The trouble with Ted.

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.

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.

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.

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 !!

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.

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.

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.