Saga of a woman old enough to know better who lets her life be governed by the ridiculous hobby of breeding and showing dogs, musing on life, the twenty first century, Cameron and his mini-me, and the occasional sheep.

Sunday, April 18, 2010


No, I didn`t watch the great political debate, between Gordon, his huge hands spread out to show how easily things can slip through his fingers, David, the fresh bright young Cockerel crowing lustily on top of the same old festering dungheap, and Nick, bowed under the curse the wicked fairy bestowed on his party at its inception (why, oh why wasn`t she invited?) that however charismatic its leader or sensible its policies it will always be unelectable.

Instead I went to dog training.

In the course of the evening the topic of the arguments between the KC and the German Shepherd people came up. I said that a lot of the weaknesses in the breed had come over from Germany.

"Well, she said, there used to be some good ones in Germany, with straight backs and good hocks." She paused and thought. "Hitler had a nice one.

I thought for a bit. This was history in a new light. But I had seen pictures, after all. "Yes, not bad."

"Isn`t that the dog game all over ! Loathe the man, love his dog!"

I felt I dared not add anything to this. I am known for being very cynical about dogshowing, but, gentle reader, some comparisons are best not pursued at all.
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