.... To the very sweet call centre girl, who asked if I'd like to take part in a Mori poll, it wasn't you I was calling a bastard, and to the three Spins, who in the space of thirty seconds, dragged my covers through the birdbath to the end of the garden, I meant every single word I said, capiche?

Why?

2010-06-01T11:48:00.004+01:00

Why do people feel the need to tell me what enormous feet Ted has? Do they really think I'm unaware of the size of the damn things, when he's trying to ram them up my nose at 6am. How does it improve these peoples lives to say, Ohhhhhhhhhh, hes got a lot of growing to do before they fit him, hasn't he, or, goodness, I bet those great feet bring in a lot of mud, or even worse, people who've seen him before, say stupid stuff like, blimey, he's growing fast, what do you feed him? I don't want to hear, he's beautiful, because it's always followed by a great big but. Did their daughter, who was in her third year at university reading Greek literature, run off with a 62 year old, married psychology professor, who'd spent most of his life living in a commune, talking to hydroponically grown carrots, smoking weed, and wearing tie dyed t-shirts? Is that what it is? The abject misery of my situation makes them feel better? Yeah, well I should be available free on the NHS, because I could make most people feel a heck of a lot happier about their lives. The people who take for granted there will be at least one loo roll from a 12 pack, that doesnt look like hamster bedding, the ones who can guarantee there will be a towel in the bathroom, pillows on the bed, indoor plants in their pots instead of behind the cushions on the sofa, the sad people who don't automatically go to the hovel when they want to mash potatoes, because they know thats where the masher will be, or the idiots who think you should start the day with coffee, when I know that valium and scotch is the way forward. Yep, no doubt about it, I could save the NHS a huge amount of money. If you think your life is crap, get yourself a Spinone puppy, and learn what crap is really all about.
Pie was sitting on the sofa earlier today. She was staring into space, which is quite normal for her, but I think she was rocking. Infact I know she was rocking, but I'm kidding myself at the moment that it's because the springs have finally given up the ghost from having three spins constantly jumping on and off it, rather than some deepseated mental health problem. Madge seems oblivious to most of the chaos, and has been smiling from ear to ear for days, because she now has her very own, made in Taiwan, bright blue, plastic, Pets@Home tennis ball thrower. If I'm honest, I didn't really buy it for Madge, I bought it for me, to save myself the embarrassment of having to drag her away from people she tries to go home with who've got one of the damn things. Now Madge wants to come home with me and a lump of blue plastic. Life is good.

Teddy, NO!!

2010-05-26T15:57:00.013+01:00

You don't realise how much you nag your puppy, until the two year old next door spots him, and yells, Mummy look, it's Teddyno. She even sounded like me when she said it ffs. How many times a day must I say Teddy, NO, for this kid to have picked it up, and thought that was the poor little blokes name? I know it isn't ALL I say, because I've just spent at least twenty minutes lying to him, and saying, WOW, what a man, as he parades past me for the millionth time with his milk bottle, but as I type this, I can feel myself gearing up for another Teddy NO moment, because he's doing building works to the hovel, and the construction of an underground carpark, to hold 2421 London buses, and one empty, two litre milk bottle is getting incredibly close to dear old Pella's final resting place, and as much as I'd love to see her again........TEDDY, NO!!

I love him when he sleeps.

