I should know better

I discovered this sport at the Royal Highland Show - it looks safer, less tiring and more comfortable than dogshowing and I might just take it up....

Miss Truly regrets......"Why did I bite them all?"

A frigid experience at the last show, where people were buying dog blankets and bedding to wrap round themselves in the icy blast commonly known as a "sea breeze". At least we weren`t there on the next day, when everything blew down - the joys of open air events in this country.

I wasn`t showing, so had time to study the judging, which was at times...unusual. Exhibitors were told to withdraw their dogs when they dropped their tails, a common Papillon event, often causing the owner to despair and think canicidal thoughts, but hardly a temperamental fault.

. Seldom has so much time been spent on Papillons on the table. We were highly entertained by one episode, when he was determined to find out if one dog puppy was entire. As we watched in disbelief, he searched on and on trying to find two with a large hand in the puppy`s rather skimpy knickers. The little dog`s face was a study. His show pose became rigid, and his eyes began to pop. He looked around desperately for help. When placed on the ground at last, he moved very cautiously, and was very careful never to turn his back on the judge.......

And that`s showing for a while - for I have been summoned to the High Court in Glasgow for Jury Duty, something I could well do without. Everyone I tell says it will be such fun - "you`ll probably get a great murder!" Am I missing something here? Is my idea of fun a little lacking? Should I be looking forward to a "great murder"? How many people out there think CSI is real life?

Anyway, I won`t be able to tell you about it, even if it is a "great murder", under pain of imprisonment - at least. (Scots law is Different. For instance, we have 3 possible verdicts...)

Meanwhile, life goes on here. Tamara is comfortably pregnant, after another visit to the east coast and a son of Marcus, and eating me out of house and home. She proabably thinks the east coast is the nearest place to heaven she has yet found.....

Truly is bitterly regretting all the other bitches she bit while the hormones were running high. They still haven`t forgotten, and she is treading very carefully these days..... Meanwhile all the other girls have come out of season at last, and Shelby has regretfully given up offering them a quick but comprehensive Japanese lesson.

"And when they get stuck up there?."....this was a highlight of a previous visit by Lanarkshire`s finest

And so we cruised up the road through the borders after the wedding, and got to the end of my road just as it was getting dark. And half way up the little lane was a huge bonfire right across the road, with drunken figures dancing round it , throwing bottles in the air.

We weren`t going up there. We retreated to my neighbour`s house, where we were treated to coffee and the full story of their ongoing drainage problems (now attributed by the Council to "global warming"), while we made efforts to contact the police. Even 999 put us on hold, while the local polis station played a soothing recorded message about how busy they were, and how much they cared. At last he managed to get the fire brigade.

They arrived ten minutes later, and drove right past, down the hill. After ten more minutes of running after them waving, we got them into the lane. I thought it best at this point to play the little old lady card to the max, and eventually sent them off up the narrow little road to the fire. I could see that my neighbour was thinking the same as I - "and when they get stuck up there...?" (We remember the last time, but did not mention this to my dogshowing friend, innocent of the finer points of living here.)

The drunks, seeing the flashing blue light, legged it. The firemen spread plenty of water around. Then there was a long, long pause. while I imagined the road blocked forever by an abandoned fire engine....and at last the headlights appeared and they lumbered back and shot off into the night.

We drove on through a huge cloud of steam past piles of smouldering wood, and I was never so glad to get home.

Scenes from country life.

Marcus - "this is my best side!"

Pretty in pink - the bride arrives

The wedding ceremony in the Big Ring

The happy couple

the Papillon Wedding Cake

Off to a show with mixed hopes. Merlin, to be honest, is still a problem and quite unpredictable. On the table, approached by the judge, he turns into a wax dog, boneless and melting. On the ground he is wildly excited by the whole thing, and marginally under control.

However, we had Cavaliers in the next ring, and one of them was ill-advised enough to be black and tan. Merlin homed in on it as black - a devil dog, spawn of Satan - and gave it a good roasting. He has a bark that sounds like sheet metal being cut by an inexperienced apprentice with a rusty saw, and it resounded across the showground. He also, fortunately, saw fit to show off in front of those inferior dogs, and amazingly he won.

Reeling with the shock of this, I hurried in with Marcus. He is a seasoned performer, and I posed him with his best point foremost - his pretty head. Alas, the judge wandered round to the back.

"Where are his trousers?" she asked.

A question I have been asking Marcus for years. His lack of rear covering has always been a problem....for me that is. Marcus, with his fixation on the opposite sex, probably sees it as being stripped down ready for action. I thought better of saying "Folded neatly on the bed at home" and she passed on. I told Marcus that I felt that his part in the whole episode had been totally pants.

Allegra did well - but we didn`t head for home.

Not yet.

There was the matter of The Wedding.

Two seasoned exhibitors had decided to get married at the show. Originally they had intended to have the ceremony between the dog and the bitch judging in the Papillon ring, and the judge had been all for it, but the organising club had been against - why I don`t know, for I am willing to bet a large sum that the word "wedding" does not occur anywhere in Kennel Club regulations for show management.

