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!”

Letter to Santa

Dear Santa

It’s now not long until you stop by our house and hopefully leave with your sleigh just that little bit lighter… We are now pretty much geared up for your arrival, the house has begun to take on the festive look, the Christmas tree has only fallen down once (and that was due to overzealous decorating on the room facing side), I roasted some chestnuts yesterday, some of which (much to the boys’ fascination) exploded all over the kitchen and in every corner of the house there are bags of interesting stuff that no one is allowed to touch.

So on the night of your visit you will have your usual pint of beer, a mince pie and there will of course be a carrot for Rudolph (or Donner, Blitzen, Prancer or whichever reindeer it is that always manages to make a single perfect bitemark every year). It never ceases to amaze me how with the magic of Christmas and a little fairy dust that despite us not having a working chimney (it was blocked up years ago), you have managed to materialize in the house, escape the hunting claws of two ferocious cats, sneak past one of the lightest sleepers known to man and fill up three enormous stockings with fully wrapped and exciting presents.

But a word of caution this year – it may have escaped the notice of your busy elves up in the North Pole that we have a new addition to the family.  We have Muttley.  He’s not that big, but very excitable, and has a proven track record of chasing reindeer (and Santas).  It’s not his fault, poor chap, most of them have been running away from him, and he thinks they’re fair game.  However, I’m slightly concerned as to his approach when he sees a Santa and a reindeer breaking into his house… So perhaps a little forewarning beforehand?

Other than that, there has only been one thing about Christmas that has phased Muttley so far.

Was it the singing Santa ornament that jiggled his hips in a frenzied geriatric manner until his batteries ran out? No.

Is it the Christmas tree with its five sets of flashing lights all vying for synchronization with each other? No.

Is it the trailing tinsel lametta that is draped over said tree and sways with a provocative shimmer each time someone walks into the room? No.

Is it the abundance of food that seems to make it into the fridge, but never comes out? No.

Is it the parcels under the tree that sit there, day after day, shouting ‘Open Me!’? No.

Is it the annoying light up snowman outside which has such a short wire that trips up anyone who walks to the door? No.

Is it the festive penguin toy replete with ear muffs and Christmas scarf that G brought back from his recent skiing trip? No.

No, it is none of those things.  What has upset Muttley so far is a pair of Christmas socks.  Just a pair of fluffy red socks with white dots on them.  And they happen to be mine.  He hates them and shakes them vehemently whenever he spies them – even when they are on me… If I happen to be wearing them, he tries to take them off, growling as he starts on the toes and pulls with force.  This becomes more of a problem if I am going up and down stairs – or answering the door to the bemused postman with a dog hanging off my foot.  He ignores any other socks, it’s just these ones, and the problem is that I am quite fond of them -  they happen to be warm – and I didn’t know that we had taken on the Gok Wan of the dog world.  But for the sake of his taste, and my feet, I have abandoned them.  God knows how he will react when he sees my Christmas jumper with two penguins on the front…

So Santa, you have been warned.  Don't sneak in this year, leave the reindeer behind, and whatever you do, try and avoid wearing red and white.  And what would I like for Christmas?  A peaceful day where everyone is delighted with their gifts, delighted with their food, delighted with the board games that we insist on falling out over every year, delighted to ignore xbox for one whole day, delighted to watch old reruns on the telly and delighted to be together as one big happy family…failing that, a good pair of warm woolen, non-patterned socks would go down a treat.

Happy Christmas!

Love R x

   

Santa Claws

I don’t know why, but this year I have seen a proliferation of Santas.  Maybe somewhere in Cyberspace they are selling cheap Santa outfits, but everywhere I look, there is someone dressed in red felt and white fake fur.

Yesterday I boarded the train with Little Man, set for London and the musical extravaganza that is Top Hat.  For those of you who don’t know, Top Hat was made famous by Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, and features many tap dancing routines as well as waltzes, tangos and cheesy one liners.  Little Man is not only the only boy in his school year who is learning tap dance, but also the only boy in his dance school.  By default he has been given a solo as a King Emperor penguin in a four day show in February – what he lacks in talent he makes up for in enthusiasm as he waddles tap-style across the stage in a solo that takes all of 35 seconds.  However, he is very proud of the fact, and in order to show him that there is life after the penguin, I decided to take him to the theatre for a birthday treat.