2010-05-24T10:54:00.005+01:00

Ted is that revolting kid you meet in the supermarket, the one that runs backwards and forwards across the aisles, daring you to run it over, and incur the wrath of it's 22 stone mother, who thinks it's precious. the one you look at, and think, if that was mine, grrrrrrrr. But this revolting kid is mine, I have created this monster. As I type, he's dragging Henry across the stone floor, and it's making a noise like chalk on a blackboard. I'm ignoring it, because all the time he's doing that, the girls are able to snooze in peace. Every morning after breakfast Madge has a sleep on her sunbed, and as much as I'm sure she loves Ted, sleep comes a very close second to tennis balls, and even Ted isn't so stupid as to annoy a snoring Madge. Pie yes, Madge, NO!! So he goes looking for trouble, and never has any problem finding it.
Nothing is simple anymore. I feel a huge sense of victory if I manage to get into the shower and close the door before he realises where I am. It's not normal to feel like such a winner, when I see his little nose pressed against the outside of the shower door, and hear his sad little cries as he tries in vain to catch the water that sprays against it. I outwitted a 12 week old Spinone, YAY ME!!
Getting out of the door is a challenge, as I try and push him with my foot, hoping I can get my leg back before he latches onto my sock, because I can't pull it if he does that. Not because I don't want to rip the buggers little peggies out, oh no, that would be a blessed relief, but because I'm down to the last three socks without holes. I gave up the idea of finding, let alone wearing matching socks weeks ago, and the truth is, I'm not too fussed about matching shoes either. The idea of rummaging around in Ted's hovel under the willow tree, amongst the baked bean cans, underwear, broken phone chargers, sports section of The Sunday Observer, wooden spoons, flower pots, dustpan, potato masher, and Oxford English Dictionary (wtf?) is just too much effort for something as silly as a real proper matching pair of shoes.
The house is now silent. It's gone 11am, and for the first time since six, my boy is asleep. He is the most beautiful thing in the world, when his eyes, and mouth are closed. I will resist the temptation to poke him, and hope that he dreams until lunchtime. I love him when he sleeps.
In my saner moments I think up ways to tire him out, and I've found a wonderful company, who are looking for pack animals to carry supplies up Annapurna. All that fresh air, wide open spaces, Ted's going to love it.
PS. He must also have the sole surviving loo roll in his hovel, shame I didn't notice until it was too late. Continue the mantra....I love Ted, he's going through a phase...

Just pictures 'cause I itch.

2010-05-21T14:11:00.016+01:00

YouTube - TedandTheBlondeMafia's Channel

Life is good.

2010-05-19T11:48:00.005+01:00

The itch that's been driving me mad, is finally getting better, and I'm able to sit still. I have to say though, that it has had an upside. You'd be surprised how much space people give you in shops, and generally out in public, if you look like you need a good hose down, and a liberal dusting of DDT.
Ted has cracked the housetraining, had his second vaccination, attended two more funerals (Poor old Sprout the hen, and Raymond the rabbit) grown at least an inch a day, put on three kilos, developed a deep interest in May Bugs, a hatred for Henry, and a very healthy (if slightly obsessive) male passion for Trevor the turkey.
Madge has been here for a few months now, and has become part of the furniture. The piece of furniture thats always in the wrong place. The solid object that you trip over, or stub your toe on. Madge is always there, wagging her tail, asking for very little, except to sit on your lap, or have her tummy rubbed. So I thought she was settled, and happy to be with us. How wrong was I? Last week on a walk, we met a friend, and her dog Leroy. Now Leroy isn't much to look at, but Madge was besotted. She stuck to him like glue. Leroy's luck had changed, and he blatently didn't know how to handle the attention Madge was lavishing on him. He thought he'd pulled this stunning looking blonde, and didn't realise it wasn't him she was in love with, it was his balls!! Leroy had his very own, bright blue, £2.99, Pets@Home tennis ball thrower. Madge was in heaven. She played for a solid half hour, and when it came time to say goodbye, she did exactly that, and walked off with Heather, Leroy and the ball thrower, without so much as a backward glance:O)
Pie on the other hand, is the epitome of devotion, and I know she wouldn't leave my side, not even for the worlds biggest bag of bulls willies....or would she:O) Her life is a little miserable at the moment, but she plays the martyr soooooooooooo well, I'm loathe to step in and help. Pie is the big sister you tease, she's the one you chew, and the one you steal from, she's the one with the longest ears because they are swung from almost 24/7, and the one who's squeals of pain drive you into a frenzy, spurring you on to bite harder and more often. Pie is also the one you go to when you're hurt, or frightened, or need a comfy belly to rest your head on.
Raising a puppy without the help of the mafia, their very differing approaches to child care, their willingness to babysit, and their undeniable affection for the boy, would be a much tougher job. I owe them. Might even buy Madge her very own ball launcher, if she promises to pretend to look devoted when we're out.