As it was, we had to wait, and it took place in the Main Ring after the Pastoral Group. A reasonable number of exhibitors and a group of frankly amazed show staff had waited as well, and there was a quick ceremony. The bride was pretty in pink and carried a white bouquet and a red and white Papillon.

Afterwards we adjourned to an outbuilding for a buffet and the cutting of the cake and the usual toasts. There was a piper, and of course an appearance of Papillonman....well, that`s what it`s like in our breed, folks. Weddings, superheroes, little dogs without trousers - we take it all in our stride.

And my day wasn`t over yet

Watch this space.

Topaz coming......

......and going......

...........and with his eyes closing, just about to fall asleep

Still all quiet here.

Truly has come out of season and is having to cope with the aftermath of all the threats she uttered and assaults she attempted while the hormones were raging - my bitches have long memories, and all her chickens have come home to roost as vultures, determined on their revenge.

Her son is full of it , all day long. And as you can see, not much given to standing still. Physically he is at the very worst stage of development. His head is still going through the terminally ugly adolescent male growth stage I always think of as "carrot" (shape and colour with Topaz, but usually it`s just shape). He is gangly and wags his tail in all directions....

You just have to be optimistic.

And think hard about what ugly ducklings turn into.....

........Well, they do in the fairytales.

Merlin - "It`s a long way up..."

A quiet time here. Especially for all the girls who came into season and suddenly found their social lives very restricted indeed.

The exception was Tamara, who travelled across the country and delighted a young dog with her total lack of - how shall I put it? - feminine modesty. She has a notion that she should try to at least present a facade of decency, and at the first advance she has a token snap at the presumptious suitor, but the effect is totally spoiled when she then whirls round and presents him with the enticing target area.

Topaz is at the awful gawky stage, when tooth development elongates the head and the word "carrot" comes to mind. There is a stage in Papillon puppy development when a large paper bag (with eyeholes) dropped over the whole dog is the answer - only the feet are presentable..

Merlin is still struggling with the social difficulties of being lowest man on the totem pole. Marcus has got his measure, and every time the little man is caught out in something he just looks meaningfully at Merlin who immediately assumes guilt and slouches away as uneasy as a short nun at a penguin shoot.

I keep telling him that from the bottom the only way is up. He gives me the look of a man without an ice axe, rope or map, staring hoplessly up at Mount Everest.

I think he`s still working on that idea.

"It`s SO exhausting defending the house..."

A bit of a gap, I know - I had a tummy bug that wouldn`t clear and then was preoccupied with photo coverage of two shows on another blog. But I`m back...

And it`s all go here in the valley. The Council, that last refuge of the Numpty, has come to grips with the Right to Roam agenda. Some weedy Tam or Sandy has been sat down in an office with a big map and told to draw red lines on it - and the result of his twenty minutes labour is a network of new rights of way for the Roaming public.

Now in this area the Roaming public is not composed of fresh-faced hikers with big rucksacks and hairy socks singing "I love to go a wandering." We get the bike racers, the Buckie drinkers, the kids turned out at dawn and told not to come home until dark, the older kids looking for somewher quiet to burn out a stolen car.....you get the picture.

I would never have known that my front garden was becoming a right of way if my neighbour (the one with the Old Goat) hadn`t phoned in a panic. George (the one who populates the valley with lost sheep) had arrived at her door waving a document and spitting tacks and feathers. He had just discovered that the other end of the proposed walkway ran right through his garden. And he was organising a protest. We had to object, and if our objections failed, we would sue. Making a hasty mental estimate of George`s probably very enviable financial situation, I was happy to go right along with that.

I have become quite good at taking on the council. I wrote an objection heavy on references to Hman Rights and victimisation of aged solitary female asthmatic pensioners. And there it rested.

But the surrounding fields seemed to become strangely empty of Roamers. No dogwalkers even. I puzzled over this until I met my neighbour again. It seemed that they had been accosted by a fairly drunk Roamer asserting his Right on their property, and he had been offensive to her. Her husband has a very short fuse, and a phone call later the drunk was being invited to Roam up to the police station in a patrol car by two hefty polis. And evidently the story spread, emptying the local fields.

Until today. A whole family arrived at my gate trying to go through. With two labradors. Black ones. We all know how Papillons feel about black dogs. They are Spawn of the Devil and must be exterminated.

The pack was incandescent with fury. They got through the gate and set off in pursuit like small furry heat-seeking missiles. I could see Mr Lentil saying to Truly - "You deal with the humans and I`ll take out the Labs ..." The hapless family scattered up the lane as I tried to call off the screaming tinies and explain that this was a private road. I could see they wouldn`t be back.

At this rate, we are building such a reputation down here that locals will soon prefer to assert their Right to Roam somewhere placid and welcoming.

Like the Bermuda Triangle.

"You`re going to invest in WHAT??"

Goats have always figured in my local landscape. I never kept one myself, but they have always been around, somehow.

I used to have a neighbour at the end of the road who proposed to make his fortune with a Goat Farm. (What do you say to someone who tells you that? I think you just have to be very kind to them.) He bought in goats from everywhere - goats are easy to get (sometimes they pay you to take them) - and they all brought their own diseases, which they happily transferred to the other goats, and he rapidly became the vet`s best friend, the one financing his villa in Spain. (I feel I just might have taken over that position now.)