As we stood at Farnborough station, a group of young male and female Santas congregated on the platform, beers and WKDs in hand.  The females were dressed in red velvet Santa skater dresses and stockings, glittery sequined hats perched jauntily on carefully mussed up hair.  The men had obviously ordered in bulk, on a one-size-fits-all basis, and looked a motley crew in cheap red felt, fake beards around their necks, sunglasses and hair gel in situ as they swigged from their Carlsbergs. Little Man looked at them, eyes wide open as the friendly banter got louder and louder as more and more Santas poured over the bridge from the station entrance to our platform.  One Santa, who was rather portly, had got caught short on the other side of the platform and decided to visit the toilets, and  just as the train was coming into view everyone on our side of the platform (including us) were cheering him on as he made a mad Santa dash for the train…

Out in Waterloo, and all the Santas piled off the train, to go God knows where, but definitely not to the North Pole.  As we clambered on to the tube more Santas joined us, they were distinguishable from the originals by the fact that they were wearing black trousers, and then as we wandered in leisurely style to the theatre we saw Santas in strapless outfits, Santas with tattoos, even Santas who were expecting babies…

Needless to say (and I have been to many theatres in the world), you cannot beat the West End in London, and Top Hat was beyond either of our expectations.  As the only child in the Grand circle, and the only boy at the matinee, Little Man was cossetted and feted by all of the enthusiastic middle aged theatre goers, and never was there a more proud little tap dancing penguin…

On to Covent Garden, where we walked past a pub, where a whole load of Irish Santas were singing Christmas carols featuring Yogi Bear that I have only ever heard at rugby matches, but made a nice change from The Pogues. I have to say, London does do Christmas well, and in Covent Garden we sat down for a chocolate crepe opposite an enormous lit up tree, and a lit up topiary Rudolph resplendent with light up red nose, whilst watching a Knife thrower entertaining the crowds, and then it was time to go.  On the train back some rather dispirited Santas sat, one with his beard on his forehead, another looking as if he was wearing chaps, his red felt trousers flapping.  One female Santa sat groaning, her head in her hands, in need of the National Elf Service (sorry, had to slip that one in…) and all in all they were a sorry sight to behold.

This morning I took Muttley out for a walk before a busy day, meeting up by chance with another Border Collie owner.  I have met him before, and his collie was a working dog that he took on.  His biggest problem was getting the dog into the house – this is because previously the collie had slept outside with the sheep, and had never been a pet.  So we walked in companionable silence, the dogs had shot out of view in the circling motion only known to collies – they circle around you, and the instant you call them, they come straight back (marvelous, in theory…)

We walked round the corner, straight into a Santa Fun Run.  There were hundreds of them, big Santas, little Santas, even a baby Santa in a buggy.  I probably don’t need to say much more…

Needless to say, the two collies had Fun and the Santas had the Run.  I felt especially for the poor gentleman who had dressed up as Rudolph in full brown fur and was lagging behind the others, but soon joined them with renewed energy as the working dog went into action nipping at his furry hooves.

I’m hoping for Little Man’s sake that the real Santa looks down with humour on the whole thing…

First past the post

All of us have habits – for example G likes to be the first to open things.  I’ve lost count of the times that a new jar of peanut butter or instant coffee has been opened, despite the fact that there are remnants in the old jar.  I like to be the first to get into a freshly made bed, and rather unreasonably get really irritated if I am not.  Eldest boy likes to be the first down to the telly, so that he can have supremacy over the remote control.  Middle child likes to be the first to try out new foods – hence he has added alligator, snails and kangaroo to his culinary repertoire.  And Little Man, well, he is desperate to be the inventor of the first ever indispensable gizmo.  So much so that his bedroom is a series of pulleys, levers, bells, flashing lights, a ceiling fan (which we had to pay an electrician £50 to mount), strings closing doors, and various other inventions that have either not succeeded, or not yet sold. 

Our ever obliging neighbours, who have no children, have over the years bought handy cushions, art masterpieces and homemade lemonade from our children, who all want to be the first millionaires in our family.  Time and again they have rescued homemade airplanes from their hedge, arrows fashioned out of wood from their bird table and several hundred footballs from the bottom of their garden in my kids quest for perfection.  The trampoline becomes a perfect launching pad for not only those kids that want to be the first to fly, but for those who want to be the first to kick a football out of the earths orbit… Once our neighbours woke up to see a huge flying saucer on the top of their hedge. Another day they went out into the garden to find that our kids had suspended all the kiddy garden furniture precariously in the branches of the hedge in order to make the first ever  tree office.