The girls done good.

2010-05-07T14:33:00.003+01:00

I wasn't going to post today, because I'm covered in a very itchy rash, and typing is difficult when you can't sit still, and are constantly scratching, but the mafia have amazed me today, and I'm feeling very proud of them.
Twice today they have helped Ted. Pie was whining, which is something she never does, so I went to see what was wrong, and she was sitting sideways across the top of the stairs, blocking Tedmund Hillary (who'd scaled the gate) and made it to the summit of the staircase, from making a very painful, and undoubtedly expensive descent. Her ears were paying a very high price for preventing a determined boy from celebrating his greatest achievement to date, but she seemed to instinctively know how to keep him safe.
Once Tedmund was safely off the mountain, I chucked him out in the garden, to play with a ball. After a few minutes Madge came outside, so I threw the ball one last time for Ted, as I knew that would be the last look he'd get at the ball for a while. Madge needs rehab for her ball obsession, she really would sell her soul, and probably her good reputation, down a back alley with Jack, the ancient collie cross who lives down the road, to be the only dog in the world, allowed to play with balls. I threw the ball for boy, and it landed in a patch of stinging nettles. Ted ran after the ball, but stopped when he got to the stingers. They got him on the nose last week, and he learnt his lesson well. So Ted sat there all pathetic, while Madge strolled down the garden, walked twice round the stingers, and realised the gravity of the situation. I could hear her rusty cogs turning everso slowly, as she worked out what to do, then very carefully she stuck a front leg into the stinging nettles, pulled the ball towards her, picked it up in her mouth, and put it down in front of Ted!! Madge just doesn't do that. Balls belong to her, ALL of them. So yes, the girls done good, and if they can pass me the Piriton, dab on the calamine, and make the odd cup of coffee, there is hope for them graduating from the slow learners group.

Sleep tight Welly

2010-05-06T13:39:00.007+01:00

One summer, five years ago, a cardboard box was dumped at the farm. It contained a dead cat, and two ropey looking live ones, who shot off as soon as the box was opened. After a few days, one of the cats, a tiny black and white one, started showing her face, and over a period of months, she became tame enough to visit Pawel, the wonderful Polish cow man. Pawel named her Pella (which he says is a Polish word for flowers), and she would call into see him most evenings to be fed. With the best will in the world, I've got to tell you that Polish people eat weird stuff. Most of it is grey, and contains bits of pig, that even the pig had no need for, but little Pella thrived, and spent most of her first winter wandering the farm, and sleeping in the warm computer room. By the following February it was very obvious that she was not only struggling with the cold, but was completely deaf. The farm was very unsafe for her, with all the cows and large machinery, so Pella came to live with me. I took her off to the vets, where she was reckoned to be the wrong side of sixteen, but apart from her deafness she was pretty healthy. She also had moss growing on her back, but grooming her was a huge no no, as this fiesty old bag turned into Edward Scissorhands, so the vets sedated, and clipped her, and she was sent home with a shampoo and set any old lady would have been pleased with. Pella took up residence for the next four years, in her blue igloo in the bathroom, where she was warm, dry, fed, and loved, strictly on her own terms. She'd wander downstairs, and part rowdy spins with just one of her special looks, on her way out into the garden, where she'd snooze under the lilac tree, warming her old bones.
Pella, had been very tired for the past week, and went to sleep for the last time today. I wanted to thank her for being an important part of our lives for five years, and for teaching Ted, and Dooza before him, that cats aren't to be messed with, in a way I never could have.
We buried Pella under her lilac tree, and I have to say the funeral party was very subdued, except for Ted, who was digging her up as fast as I filled the hole in. She would have been furious, and that's how I will always remember her. A fiesty old bag, who'd been badly let down by people, and was never quite ready to forgive.
Sleep tight Welly xxx x

The Golden Girls.