He used to phone me and ask "Have you heard of..." and name some ailment only mentioned in my sheep manual as exceptionally rare and lethal.

One day I found him in deepest gloom. He had visited his Bank Manager to ask for a loan to finance expansion of the Goat Farm. Amazingly, he had been refused.

"How could he do that? I mean, you go in for a car loan and they just say yes. And a car depreciates in no time. But a business prospect like a Goat Farm.....!"

I had a sudden vision of the expression on the Bank Manager`s face as he heard the magic words "Goat Farm". I made consoling noises. I felt it was not quite the time to mention that neither Richard Branson nor Bill Gates had built their empires on goats. I could see Alan Sugar on "The Apprentice" saying - "today I want you go go out and set up a profitable Goat Farm" and the young business hopefuls screaming "Enough, Sir Alan - we quit! We`ll just go and work in Macdonalds!"

Eventually he left for the borders. Yes, he took all the goats. No, I haven`t heard.

There`s just one goat left there now. The old goat. As I came past yesterday she was sitting in the field looking all around.

"She`s been there all day", said her owner. "I trimmed her feet this morning and she doesn`t trust them any more. She thinks they don`t quite belong to her any more."'

She sighed.

"This happens every time now. She`ll be over it by tomorrow. I`ll give it an hour, then I`ll go and carry her in. "

Out in the field I swear I saw a goatish smirk.

"I`ll be through that in a minute - Ibiza, here I come !

....or so I thought. I gave up sheep and their merry shepherd-thwarting ways some years ago - you really need upper body strength for that game. (Boy, do I miss standing in a sleet swept field at dawn with one arm all the way up a lambing ewe....)

But this spring sheeep have been popping up suddenly in all sorts of odd corners, like pimples on an adolescent - and just about as welcome, thought I, chasing off yet another ewe with lambs at foot and a "just taking the weans on a wee holiday" gleam in her eye.

The truth was revealed when I came along the road the other day and found George trying to herd a selection of unwilling errant sheep home in front of the Land Rover. (Just try that some time - a bit like trying to stop Niagara by holding your hat under it).

My neighbour George has been the source of a major sheep diaspora as long as I have lived here. He has a large and prosperous farm despite proving completely incapable to fence in sheep. I have had many visits with the same conversation...

"Hae ye seen any yowes? I`ve lost a few yowes."

"How many, George?"

"Couldnae exactly say..."

"About when did you lose them?"

"No very sure..."

"What kind?"

"Oh, just commercial mixed.."

And for the next few weeks amazingly athletic creatures who have evidently all seen "Free Willy" more than once, are chased all over the neighbouring holdings with little success, losing their wool to fences and trading weight for hard muscle.

In a valley where there are a number of smallish holdings, escapes don`t go unnoticed. My past two nearest neighbours have kept goats, and they put sheep in the shade when it comes to escape. A sheep escapes because it could. A goat escapes with a purpose.

I remember the five goats who got into a field of cauliflowers one night. In the morning there was a vista of leaves. The goats had neatly removed all the white curds and were now incapable of any movement beyond burping. I seem to remember a mean fight over compensation....

And beyond that, the goats who got out and ate rhododendron. It is a poison to ruminants and produces paralysis. The goats lay about like wooden statues, stiff as boards. Their rescourceful owner loaded them like so much firewood into the pickup and headed for the vet, where they were treated. The problem came when five rigid goats revived rather suddenly in the surgery and were totally freaked out by the experience....but their owner did help to clear up the wreckage and I expect the traumatised cats dogs and rabbits would recover in time with the help of some animal psych......

There`s only one goat left at the end of the road now. She is very old, and looks knowingly at the fleeing sheep.

The grass is quite green enough on her side of the fence.

Truly`s Topaz - "today my orange squeaky, tomorrow the world !"

Perforated Shelby - "we are not amused......"

I run a pack here, and I let them function as a pack. I`m not one of those who feel a great need for control and manipulation of dogs. I would get no pleasure from teaching them tricks. They just have to remember that I`m pack leader, that`s all. And I get a lot of interest and entertainment from watching pack dynamics evolve.

I don`t keep many males. Julian is alpha male, top dog, a middle-aged, jolly lad with no thought of violence. The other males seem quite content with their place in the hierarchy.

Until now.

Marcus has always been a quiet confident lad with only two requirements - lots of lovely receptive appreciative ladies, and failing those, lots of cuddles. He has never argued with Mr Lentil or his brother, whom he looks on as an oddity. (Florian The Climbing Dog is obviously the skeleton in the family cupboard, the eccentric relative we Just Don`t Talk About, who is always up a tree, if not completely out of it.)

And then came Shelby.

Shelby isn`t at all agressive either. But for some reason Marcus is terribly jealous of him. And since neither one has any interest in fighting, other means have been sought.

Bumbiting.

