“WHAT`S THAT, BOY? TIMMY`S FALLEN DOWN THE WELL?”...
THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM…
Happy New Year
MAD AS A BOX OF FROGS
EMAIL ME .
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.
"IN DOG YEARS, I`M DEAD"
Saturday, April 20, 2013
|Electronic dogs - Belle, Angel and Cupcake|
So I packed them up and off we set away over the hills on a beautiful sunny day to the vet. My vet is a bit distant, but really good. The premises are very basic - a converted cottage in the main street of a village where you sit on kitchen chairs and the filing system is a card index box - but the treatment is excellent, and really not expensive, probably because they have very few overheads. (My previous vet was financing a huge vet hospital, an expensive lifestyle, and his own retirement, mainly from my account).
We arrived to an atmosphere of chaos. The efficient lady who managed the card index was absent, and the two vets struggled with an avalanche of well-thumbed cards. But I got my lot to the table and we struggled through all the paperwork, and at last the chips were implanted.
Angel didn`t care. Belle cared desperately and screamed and gave the vet her big-eyed "you have betrayed my trust " look. Cupcake didn`t even notice. For him the worst had already happened - he had been taken over winding roads in a car. For distant shows he is dosed with pills, but not this time. He had arrived soaking, and he sat on the table with his head down, dripping copiously from the mouth. He would not have noticed ear amputation.
Well, I got my 3 newcomers to the electronic age home, and looked at them, and began to speculate. What about a control chip? I picked up the Freeview remote control. Suppose it could control dogs instead?
I suggested to my 3 that they would now be entirely under my control, and that one click on the remote would bring them literally to heel. I received 3 looks of utter scorn. They sauntered off, secure in the knowledge that no advance in science would ever lead to Papillon control.
Shelby looked after them, unimpressed. He does not believe in new technology.
Shelby is tattooed.
Saturday, April 13, 2013
I expect it is difficult for anyone outside the UK to understand the feelings that the death of Margaret Thatcher has revived. Because she destroyed British industry, and incidentally whole communities, she was, and still is loathed in many areas north of the home counties. She created a UK of service industry and in particular finance industry - and look where that has taken us!
|A well-known Wicked Witch|
In Scotland, she defined Toryism, and so to this day, Scotland does not vote for them. The jokes that go around are that Scotland has more Pandas than Tory MPs (we have 2 Pandas), and that no Tory MP would ever be harmed in Scotland because here they are an endangered species.
Now we are facing huge Tory eulogies (do they forget slinging her out?) and a Ten million pound state funeral, at a time of austerity when people are being taxed for having a spare room, and food banks are proliferating. Our government sees nothing incongruous in this.
Meanwhile there is a groundswell of opposition. A Faccebook campaign led to that old song "Ding Dong, the Wicked Witch is Dead" rising to #3 in the top 40, which means that it is due a play on BBC radio - and there is no doubt as to who the witch is. Cue much public heartsearching on the Beeb, and a strange decision to play part of the song, with "an explanation" (which will no doubt be yet another Thatcher eulogy). Not a wise decision.
I think the spectacular funeral will provide a focus for opposition, and there may be riots. There have already been street parties arranged to celebrate her death. Our Tory government just does not or will not see that the anti-Thatcher feeling is not just about her, but is a measure of how much they are hated by those who are suffering under the "austerity" they have imposed, and see no effort to provide economic growth.
My position on this is quite straightforward. I do not believe any politician whatsoever deserves a state funeral.
And I remember from years ago, on a radio phone-in when this enormous funeral was first suggested, a young lad calling in -
"I think a state funeral for Mrs Thatcher is a wonderful idea! Lets do it! .......
Do we have to wait until she`s dead?"
Thursday, April 04, 2013
The bigger dog is usually calm and laid-back and confident. The little fellow has something to prove.
I have two such problems at the moment.
One is Marcus. Marcus seems to be having a mid-life crisis - common to males, I believe, but instead of dressing half his age or buying a red sports car (which I could easily cope with, apart from wondering where he got the cash), Marcus is set on World Domination. All other males must submit to him.
Now in the past I have had males who would have reduced Marcus and his ambition to a small greasy stain. But things are different now. My males are
|Marcus the Merciless, ruler of the world|
Fidget - a big soft pudding
Merlin - a wimp "OMG, they are all senior dogs!"
Florian the Climbing Dog - mind on higher things
Shelby - Chin, and so by definition pacifist
Marcus roars at all of them, threatens them with death, and enthusiastically bumbites them when their backs are turned. He gives the impression of a small furious but ineffectual wasp buzzing round a herd of mammoths. The others hate it, but have no idea what to do about it beyond barking and looking hopefully at me. Sometimes Shelby swats at him, and he flies across the room.
I keep a very close eye on things.
Truly is a different problem, although the size is about the same. She is a warrior, and much hated by the other girls, many of whom she has bitten in the past. Her body language seems to inspire attack.
|Truly, my little red viking|
Yesterday Daisy decided to take things in hand. Backed up by an eager gang of bitches she advanced on Truly and began to tell her in no uncertain terms what she was and what was now going to be done to her.
The little red viking didn`t wait for the end. She reached up and bit Daisy, right in the middle of her tirade, and then headed for the door at a respectable fraction of lightspeed. She came in triumphant, just avoiding the screaming pursuit, and curled up in her favourite seat.
"Someday one of them will get you", I said, having made sure she was safe.
Truly, who has seen off a fox in the past, gave me a look of nordic contempt.
"So much the worse for her!"