2010-05-05T13:58:00.005+01:00

On one side of my house, lives Mrs Burbs very boring, but power washer crazed replacement, on the other side are The Stepfords. They've been there for about six years, and have bred a little too often for my liking. Mr and Mrs Stepford now have three rugrats, a mother in law, and a one eyed poodle, crowding out the house so have put it up for sale. On Saturday, we brought some more stuff back from storage, and were unloading it, with help from the mafia and Ted, when this bloke walked over and said, "Wow, a Spinone pup." After I picked myself up off the floor, that the boy hadn't been called a Labradoodle, I feigned the whole proud parent thing, as the bloke dribbled, all over my lad, and mentioned he was coming to view the house next door. "My girlfriend's got a Spinone."and with that, he yelled down the road to the girlfriend to come and look. This six foot, (actually she was closer to 4ft6ins, but she wore heels that I'd need a step ladder to get into, and an oxygen supply to keep me conscious once I'd got there) stick thin vision of delicate loveliness appeared, (smelling like she'd been the innocent victim of a terrible explosion in Debenhams perfume department) and was so plastered in fake tan, she made Jaffa's finest look anaemic, so I was convinced that anything flying out of a Spinone beard, would give this fragile, orange creature, a terminal case of the vapours, but yep, she really did have a Spinone. The girlfriend proceeded to tell me how beautiful Madge and Pie were, and weren't they a lovely colour. "They're so lovely and golden, compared to mine, who is completely white." I didn't have the heart to tell her that I'm obviously far more generous about sharing the spray tan. After about five minutes, I was so done pretending to be interested in what Barbie had to say, whilst holding a nine kilo bucket of worms, that I was thrilled when the bloke said they'd have to go, but did my ears prick up when he asked if we were selling Ted? Not sure yet, give me your mobile number and I'll call you :O)

Crapston Villas.

2010-04-30T11:41:00.004+01:00

My furniture has been in storage since last September, but now the house is almost back to normal, we've started bringing it back. Yesterday, the sofa, bookcases, and a few boxes of books, DVD's, and video's were returned. I should have sorted through it all before my life was buried in a container in Horsham, but I didn't, so I went through the films yesterday, and chucked out a few that haven't been watched for years, and are never likely to see the light of day again. I made a small pile of stuff I didn't want anymore, while Ted worked hard on constructing a perfect, lifesized replica of the space shuttle from the cardboard boxes the stuff had been stored in. It was almost pleasant, the mafia were asleep in the garden, and here I was with my boy, who was fully occupied, and not chewing my ankle in his never ending attempts to get at my tibia. I've had strong words with Ted about the fondness I feel for my tibia, I've explained how helpful it will be when he's old enough to go out for walks, and how sad I'd be if it ended up under the willow tree, along with my hairbrush, three odd socks, a cucumber plant label, an assortment of pegs, two flowerpots, a parsnip top, one fatally injured iPod charger, a plastic, headless US marine, and a two litre milk bottle, but it isn't sinking in just yet.
After two hours, of polishing the bookcases, and neatly arranging the books and films, I stood back to admire my hard work, and looked down at Ted, who was curled up fast asleep in his bed. I had a very brief, ahhhhhhhhhh isn't he sweet moment, but I'm a firm believer in the, let sleeping dogs lie theory, and I reckon it applies ten fold to puppies, so I left him to dream of flying his space shuttle to a previously undiscovered universe, and if I'm totally honest, I really wasn't bothered if he'd be home in time for tea. Well he was home by tea time, and as Mr Sleepyhead stumbled out of bed, I saw he'd been snoozing on top of a video I'd thrown out. It's called Crapston Villas....the irony:O)

The early pup catches the bird.