As Shelby disappears into his bed at night, Marcus darts out and sinks his teeth into the enticing target offered by the ample Chin bottom. Before Shelby can get out and turn round, the attacker is at the far end of the room, with a look on his face that clearly says "A big dog did it and ran away". If he feels this is less than convincing, he will look pointedly at Merlin.

Poor Merlin, clearly bearing labels that read "omega male" and "pond life", tries desperately to blend into the wallpaper. Fortunately for him, Shelby is not that stupid. But he is at a bit of a loss. Neither he nor I can figure out what motivates Marcus, and he tends now to go about looking behind him rather a lot, dreading further perforations.

Young Topaz, Truly`s son is too young to be involved. But he definitely has "alpha male" stamped all over him, even at 9 weeks.

Let the rest beware !

A quiet day at home. John Wayne on the telly, mayhem on the floor...

I`ve been out of communication due to some ghastly eye infection. I went to my doctor (the jolly one) with eyelids swollen like cocktail sausages and lots of green ooze from my left eye and he dispensed antibiotics and the alarming warning that "your other eye will probably come out in sympathy."

I managed home without the unaffected eyeball bouncing out and rolling on the ground ahead of me, but within a day it was matching the other one to perfection. Couldn`t see a thing. No computer. No reading. Radio, blurry TV and quiet house rest

So I thought I would give you some idea of what quiet house rest is like here.

It would be more peaceful at a show.

Merlin`s nemesis - what lies behind the inscrutable black mask?

Merlin`s training is proceeding slowly and steadily. He is growing up, and can already lift the hind leg (slowly and not too high in case he falls over and is jeered at by other males, especially Marcus and Shelby).

I can`t pretend it has been easy, but it has been made a lot happier by the presence of other Papillons at training class. Like many Paps, Merlin is happiest with his own and tends to despise other breeds - Papillons are a little prone to see themselves as the master race.

We have been helped further by the presence of a small rather squat and solid young female Papillon, whom I have come to think of (but never aloud!) as The Fur Brick. Merlin has fallen passionately in love with The Fur Brick, and cries plaintively when denied her presence. She has reciprocated by snapping at him and hurling abuse as only an offended female Pap can. (A young male dog`s response to this kind of treatment by a female is usually - "She noticed me! I`m in there!")

He was gazing passionately at her last time, and didn`t notice his nemesis rolling up behind him. Then he turned suddenly and was nose to nose with a Pekingese pup.

Many dogs have a problem with Pekes. The problem is, simply, "it smells like a dog, it acts like a dog - but what the hell is it?" Even dogs who have met Pekes before can be uncertain which end it is safe to sniff politely, and which end might bite if you made a mistake. (A friend`s Peke which was televised at Crufts, was overheard being referred to by the cameramen as "the motorised floormop". )

Merlin had never seen one close up. He had no idea what it was. He stared in amazement at the grinning flat black mask inches from his nose. Had the Martians landed? Should he notify MI5? Should he pee, that doggy answer to many awkward moments ? - no wait a bit, there was the falling over problem......

Eventually he reacted in the best mature adult Papillon manner. He jumped up and down and screamed filth and insults as loudly as possible. The Fur Brick watched in open admiration. She hadn`t realised he knew language like that...

I removed my delinquent . The Peke wagged one end and smiled inscrutably at the other...

Well, I think it was a smile.

This is one of three lovely ladies who sauntered by the fence the other day, and as I have no stock on at present they are welcome to the grazing.

The dogs reacted as you would expect. Shelby attempted to stare her down and the Papillons jumped up and down like demented hairy popcorn, screaming out their ardent desire to have her for lunch. Xena, one of the Heroines of the Soviet Union who in her heyday has chased deer with just that intention, became particularly emotional and loud.

Their leader favoured the pack with the aristocratic sneer you see above. (Clearly she puts great trust in my fences.)

I see a lot of wild animals here, especially since the foot and mouth epidemic which has left a legacy of less stock and more tree planting around here. But yesterday in a seedy little mall in Glasgow I saw some I would rather not have seen. Birds of prey of all varieties, tethered to posts whjile their owner handed the hat round "for our sanctuary". Dejected tiny kestrels and owls, sad little feathered mounds on their perches, an eagle tearing at its chain and an eagle owl staring madly around, obviously planning escape.

Some animals domesticate well. I personally believe that birds of prey do not. They have no natural social order that provides them with any sort of natural alleigance to transfer to humans - no flock or herd or pack instinct. Tied to a post, often hooded for falconry - what sort of life is that?

I see lots of birds of prey here - kestrels, sparrowhawks, the ubiquitous buzzard. I see them flying free. They come quite near the house. I know where the sparrowhawks and kestrels nest, and I`m not telling anyone.

I prefer it like that.

An impression of Crufts - our benches, the ringside and the stalls

...of course we went to Crufts. (Apart from Truly, who was otherwise occupied). Allegra, Marcus and Shelby were loaded up - this time fortunately into a car (oh the luxury !) and off down the M6. (Over years of dogshowing Ihave memorised the M6 and can recite the junctions and services, to the amazement of friends who know I don`t drive ....)