So really, Muttley fits in quite well.  He has been the first to help us conserve our energy bills as our previous draughty existence in leaving doors open everywhere has been curbed somewhat since he arrived.  He has been the first to chew up his bed.  None of us have ever pooed on the floor, so I guess that is a first, and he is definitely the first to the letterbox.  This is not as chaotic as it seems – I went downstairs the other day and caught the postman shouting ‘Muttley No!’ through the letterbox in the door (they seem to have a good arrangement, as Muttley is not remotely interested in envelopes, and is quite selective about the cards that he chews…).

I went shopping to London the other day and bought Muttley a little fun bandana which said My First Christmas… the days are counting down  - let’s hope it doesn’t descend into Santa’s first bitten bottom, the first one to the turkey or indeed the first time Christmas has had to be cancelled…

Have a great weekend everyone!   

Hangdog

Someone who is a regular reader of the blog asked me recently what has happened to the cats.  Fear not, they are still here firmly ensconced in the bedrooms and charging downstairs for food once they know that Muttley has gone out for a walk or is safely asleep in his crate.  All you can hear on these furtive raids are the ding ding of the bells on their collars which I had acquired  some months ago in an attempt to stop the continual bringing in of mice and birds.  What actually happened was that Ronnie and Reggie, the neighbourhood bully boy cats, laid in wait for them as my two strode self consciously jingling into the garden.  The mice and birds episode only dried up because of the cold weather and the new deal of dwelling upstairs in Radiatorville.  But in this festive season there is an added dimension… Little Man announced recently that he knew Father Christmas was coming soon because he had heard the reindeer bells jingling in the night…

Of course, the festive season is upon us and as we always delay it until after Little Man’s birthday, which rather conveniently falls two weeks exactly before Christmas, it always comes upon us as an annual shock.  After a fun packed birthday party with 17 excited seven year olds, I turned to G who was on the second day of a festive hangover and still looking a bit shot away and said ‘It must be time to get the Christmas tree’…

Now I don’t know about any of you, but getting the Christmas tree has become a bit of a tradition in our family ever since we discovered a place near us which provides you with your very own hacksaw to chop down your selected tree.  This appeals to the testosterone in the household, and often the look of the tree is secondary only to the actual felling.  So regardless of the weather I feel obligated to go with them all – not only to make sure that all limbs are still intact by the time we leave, but that the tree a) fits in the house and b) it has some branches.

This year it was a little fraught, because none of us could agree on a tree and it was cold and boggy and Mummy’s sense of Christmas spirit was rapidly hankering after the alcoholic mulled wine variety and not the pine needle and woodchippings in hair sort.  After a while, and a little help from a Christmas elf with one front tooth and a tractor and chainsaw, we chopped down a tree and stuck it on the roof of the car with the aid of lots of rope and bungee cords, but which meant that we were trapped in the car and G had tied himself out of the car.  Letting down his window, G then attempted – Dukes of Hazzard style- to get in through said window.  This was not easy, as G is no longer as snake hipped as he likes to think he is, and the boys were well and truly Ho Ho Ho-ing by the time he sat red faced behind the wheel.

Getting it into the house required more acrobatics, and by the time the tree was actually up, we were all exhausted.

Going back to the cats.  When they were kittens we had no end of escapades with the Christmas tree.  For one, they hated the fairy we had at the top, and made it their mission to kill it at all costs.  Several fellings of fully decorated Christmas trees later and we dispensed with the rather bedraggled fairy and replaced it with a star which was much more acceptable.  Also along the wayside went any baubles covered in feathers, any glittery jewel type ornaments and certain types of tinsel.

Fearing that Muttley may also limit us to what we put up, we decided to leave the tree nude for a few days to get him used to the idea that his human nutters were now moving the outside in.  Rather concerned that he might use the tree as his very own poo corner, I kept a stern eye on him, but other than an initial attempt to eat the tree (after all, it had lots of sticks on it), Muttley seemed unphased by the new arrival.

This morning I tried out one bauble, and left it nonchalantly on one of the lower branches.  The puppy looked at it, head to one side, and came and sat by my heels.  ‘That’s mine’ I announced solemnly, and left the room.

An hour passed and still the bauble remained in situ.  I was in the kitchen and came back into the lounge to find a very quiet dog who had completely demolished his bed.  And the bauble had gone…

A severe telling off later, I went upstairs, and there on the third step was the bauble, carefully laid by all his precious things.

I have a horrible feeling this year that decorating the tree will be like Groundhog Day…