2010-04-29T09:53:00.005+01:00

Ted is obsessed with the top of the washing liquid bottle. It's a white plastic thing, with rubber in the middle, and he charges about the place with it in his mouth, looking like a kid with a dummy. He'd been playing with the dummy after breakfast this morning, so I didn't think too much at first, as he flew in from the garden with something in his mouth, until my pre-coffee brain registered that what he was carrying was brown, and not white. It had to be a fossilised cat turd, and I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to deal with removing that from his mouth at 7am, because I knew he wouldn't give it up without a fight, but I might as well get it over with now, or pay the squitty price later on. Into the sitting room I went, trying very hard to control my gag reflex, because I really don't cope well with cat crap, to be greeted by Ted, with a full grown, very much alive, male sparrow, being held in his mouth. No idea why I asked him "what have you got there?", when it was very obvious what it was, but I did, and I think it was more relief that I wasn't going to have to pry something out of his mouth that had come from the rear end of a cat than anything. How do I get him to drop it? I can't just pull it, and no way is this smug Spinone pup going to relinquish the prize that has finally set his little paws on the first rung of the ladder to Don status, so I grabbed his pink dolly (who he hadn't seen for almost 24 hours, due to her having major abdominal surgery) and he put Mr Sparrow down, then grabbed hold of dolly, and loved her like a sailor who'd been at sea for six months. Mr Sparrow was completely unharmed, and hopped up onto the window, waited for me to open it, then flew straight out, with me yelling at him to buy a Lottery ticket.

Ted goes to the vets.

2010-04-28T13:54:00.005+01:00

The boy is a drama queen. He went to the vet yesterday for his first vaccination, and a health check. He was so flat, and shivering in the consult room, the vet thought he was ill. Yeah right, this little bugger is so ill, he's spent the morning swinging off the mafias ears, disembowling cushions, digging up the cucumbers I'd just planted, humping his pheasant, not to mention the "accident" with the washing machine hose, that I'm still not quite ready to talk about. If this is a sick pup, praise the Lord I didn't get a healthy one. After a thorough examination, and probing with thermometers ( that went down worryingly well, and seemed to be the highlight of the whole experience) the boy was declared disgustingly fit, and weighed 8.4kilos, so was duly given his first shot, which he took like a man, a man who had just had a scaffold pole shoved in his neck. Ted did a lot of puking in the car on the way home, then marched in through the door, with body language that said, pfft, I laugh in the face of vets and their pathetic blue needles, to be greeted adoringly by the mafia. So there you have it, the boy will never become the capofamiglia they need, but he's a fairly decent excuse for a thug, when he's safely on his own turf, with blankey and dolly for back up. I felt guilty telling the girls he was a brave boy, but I figured they will work the truth out in their own blonde time.

Ted goes skateboarding.

2010-04-26T13:00:00.001+01:00

I fed the mafia their breakfast in the garden, and gave Ted his in the kitchen, then once he'd finished, I opened the door for him to go out and offload. The girls came in to see if he'd left anything, and he did the same with their bowls. I came indoors, and left Ted to do his thing in the garden. I heard this awful clattering, and thought he'd just tripped over a bowl, so I ignored it, but the noise got louder and louder, and wasn't stopping.
Ted, had got a front leg in Madges bowl, and was skateboarding across the concrete, and it was obvious from the expression on his face, and the startled looked that had sent his eyebrows half way down his back, that he didn't know where the brakes were. The harder he tried to get his leg out, the faster he made the bowl go. By now the mafia had come outside to investigate. Pie was in awe of Ted's ability, and was blatently dying to have a go, but Madge had that, I need to lie down in a dark room, and please keep me away from sharp objects look about her.
A very large tree root finally finally brought my skateboarding boy to a halt, and I was almost tempted to pick the traumatised little bloke up and cuddle him, until I remembered he owed me a shoelace, besides which Madge was mid-meltdown, and needed me more.

A gallon of poo & a thank you.

