Tuesday 20 August 2013

Chip Van


One of the perennial problems as a dog owner, is what to do with your beloved pet when you go on holiday.  You could, like one of my friends, put him on a plane and take him with you – but that often costs more than your own flight ticket, necessitates endless waiting around at both airports and continuous form filling.  You could put him in a kennels.  Or you could, as I did, get someone to look after him.

This is a responsibility.  A family I know received a call on holiday and there was a somber voice on the other end of the phone.  ‘We’ve got sad news…the goldfish has died…’  This was not as devastating as the caller had anticipated, as frankly the family were surprised that the fish had lived so long in the first place, and in fairness it is possible that this was because previous carers had simply substituted the deceased with a perkier version…  However, this is not possible with a dog, and therefore the owner has to undergo processes that are akin to assessing a new school for the kids.

I was lucky enough on the third or fourth go to find a lovely, lively and loud lady who lived locally to me and did this kind of thing for a living.  She came to meet Muttley, and pronounced him fit to stay.  She handled her toddlers and her Rottweilers with equal aplomb, and as I surveyed the chaos of my life, I thought that Muttley could probably do with a bit of R & R too.  So I filled in endless forms, was he vaccinated, yes, neutered, no, microchipped, not yet, and so on.

We had a lovely holiday, and through the magic of Facebook we saw what Muttley had been up to.  He had had a holiday romance with a large German Shepherd, had been on countless walks, and had put himself to bed, exhausted, every night.  When we came back, he was delighted to see us, but then went to jump back in the carers car…

She told us of a dog show locally that was taking place for charity in a couple of weeks time, and at which there would be a free microchipping service for any dogs that turned up.  Never one to miss an opportunity to save some money, but aware that I would be spending considerably more at the show thanks to the pester power of the kids and Muttley – the day dawned and I asked G if he wanted to come with me. Now G is very amenable, but one thing he absolutely detests is needles – indeed, at 5 years old he had to be held down by 6 doctors in order to have an abscess in his gum lanced.  So he muttered about doing something in the garden, and instantly disappeared.

 Little Man was enchanted by a stall that offered a doggie drinking fountain, and insisted that we filled in a form to try and win one.  We bought some interesting doggie snacks at another, out of guilt after Muttley had snaffled some of the free samples.  Hundreds of dogs of all shapes and sizes yapped and yowled, barked and sniffed at one another.  Owners greeted one another with a raise of the eyebrows and a tug on the leads. We watched with interest as the doggie agility show commenced, Muttley’s ears cocked as he recognized one of his walking buddies leaping over the fences and running through tunnels with glee.

But this was all of course, leading up to one thing.  We walked over to the Vet Van, where an efficient lady looked Muttley up and down and then proceeded to run a barcode scanner over him.  Muttley looked vaguely interested.  She then gave him a whole handful of treats which he snuffled at in the grass, and jabbed him with a needle on the soft fold of skin above his haunches. Uttering a howl of dismay, Muttley launched himself away from the Vet Van, the vet still clinging to him, and with me on the end of the lead.

Picking herself up, she brushed herself down and announced to the forlorn dog, ‘You’re the first Screamer I’ve had today.  We’ve had all sorts, even a Chihuahua puppy – and none of them made such a fuss…’  Nevertheless she gave him a pat, and a little medal to wear.  Little Man looked concerned, and asked if his dog was hurting.  She showed him the needle.  It was enormous. 

I raised my eyes to heaven.  Thank God G hadn’t come.  She hadn’t seen a real Screamer…

Monday 19 August 2013

Nut Job


I always seem to find the nutters.  As a child, I wasn’t of course aware that they were nutters, just that they were stranger than the other strange people that inhabited the bizarre adult world where they drank poison to be happy and smoked poison to be calm.  However, the older I got (and began to embrace the adult world), the more nutty people became.

At university, I had a lovely flatmate, who one evening knocked on my door and had what appeared to him to be a perfectly logical explanation on the creation of the universe based on Pythagoras’ Theorem.  As I had downed several snakebite and blacks (those of you too young, or too sensible, never drink it – unless you happen to be fascinated by purple wee the next morning), I sat and conversed back, even then aware that perhaps he was a bit of a nutter.  In fact, he was carted off to a psychiatric hospital by the end of term, having been caught sitting naked in a field chanting Shakespeare, with a few choice Nietsche phrases and a hammer thrown in the mix.

