The Food Chain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There in his food bowl was a dead mouse. 

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

Puppy Training

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Top Dog!

A lot has been written about how, as a dog owner, you should be the ‘Top Dog’ in the pack.  This tends to work in families too.  When you live in a family like mine which is dominated by testosterone, it helps to be the Alpha Female -Lap Cat graciously takes her place in line, as long as she has a lap to sit on and plenty of food (so who’s the mug?). Often G strides into the house of utter chaos determined to make progress, despatching Eldest Son who from time to time locks horns in the battle to be Alpha Male upstairs to battle with his pit of a bedroom, sending Middle Son into a sulky huddle over his revision and quietening Little Mans constant questions with one look.  This of course would work perfectly if I hadn’t at that precise moment decided to serve up dinner, and then it all becomes farcical.  Generally though, we try and work on a ‘You’re right of course darling (and I will tell you later why you’re wrong)’ basis.

This also includes dealing with Muttley.  As regular readers will know, G is not a natural dog lover, but perseveres within certain ground rules. Thus I established firmly from the beginning that I was to be Muttleys ‘Top Dog’, and any nonsense from him would be dealt with by me.  Responsible stuff…so within two days of ownership I was panic calling around various dog trainers who all advised me that I needed to get to know the dog before training and in any case courses didn’t start until after Christmas.  We have muddled along for nearly two months and seem to have established some sort of hierarchy. Of sorts.

Never is it more apparent whether or not it is working than when you are on a walk. As I have said before, it is always an adventure on the army grounds where we ramble – G has in his time come across a man in full black tie, with a music stand and sheet music singing opera (I kid you not).  Another time he saw a man furiously bashing away at a full drum kit (we wondered how he actually got it all set up).  Quite obviously the Top Dogs in their houses had shouted Enough!  Then there is the Army – and all their little trenches, ‘war’ litter, which the boys love, bivouacs (we’ve heard about those already…) –and the differing terrain on which they use to train, sand, deep pits for the tanks to practice in, rocks over which to scramble and miles and miles of scrubland. When I am out with the two younger boys, who have equally as active imaginations as mine, walks take on strange twists and turns (mainly because we try new routes and get lost), and we discover old soldiers trenches (which of course have to be explored), an enormous quarry of charcoal inexplicably placed in the middle of the scrubland becomes the landing site of an alien spaceship, campfires containing no end of half burned ration packs become the objects of intense scrutiny.  Muttley bounds on ahead with absolutely no idea where he is or where he is going but enjoying the thrill of just being there and in the confidence that one of his pack will eventually get him where he needs to be. And Middle Son comes into his own as Top Dog – leading the way back home like a bloodhound, just in time for lunch…

But the fact of the matter is that there is another (retired) dog in our family who was Top Dog for years, ever since she was given to me at the age of 7 by Auntie H.  This is Tessa, who started off life as a fluffy toy, but throughout the decades has lost an eye, had her ear sewn on twice, an eyebrow glued on and all the fur has been rubbed away through lots of wear and tear.  She has travelled extensively – back and forth to Africa throughout my boarding school days, school trips, holidays (I’m afraid she even hid in the suitcase during my honeymoon), has been with me to Uni, at my side at all exams and in my briefcase at all interviews.  Eldest Son, at the age of 18 months, plucked out Tessa from the rainbow array of cuddly toys at his disposal on his first day of preschool, and she has lived with him ever since (of course now she is carefully stowed under his bed).  So this grand old dame has been on two survival Bushcraft weekends, a number of scout camps, has applauded him on to victory in various athletics championships and is proving herself quite adept at French.  Middle Son is sitting entrance exams for secondary school – his first was on Friday, and being ever so cool seemed outwardly very calm.  However mothers know their kids and I asked him whether he had a good luck charm to take in which he poo pooed.  Eldest Son said, a little too casually ‘Would you like to take Tessa?  She worked for me?’ and immediately his offer was taken up.

As Middle Son walked up for registration at the big scary new school I asked if he was ok – ‘Yep’ came back the answer ‘I’ve got Tessa’. And without a look back at me in he walked patting his pocket where the little dog lay.

Maybe her days as Top Dog are not over, maybe we all have a chance in life to be a Top Dog to someone. 

Meanwhile, I got back home and let Muttley outside whilst I washed up the breakfast dishes.  Looking out into the garden I saw the puppy, who had somehow got up the ladder onto the trampoline and was bouncing by himself contentedly chasing a ball – the madness continues (but what a top dog)!!!

An Irish Dog: Santas Little Helper

An Irish Dog: Santas Little Helper: The festive period always seems to go by in a blur – admittedly some of it may be due to the increased alcohol intake – but mainly because ...

Santas Little Helper

The festive period always seems to go by in a blur – admittedly some of it may be due to the increased alcohol intake – but mainly because of the increased amount of social activity that happens on a yearly basis, but still takes us by surprise.  From Little Man’s birthday exactly two weeks before Christmas onwards, the cooker groans with the effort of cooking so much food, nothing in the house is where it ought to be (including one of the sofas, which had been moved to the garage to accommodate this year’s enormous Christmas tree), there are mattresses on floors where extra family and friends have come to stay, and my ironing mountain rivals Everest.

But despite it being an utterly exhausting time, it’s really good fun. 

We initially started panicking on Christmas Eve when we realized that we had gone from the five of us to eleven, inheriting some family whose plans had fallen through at the last minute.  All the presents were eventually wrapped and under the tree.  The table was set up and all three kids peeled the vegetables in preparation for the big day.  Santa arrived on time and produced the goods. Even Muttley seemed rather taken with his Christmas bib and wore it all day without attempting to rip it off.  The cats were happy to wreak havoc upstairs, tearing after their stocking catnip mice with loud thumps and squeals.  I even remembered to make the bread sauce and devils on horseback, without which in our house there would be a mutiny.

I was delighted to have a Skype call on Christmas day from a very dear friend of mine in Australia – all the family on both sides of the world gathered in front of the small flickering screen and she at last got to meet Muttley, and we managed to talk together for a lovely ten minutes – that was a precious moment.

As we all sat squashed around our Christmas table – Muttley at our feet, snuffling for any fallen tidbits – it amazed me how any animosities from the years and months before just melted away in the simple act of eating together.  Yes we all love and laugh at the comedy sketches of Christmas dinners in families, and we all want to poke out the eyes of the unstressed Oxo mum who presides over a sumptuous banquet in the adverts – but in reality, Christmas dinner (or whatever religious feast day you follow) is a chance to recoup those lost family ties, and reevaluate those who are important to you.

The same with our New Years Eve celebrations.  Traditionally a time for pondering on self improvement and dreams for the year ahead, what I enjoyed most was being with some of our dearest friends who have been with us through the tough times and the good times – never faltering in their love and support for our mad chaotic family.

And Muttley.  Now a big boy of 7 months old, he has got through his first festive period with very few mishaps.  I thought I would sum it up (to the tune of a popular carol)…

“On the twelfth day of Christmas my puppy brought to meeeee…

12 days of moulting

11 sticks of rawhide

10 bits of cracker

9 chewed up cards

8 christmas baubles

7 punctured footballs

6 single shoes

5 mouldy bones!

4 barked through calls

3 nicked sweets

2 pot plants

And a penguin without a beak!”