Crufts is a strange old game. In addition to the usual faces, you have the Foreign Dogs, many never seen before, and every one a wild card. Old hands look at them sideways and mutter that they didn`t come without a reason. In this case I was told at once by some continental friends that a certain dog had been brought over to get Best of Breed - and so it proved. It takes the edge off the proceedings although goodness knows it isn`t unusual. I notice that this year the bookies voiced suspicions about the honesty of Crufts ...er, proceedings. It took them this long to notice??

Well, I didn`t expect too much for poorMarcus with his depleted tail, but had hoped for better with Allegra. 3rd is the worst she has ever had at Crufts - in fact this was the first time she didn`t win.

The judging had all the speed, warmth and panache of an Antarctic glacier in a bad winter, and the judge had me warned off for flash photography, so the temptation to leave the ring and socialise was strong. Crufts is a great social event. You meet people you only see once a year....Truly`s mum for instance. And people kept giving me food - delightful, but death to the diet.

Home via a series of dismal service stations to watch the deplorable BBC coverage - why must they assume it is children`s entertainment? - and muse over the deep questions it raises....

How did such a badly constructed chihuahua go best in Group?

What is the attraction of the circus performance called Dancing with Dogs?

Why oh why won`t any of the many dogs he clutches so grimly while presenting bite the dreadful Ben Fogle?

Or at least pee on his leg?

...an excellent advert for a milk diet

Crufts looms on the horizon. Not without a few hitches on the way.

Yesterday I went out and immediately realised that a dog was missing. I searched about and eventually discovered a screeching Marcus in a nearby field, firmly attached to a barbed-wire fence by his tail. He was loud and indignant.

There is a method for dealing with this sort of thing. I trudged back and fetched the Really Big boltcutters and removed the whole section of fence his tail was wrapped around. Then I carried Marcus and fence back home and began the long job of disentangling his tail - impossible when the dog was trapped and struggling. He wasn`t hurt, but the tail is in a sad state of tangle and missing bits. I will work on it when he feels less shocked....but I fear that only hair extensions will fit the bill.

Truly and son are leading a blessedly uneentful life. She is becoming - whisper it - just a little bored. Just a little trapped. She wants me to sit with her. She gives me long soulful Swedish looks that say -
"He is soo boring ! He has no conversation (just like his father). It is just feed him and clean the other end all day."

Well Truly, millions of mothers all over the world have a lot of sympathy for your feelings from time to time. Just wait till he gets on his feet - a whole new ball game.

Meanwhile young Sven has become hugely fat on an uncontested milk supply, and has only just decided to open his eyes. I am favoured with those blank unfocused puppy stares that only last a few moments before he curls up and goes back to sleep, leaving me wondering if anything so fat will ever get to its feet....

Just you wait.

Edinburgh is to fund a major crack-down on serious urban crime. It has created a dog fouling swat team.....

Only in Edinburgh! The intrepid eco-warriors will be kitted out in special jackets with insignia (let your mind run riot. ) They will prowl in their state-of the-art vehicle with rotating cameras and sensors at different levels - possibly the one on the very high pole is to detect urban giraffes showing wilful intent to defecate. Then the moment Fido (or a giraffe) Adopts The Position, the sirens will wail, the lights will flash and the vehicle will scream into action...

"There`s a badass smell
In the neighbourhood,
Who ya gonna call? -
Shitebusters !"

Out pour the Men In Brown (possibly in it over the ankles if dealing with the giraffe) and neutralise the perp.

Now clearly this is not a job of which you are going to boast to the other guys....Well not where I live, anyway although it is recognised that Edinburgh is A Bit Different. Over here you`d sooner admit to spending your days lacemaking, or painting rosy lips on garden gnomes ( I once met someone who had done the latter, and when it got out he never lived down the shame and had to move south.)

In Glasgow any appearence of these high-tech Toley Terrors would soon attract a vast retinue of eager none too supportive young spectators, offering lots of helpful suggestions, and possibly even some material...er, evidence (probably thrown).

But there - this is obviously the face of the future. Men in Brown making the streets safe for civilisation.

Gonny hide yer giraffe, son?

Truly and son - just 2 days old

A busy time here. In fact, Truly`s first time, and it`s always a worry when you don`t know how she will react to the joys of motherhood - and she didn`t react all that well to the joys of getting mated in the first place.

She didn`t provoke any feelings of confidence either when, the night before the Big Event she decided to forcibly evict the other two girls from the bed. Allegra said she would be disputing that, and placing her teeth at Truly`s disposal....and I found myself grasping two little tigers by the tails (literally), while Solitaire, fearing correctly that she would be next, took refuge on my head wailing loudly that she was just a little baby and harmless. In fact she is quite a large girl, and what with balancing her and keeping the other two apart, I looked the next day as if I had gone several rounds with Edward Scissorhands.

However, that was the last real problem, and a day later little red Truly was the surprised mother of an equally red son, who is being mothered with Swedish efficiency. Red Sven (working title) is rapidly becoming too fat to move about much and too full to care.

Not much to report here. Bad weather in January has stopped most activity...

Except for the annual invasion. The sleet comes down, the mice come in. Why shouldn`t they look forward to a warm winter like everyone else? It`s their equivalent of flying to Florida for three months.