And then there is the Tube – London’s greatest invention and a hub for nutters.  You may have the wandering minstrels who try and get a smile and some pennies out of the miserable commuters before they race off the train with the police in hot pursuit.  Or the old woman that sits quietly clutching a Sainsburys bag before shouting obscenities at the young man on an iPod opposite.  Or the men that insist on pressing up sweatily against you as you stand in sardine formation against a metal pole on a packed peak hour, trying to maintain some dignity. Or the last Tube home, where we joined in with the nutters, challenging people to get from one hanging handle to the other down the full length of the carriage like one huge swinging monkey bar (amazing how many people joined in that game…)

As I have got progressively older, I have realised that my friends are all slightly nutty. Those that are single charge around being interesting and throwing themselves off the highest buildings attached to flimsy bits of elastic, or jumping on flights to far off lands with just a toothbrush in their handbags.  Those that are parents drink poison to be happy and some of them smoke poison to be calm.  It is the summer holidays, and we are at the stage where we are all gritting our teeth and getting through the last two weeks.  The kids have reached that stage of permanently hungry chicks whose mouths are permanently clamped round something from the cupboard or fridge, but whose legs don’t seem to work when asked to nip to the shops to replenish stocks.  I have had hoardes of children through my doors, most of them charming, all lively, and all nutty.  Our dressing up box has been raided on several occasions, with movies made, or shows enacted, or just because they happen to like the gold lame top from the 80’s (and that was a boy). Our trampoline has definitely now seen better days, and our carpets will thankfully be replaced…

But, the nuttiest people I meet are always on walks with the dog.  There is the man who permanently drags his dog around on a lead as it didn’t come back once when he called it.  There is the woman who didn’t have a dog, but stopped to chat anyway and told me that she had breastfed all four of her kids until they were five years old.  Or the two ladies who walk every day and have two yapping dogs that hate one another. Or the lady with the SheWee (we won’t talk about that).  Or the silent man – he never speaks, to you or his dogs. But my favourite has to be the good old British army cadets, who on sitting round a camp fire discussing tactics, welcomed Muttley as he charged up to them, tail wagging, and gave him lots of cuddles, much to the exasperation of their sergeant who was trying to issue some directives.

Maybe it is a case of Opposites Attract, but I have a horrible feeling that it is more that Birds of a Feather Flock Together… I’m off to do cartwheels with the kids down the garden now…

 

Sunday 4 August 2013

The Bed


There’s something about our bed.  It’s nothing special- a king size, run of the mill bed – but it is our bed. And despite all the hotels and motels and luxury apartments and boats and aeroplanes and anywhere else you can sleep in style, nothing beats climbing into our bed and going to la la land.  And the strange thing is, it has become the hub of upstairs – everything goes on in our bed.  The boys have woken up to new babies in the bed (thankfully they weren’t in the bed during the making of the new babies  - that would just be weird), if they feel ill they clamber into our bed, if there is a problem that needs talking through, it goes on on our bed, the tooth fairy has run late on several occasions and has ended up visiting our bed, and Father Christmas stockings are brought in from all the bedrooms at some ungodly hour on Christmas Day and ripped open with whoops of joy all over our bed.

Rather shyly the other day I asked Eldest Son where he would like to open his birthday presents.  I felt that I ought to, as at nearly 6 ft tall and 14 years old, I felt that maybe it would be more appropriate to open his gifts and cards in the lounge.  He looked horrified at the thought of relocating the tradition, and so our family of five scrambled happily on to the bed eating chocolate cake and surrounded by wrapping paper at 7.30 in the morning.

But you know, I recall the same in my childhood.  Perhaps my parents bed had the same attraction for my sister and I because it contained the two people we loved most in the world.  Perhaps it was because their bed was twice the size of ours and instead of having sheets and blankets it had something called a ‘Dooovaaay’ which was very luxurious and almost unheard of where we lived in Africa.  There was nothing like clambering up onto the crunchy feather cover and opening up our Christmas stockings.

And because I change the covers on a Monday, Sunday is the day that we allow Muttley to come and wake us up in our bed.  This generally ends up in chaos – especially when it is wet outside and we have a white duvet cover, but it has become a rite of passage to ensure that we never get a lie in. He loves this, and today was whining at the door to be let in.  With a joyous yell he hurled himself enthusiastically at a very hungover slumbering G, and lay there, head on the pillow, panting hot dog breath into G’s ear. Once he had ensured that we were well and truly awake, he yawned, and went to sleep.

 As I said – there’s something about our bed…