2010-04-24T14:49:00.002+01:00

The excitement, travelling, change of water etc, finally caught up with Ted's guts on Thursday night, and I woke up in a squitty minefield. Wouldn't have been too bad, but the floorboards upstairs are bare until the new carpet's laid, so quite a lot of "the excitement" dripped down through the gaps in the boards. There's no way I can get it out, so it will sit above my kitchen ceiling for all eternity, or until some archaeological dig discovers it in a few hundred years, and wonders why people were still building houses out of shit in 2010.
The Mafia are still undecided about the new recruit. Madge has adopted the children shouldn't be seen or heard approach, whilst Pie sits with a very vacant look in her eyes and just gazes lovingly at him. They both hate the fact that he gets fed four times a day, but are more than happy to wash his face when he's finished eating. Ted, on the other hand, adores both the girls, and as the days go by, I'm beginning to see real Godfather potential in him.
Ellie. Thank you for the lovely card. The picture looks just like Ted. He's going for a health check, and his first vaccination next week, so I will discuss some of the glaringly obvious problems you spotted with the vet. xx

Back to The Future.

2010-04-22T12:06:00.002+01:00

No puppy is this good are they? Ted will never make Godfather at this rate. He travelled home for an hour and a half without puking or peeing, suffered The Mafia's cold wet noses up his bum, ran around for a while, respected the cats desire to play NO part in his life, ate, pee'd and pooped, then crashed out in his bed at 11pm, and woke up at 7am. It has to be the calm before the storm, but I'm loving it. Ted is beautiful.
So, Netis Back to The Future is now part of "The Family".
Annette, thank you so much, not just for Ted, but for all your support during Dooza's illness, and your kindness after he'd gone.
If you're looking down Kite Boy, I know you'll be smiling. I promise you these soft little feet will run all the miles, yours didn't get to run, and will continue the adventures you left undone.xxx x

One more sleep

2010-04-20T20:00:00.003+01:00

YouTube - TedandTheBlondeMafia's Channel

I've never been so nervous in my life. I'm convinced I'm in labour, and have been up since stupid o'clock, cleaning every square inch of this house, in preparation for Ted coming home tomorrow. Hell, I even found a can of polish, and for reasons which are probably quite obvious to consultant psychiatrists, I polished the loo seat. How mad is that? Anyway, I performed a triple Salchow on my glass like throne, which was worthy of at least nine points, and I'm sure the pain will subside after a day or two on opiates.
Was another lovely day for walking The Mafia. Pie got in her first swim of the year, and I really must remember to take Madges arm bands next time we go down to The Mole.
I wish it was this time tomorrow.
Breathe, pant, push.

Monday morning & mealworms.

2010-04-19T16:26:00.006+01:00

YouTube - TedandTheBlondeMafia's Channel

Mr and Mrs Fairman, and the microwaved Aye-aye are proud members of The Caravan Club, and Mr, spends most of his life cleaning and polishing his beast of an RCV, whilst perfecting his comedy routine. They must have gone off on their travels, because "the sheep" and I got off on our walk without bumping into him, which was just aswell, because I was seriously not in the mood for him today.

I was up at 6, and wanted to take the mafia out early, as I had lots to do. I left the pair of them in bed while I fed the chicken (who's in "hospital" in the attic, until she is better), and sorted out Pella, the senile old cat, who spends most of her life asleep in the bathroom. I delivered room service to the hen of corn, mealworms, Weetabix, and some chopped up lettuce, opened a sachet of foul smelling fishy stuff for Pella, checked the snoring Spins, and went and made coffee.
Five minutes later, two sleepy girls arrive in the kitchen, so I opened the door to let them out for a wee, and noticed the distinctive smell of cat food as they walked past. Went back upstairs to refeed the cat, and looked in on hen, and apart from a few grains of corn, her entire breakfast was also inside two bloody Spinones.
Then the man who's just moved in next door felt the need to say goodmorning, so I grunted, and wished Mr and Mrs Burb still lived there. They were far more entertaining. Mrs Burb wasn't well, and often told the entire village what she thought of Tony Blair, and his cabinet (who between them have apparently sired every illegitimate child worldwide) out of her bedroom window. When the weather was warm, she'd wander down to her shed stark naked except for a pair of pink slippers, but as Mr Burb had an aversion to cutting the grass, and Mrs Burb was very short, her modesty, and my gag reflex were fairly well protected. So yeah, I miss Mrs Burb, and would swap her anyday, with her pressure washer obsessed replacement, who is far too cheerful on a Monday morning for my liking.
I also decided today that I hate Henry, he came to live here after Mr Dyson choked to death on plaster dust, and rubble. Henry is not as obedient as Mr Dyson, and is completely incapable of walking in a straight line. My dislike of him is slightly irrational, but I don't care, his inane smile is all the reason I need, for hoping he's soon gasping his last on a diet of spinone hair and mortar dust.