Not house mice - I never see them. Field mice - tiny reddish guys with long tails and very little fear of people. They sit up on the kitchen table and look at you with shiny black eyes, all innocence - "I just popped in for a snack". They eat neat round holes in bags of dogfood. They store food in all sorts of places, such as winter boots. They have to go.

So it`s war on fieldmice, and the dogs are enthusiastic volunteers.

The other night one came into the living room and shot about like a tiny fur bullet riccocheting from one corner to another. The bitches became very single minded in the chase, with Tamara assuring her son Merlin that this was absolutely What You Do when faced with rodents - indeed running screaming about the room was de rigeur. Every time the quarry shot under a chair or table, a row of Papillon noses were thrust under, sniffing so profoundly that I was amazed one of them didn`t inhale the tiny thing, facing me with another huge vet bill - "to removing rodent from nose, £500".

Unfortunately there`s no winning this war - there are millions of the little illegal immigrants just waiting their turn in the woods and fields, shivering in the rain and pointing out the lights of the cottage to each other - "there, that`s the promised land, flowing with milk and honey - well, lots of Tesco dog food anyway."

Nothing else much to report. Shelby liberated a large tub of Flora and went head first into it, coming up with a happy greasy mask and necessitating a lot of emergency deep cleaning with baby wash and a sponge...I think his wrinkle is still a bit oily. But his cholesterol level must be really low.

Shelby takes no part in the war on mice. His tactic of staring the intruders down with enormous stern eyes cuts no cheese with them.

And so far they are the only things in the house that he has shown no interest in eating.

Allegra - "I`ve got stitches in my tummy and this party hat really does nothing for me..."

Allegra has had slight urinary problems for some time and has consumed a mountain of delicious pink pills (in liver sausage) as a result. I became worried in case it was something more serious, and on Monday she went in for an Xray.

I came to collect her and walked into the surgery. On the lightbox was what seemed to be an Xray of the pelvis of a small dinosaur. You could tell it was a dinosaur because it had obviously been fossilised in the act of laying quite a large egg.

"That`s it" said the vet. " That`s Allegra. Amazing size for a bladder stone! Especially since her bladder is so tiny. The stone fills it. She has been managing to pee around that for some time, and it will have to come out."

There followed considerable discussion of her very tiny bladder. I was amazed, considering the lengthy bus journeys she had endured needing fewer comfort stops than I did.

The vet was enthusiastic. While they were in there they could re shape, enlarge and reposition the offending organ. I firmly restated the renowned veterinary maxim - well, it should be - "If it ain`t broke, don`t fix it" What else were they going to offer while she was on the table? Collagen ear implants? Tail enhancement? Every time the vet looks at me he doesn`t see a person. He sees his retirement villa in Provence....

Well, Allegra went in for the removal of the Egg. I was worried. She has never had a bad experience. And when I collected her, she was so dazed and confused that her ears had flopped .

But she is a c onfident soul. A few hours at home and a nice meal did the trick and she now insists that she is cured, and why should she wear this ridiculous party hat (that`s what the vet calls the plastic collars) when there is no party in the offing and it obviously doesn`t suit her?

Truly is being very superior about all this.

Just you wait, Truly. With luck, next month you will be laying more than an egg...

Merlin ponders the difficulties of life as a puppy dog

A traditional endpoint to Christmas and New Year festivities, at which you take down the tree and face the year head on.

Well Christmas and New Year were quiet, punctuated by a horrible virus - I went to visit my realtives on Boxing Day and was invalided home just in time - 8 hours in your own loo is bad enough, but 8 hours in someone else`s........

It`s a hard time for puppy dogs. Storm and Shadow (whose sojourn under the walnut tree paid off at last) are still looking for homes.

The younger Merlin is facing the hardships of growing up as a puppy dog. Quite aside from looking like a tiny walking haystack, he has social problems.

Puppy bitches are usually cute and forward in the doggy social stakes - they rapidly find their place among the girls, and the boys are all in favour of them anyway, But puppy dogs are pond life. The adult bitches see them as a total nuisance, always underfoot, and the males write them off as "surplus to requirements." and give me looks that say "Why did you keep THAT?" At the moment only his mother loves Merlin - and sometimes aunty Solitaire when she feels like playing. He is feeling his way carefully in canine society, and prefers to stay indoors, laze about and pester me, or just to sit and think about the meaning of life and where his pink toy has got to.

Even his devoted mother undermines him - whenever he heads for my knee she intercepts him and gives him a quick wash with an apologetic look - "He really wasn`t clean enough to come up".

Well, he has to grow up. The showring beckons. And despite the unpromising start to the show season (so glad I didn`t go to that one ! ), his debut looms and no doubt I will take him.

That`ll give him something else to worry about.

No, not yet dead - just seemed to be a lot going on.

Truly made a short journey south to enrol in the Pudding Club and is now looking very thoughtful.....when not thumping other bitches to whom she now feels superior.

Storm and Shadow are looking for good homes - not too hard, unfortunately. Occasionally, when really stressed, I threaten them with being offered at a car boot sale as an unrepeatable BOGOF.

