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.

Tuesday, August 02, 2016


  Every morning Angel and Tess Trueheart accompany me out to check on things and get started for the day.


So the other day out we went – and a young buzzard landed right in front of us.   The girls were transfixed – but only for a moment.  Then  a look was exchanged, and that look clearly said “Breakfast!”  And they launched themselves screaming on the unhappy raptor.  It got off quickly, and very awkwardly.


Not too happy about this.  Clearly the young bird was not aware that a small Pap, like Angel, could have been breakfast for it.  I don`t usually have any trouble with buzzards, apart from the odd time when they have discarded food in midair.   I remember the summer when, sitting out with the dogs, it began to rain dead rats.   Well, actually two and a half, the other half being eaten.   The dogs were overjoyed.  “It`s raining rats”  is the song they happily screamed at the top of their voices as they converged on the gift from heaven.  Not to worry – I got there first.

But they are small enough to be considered prey – not in a group, but I might worry about one on its own.   And my lot are enthused by their previous successes with rabbits and the pigeon.  And as Papillons they know they are invincible, and ten feet tall.


Meanwhile the young buzzard is hanging around.  I think it is at the stage when its loving parents are feeling quite a bit less affectionate, and giving it subtle hints like “Away and work!” 


I will keep an eye on it.

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