Aye-aye. (5 more sleeps)

2010-04-16T13:41:00.006+01:00

Why does Mr Fairman think he's destined for a career at The Comedy Store, based on his daily, " blimey,you walking those sheep again?" But worse than that, why do I always say YES? Why don't I say, don't be such a knob, and BTW, why does your Papillion look like a microwaved Aye-aye? Never mind, tomorrow's another day ;O)

Anyway, the mafia had a lovely walk, and as far as I'm aware, all the local wildlife remain intact. It makes it so much easier when I don't have to dodge the new gamekeeper, who is actually a nasty piece of work, and nothing like the Mellors character in Lady Chatterley's Lover, I dreamed he would be.

So, we're wandering down this path,almost home, and Pie L'ardarse is plodding infront of me, with Dippy Dinsdale just ahead of her, and I'm off with the fairies, looking at Pie's bum thinking she's losing some of her excess poundage, and feeling very happy not only about that, but also how nice it is to be taking two clean dogs home, when I realise Dippy is no longer on the path, she's in the frigging ditch, up to her knees in mud and frog spawn. Anyone got Annette's phone number?

Pikeys and padlocks. (six more sleeps)

2010-04-15T14:07:00.006+01:00

The house is being renovated. We started doing it last September, just before Dooza got sick, but once he became unwell, everything got put on hold, then after we'd lost him, we'd also lost our enthusiasm, so nothing really got done until the end of February.
Then the plumbers moved in, and ripped out all the radiators, and replaced them with original Victorian ones, which look really nice, but kill your arse when you sit on them. All the old rads, pipes, a couple of cast iron fireplaces, and aluminium flue liners, have been stored (dumped) behind the side gate.

One day last week, this dirty, stumpy little geezer knocked at the door, and told me he'd been asked by the builders to come and clear the rubbish. What rubbish I asked the grubby, vertically challenged one. The scrap behind the gate....shall I show you? No need to show me, I know perfectly well whats behind my own gate, and you aren't having it, but I'll sell you a bar of soap, if you promise to bugger off. I didn't give him the soap, but he did leave, and apart from wondering how he knew my treasures were there, I didn't give it another thought, until today.

Came home from walking the mafia, and was just making coffee when there was a knock at the front door. Well, the mafia were going nuts with the barking they usually reserve for the DHL man. That, let me at your testicles kind of bark. By the time I'd got to the door whoever it was had gone, so why were the girls still in full we want balls for lunch mode? I looked again, and bugger me, I had a pikey up my back passage,(never a comfortable feeling) over my six foot gate, dancing around on my old rads. I think I said something like, "good afternoon sir, may I help you?" To which my uninvited guest replied, " I'm not doin' nuffin, I'm a builder, working on a flat roof round the corner." Oh, silly me, I thought you were an effing pikey, trying to nick my scrap metal. " Oi !! yelled the soon to be castrated intruder, you can't call me a pikey, I'll report you." At this point hysteria took over, and in between thanking my maker for Tena products, I tried to explain as rationally as possible to the travelling gentleman ( who'd become strangely static), that I could call him whatever I chose, as he had failed to introduce himself before breaking into my property, with a view to stealing my treasures. I suggested that now would be a good time to leave, as the mafia had worked themselves up into full Spin gloop frenzy, at the thought of the tasty snack I'd promised them. He agreed, and exited my back passage (ahh the relief), walking quite rapidly, past Madge and Pie, (who I'd temporarily renamed Tyson and Kaiser) pulling bits off the cottoneaster in a final act of defiance as he went.
I now have a padlock the size of Big Ben on the gate, Tyson and Kaiser had to make do with chicken wings, but the main thing, is, my treasures are safe!!