Merlin has at last developed a personality, if not a brain, and may yet walk on the lead without that look on his face that suggests a turkey which has just had Christmas explained to it in detail. He has had a coat explosion, and resembles an animated haystack.

It`s that time of year again. I visit all my relatives for an epic blowout, and they all nag. "How can you live away out there? Do you at least have a guard dog?"

Well, Shelby is greatly insulted by that. He is always on guard, using the classic Chin method of dealing with intruders. He stands stock still and stares them down with those enormous eyes. "You are being studied by an adult male Chin...be very afraid." It really freaks out the postman, who sorta knows where he is with the rest of the pack jumping up and down and screaming, but tries to avoid the basilisk stare.

I was recently in a village a bit upriver where I used to live, and was reminded of the Great Guard Dog scandal there.

There was a little Asian local shop, open all hours, stocks everything. Everything included booze and cigarettes, and this made the poor shopowner a target for thieves. There were regular burglaries. He made a little caged room and put the bottles and fags in there, but they still got in.

Eventually he got a guard dog. Roy the Rescue Rottie. He was neutered, and gentle as a baby, but this was kept secret. At night he had a comfortable soft bed in the caged area with the cigarettes stacked floor to ceiling and the alcohhol. There were no more break- ins. All trouble ceased.

Until the Health and Safety inspection, when the dreadful truth came to light.

In there all night, with his bowl of water and bed, Roy the RR had freely given way to....well, to basic urges. No, he hadn`t smoked the fags. He had urinated on them. Regularly. In his nocturnal version of Tai Chi leg elevations he could reach quite high up......

And not one local had noticed. They had bought and smoked the....impregnated....fags with relish. Probably they had noticed a little extra tang and appreciated it. You could imagine a special local problem in trying to give up smoking - a nicotine patch would not be quite enough, and they don`t make patches for the other ingredient -yet.

R the RR was relegated to his true vocation of children`s pet. The shop was closed down "for renovations". And I left the area about that time.

Well, as I said, it`s that time again. And here I sit relaxing with a pot of Tesco`s "Captain Scott`s Extra Strong Blend as used on his 1912 expedition". Yes , really. I can only hope the tea benefits me more than it evidently did him. (One hopes it was not one of the reasons for Captain Oates saying that he "was just going outside and might be some time"..... )

And with that I wish you a Very Merry Christmas !

I said it in the comments, but I would like again to thank all the people who have been so sympathetic about the loss of Rio. What would I do without your support !

I shop at Tesco, and have found over the years that the cheapest products go down best with the dogs. My lot are addicted to Tesco Value Sausage Rolls. Shelby would like to live on them.

Due to the *no bag" policy, I take a shopping trolley of the "bag on wheels" variety. I bring it home, and the first thing out for dog treats is the sausage roll packet.

My dogs regard this trolley with awe and longing. It is obviously packed with sausage rolls. It just produces them at will like a cornucopia. Perhaps at the bottom lurk a breeding pair, huge and probably hairy, scuttling about and turning out endless litters of little sausage rolls........

The other day I dozed off in front of another scintillating evening of Beeb programming. I woke to see what appeared to be a large puddle of congealed blood over in the corner. I stared and tried to focus. What had happened? What dog had died? Obviously not the ones dancing about in here.

The puppy ran over and picked up the "puddle". It was in fact a large piece of red cellophane, just the right colour for blood. Where had he got it?

I went to the kitchen and all was revealed. At last the dogs had had a chance to get into the trolley - unlimited sausage rolls!

In fact they had been sorely disappointed. The total haul had been 3 tins of beans (toothmarked) and one very battered , sad and perforated Christmas pud. It had been wrapped in red cellophane and very thoroughly investigated.

I had bought it for a dog show raffle, just to make a change from bottles. Especially the ones you see and recognise at once as Eternal Raffle Vintage. You can recognise them by the slightly scuffed labels. People have won them, looked at them and decided "I`m not drinking THAT! It`s going in the next raffle !" And so the unwanted wine begins its travels, voyaging like the Flying Dutchman from raffle to raffle, never finding rest in a glass. There are twenty year old bottles of Hirondelle and Blue Nun out there, circulating endlessly...just look closely at the next raffle you buy a ticket for.

Fortunately the Paps had not attempted to eat the pud - I shudder to think of the after-effects of that. But I had to rush out for a replacement.....

While I was out I picked up two packets of Extra Value Sausage Rolls....

Rio

Rio, whose little heart just wasn`t strong enough. She is desperately missed.

Plookworthy?

It`s downhill all the way to Tesco.....

I notice with delight that the nearest town to me has been noiminated for the Carbuncle award, commonly known as the Plook on the Plinth, for the ugliest Scottish urban eyesore.

It`s a sad little place, a remnant of mining days, mostly consisting of a main street lined with derelict shops, on which motorists seldom slow down. Business consists of Woolies, Superdrug, 11 cafes, 8 hairdressers, 3 chemists (all Lloyds), Bobby`s Washing Machine Repair, several pubs and a little shop run by an old gentleman whose chief business is tying flies.........all the rest is charity shops.

Its slide into decay has been fast tracked by Tesco.

