Why?

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!!

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.

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.

YouTube - TedandTheBlondeMafia's Channel

Life is good.

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.

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

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