PS. Six more sleeps:O)

Sprout.

2010-04-14T14:03:00.004+01:00

Took the bloody hen to see an avian specialist in Horsham today. She's got egg peritonitis, and the idea was, that the amazing Alberto Rodriguez would spay her tomorrow. Poor old Sprout is turning out to be a real roasting tin dodger, she's been booked in for PTS twice since January. Both times I've cancelled the appointments, because the first time, we got snowed in, and the second time, she rose from her death bed, and made a recovery that Jesus would have been impressed with. Apart from a slight wobble on St Valentines day when she spent hours squeezing something out of her bum, that wouldn't have looked out of place on the set of Alien, she's been fine until last week. Anyway, after weighing up the pro's and cons, I decided against the spay, and Sprouty is now the proud owner of a contraceptive implant, which should prevent her little chicken self, producing any more eggs, and fingers crossed will cure the peritonitis. In the meantime, the Paxo is going out of date, and I'm not only doubting my sanity at owning a barren hen, but trying very hard not to work out how many eggs and chicken breasts I could buy with the £103.89p that todays vet consult cost.

The Blonde Mafia.

2010-04-13T19:12:00.013+01:00

The Girls.

Madge.

Got up really early, so I could knacker the mafia, as I had to take my hen to see a vet down in Sussex.
I was only gone for a few hours, but they were both so good, and I had nonie noses squashed against the bedroom window when I got back:O) Bless the mafia, they didnt even eat the cat while I was out.

I need to make a puppy gate to stop the girls either encouraging boy to climb the stairs, or chucking him down them, once theyve got bored with dressing him up and plastering his everso ugly face with makeup. Me and saws dont go together too well, but if Douglas Bader could fly a plane without legs, walking three Spins, after a few minor amputations should be a piece of piss. I cant even knit ffs, and I'm sure I should be. What kind of parent am I?

Dooza.

2010-04-13T13:19:00.011+01:00

Kate Rusby. Underneath the Stars.(clicky)

I have mixed feelings starting a blog that isn't going to be about Dooza. It's been four months since we lost him, and the truth is, it still hurts alot.
So, before we welcome Ted, this first post is for our precious boy. To thank him for sixteen months of fun, love, laughter, and even the tears, pain, and emptiness that are the inevitable price we pay for loving.

"Dooza"
Netis It's a Mystery.
18/07/2008--10/12/2009.
Loving you huge Boody. xxx x

Underneath the stars I'll meet you.
Underneath the stars I'll greet you.
There beneath the stars I'll leave you.
Before you go of your own free will.
Go gently, Kite Boy.

Ted and The Blonde Mafia

Space Commander Ted.

Where'd the time go?

Pillows.

Safely defused.

Poorly Ted.

Just Madge

Rambler ramblings.

Two Teds are better than one?.

Happy Birthday Pie.

I'm a lumberjack and I'm ok...

The trouble with Ted.

Happy Gotcha Day, Bucket Arse.

Burke and Hare.

Teds first kill.

該死 雄兽 !!

Sleep tight Welly....take two.

Veni vidi vici.

Capiche?

Why?

Teddy, NO!!

I love him when he sleeps.

Just pictures 'cause I itch.

Life is good.

The girls done good.

Sleep tight Welly

The Golden Girls.

Crapston Villas.

The early pup catches the bird.

Ted goes to the vets.

Ted goes skateboarding.

A gallon of poo & a thank you.

Back to The Future.

One more sleep

Monday morning & mealworms.

Aye-aye. (5 more sleeps)

Pikeys and padlocks. (six more sleeps)

Sprout.

The Blonde Mafia.

Dooza.

該死雄兽 !!