Tesco decided to elevate their rather scruffy minimal foothold on the town, a small metro store in an old building which floods in heavy rain, to an enormous superstore offering answers to Life The Universe and Everything.

Alas, the site they chose was, like the whole town, Liable to Subsidence. Houses frequently start on a slow irreversible descent into the void, leading to emergency evacuations, and other householders wake one morning and look out to discover their garden has become a huge black hole overnight. The town is completely undermined, a warren of workings both legitimate and pirate.

Per haps Coal Piracy is not a familiar concept? Imagine Blackbeard, give him a lamp and exchange his sword for a pick and shovel and his parrot for a canary, make him...well, quite a lot dirtier, (if possible) and you`re halfway there. Coal Pirates would get together a map and some second hand and improvised equipment and start digging. If it all worked out they would hit a productive seam in a legitimate mine, get in there, empty out the coal and leg it, hopefully without a pitched battle underground. You should have heard my grandfather, a Coalmaster, on the topic.

I suppose there was a certain grubby romance to it.....Coal Pirates of North Lanarkshire! Piracy on the High Seams! Johnny Depp in a miner`s helmet....

Help, someone get me back to the script !

Anyway Tesco was forced to resite, well off the beaten track. And being Tesco and slightly more powerful than the government, they determined to bring the beaten track to Tesco. They would reshape the town.

They do this by throwing money at the problem. They approach the council. If it is an honest one they offer to build new expensive new facilities as reparation for the mess they are about to make.

Fortunately in this case they did not have to deal with that kind of council A few large bungs would do the trick. And so the Main Street is being shut off, forcing all traffic to detour round a maze of narrow side roads - past the new Tesco. End of business in the Main Street, and access to the centre from the hinterland. It looks as if the plan is to reduce the town ultimately to a cluster of mud huts nestling against the great Tesco building, like a barbarian settlement outside a Roman fort.......

Well, I`m sure you didn`t want to hear about the last show I was at, with the judge who always gives to the same people and the other one who remembers his debts, did you ?

Heading for the end of the showing season, I feel like taking it easy. I`m getting that sleepy, winter feeling...

The last championship show was very well attended. Too well. My heart sank as I looked at the size of the classes. Marcus, Allegra and Truly were going to have to do a lot of standing about.

As judging got underway it became apparent that we were being treated to yet another variation on the theme - The Judge Who Favours Her Own Breeding. As young bitches sired by her dog won, I looked at Allegra. Should I try a variant of maxim 25 of the Art of Coarse Showing - "identify your dog"? Should I put Allegra on the table and say loudly "Stand still, Allegra for the nice lady who owns your father!"?

Alas, it wouldn`t be true. And I could just hear the yelp of joy from Marcus - "You mean she isn`t my daughter? Whoopee!" The last thing he needs is encouragement along those lines.....

Never mind, Marcus. Maybe Santa will bring you something nice and willing on four legs...

It`s almost that time already.

I spent a boring hour having my breathing tested and proving yet again that I am useless at blowing into machines. I was told that I have asthma, which I knew, and COPD, which I didn`t.

But I wasn`t short of advice on the latter. The horse people I know are very familiar with the term COPD. So I have been advised that I should be out to grass as much as possible, if stabled demand a dust-free loosebox, and above all only eat fresh hay.

Despite feeling really well, I have decided not to enter myself for the Derby.

Shelby says he wouldn`t bet even one Bonio on me.

"Can I have some more of that nice pink fishy `Merlin` stuff?"

In response to several enquiries, Rio`s brother has been named Merlin. I considered "Tiberius" for some time, (mainly to piss off my friends), but it was high time I settled on something.

He has now to learn it, and food plays an important part. At the moment, not being the sharpest knife in the box, he thinks "Merlin" means "pink oily fish" (he just had a lot of my salmon steak to reinforce the name lesson), but I have never had a dog so dim that he didn`t learn his name, not even Orlando...but that`s another story.

In view of his solid podgy body and surprising turn of speed, I rather think he does not resemble the legendary wizard as much as the Rolls Royce jet engine....one way or the other, Merlin he is.

"What`s wrong with this picture ?
My brother is in it !!!"

No, not dead....just nothing much happening here. I`ve had a quiet time looking after puppies and coughing up every colour known to man (and one small sad spider I must have inhaled in the garden.) The most exciting event of the week so far was wrapping up the treeferns for the winter, and the only highlight to come is a visit to Dr Doom for a session with the dreaded Flow Meter.

I am hopeless with this item. You blow into it and it reads off your lung capacity. But somehow I can never manage a proper mouth seal and get the sort of result that suggests you are optimistically testing a week-old corpse. I did it last week and he said cheerfully that the reading would be fine for a geriatric confined to bed with chronic bronchitis and a collapsed lung. I am left wondering if I can fake it with a concealed bicycle pump....

Meanwhile the puppies grow on. Storm and Shadow still carry labels that say "may contain nuts". Rio still batters her brother. Truly is blissfully unaware that the countdown to her pudding club membership has begun. My transport arrangements to the remaining Championship shows are in doubt.

And so we head into winter.

Shadow............