Le vacance

Moi, le seadog, at St Martin

Hi, c’est moi - Rocco again - back from moi vacance en France. As you can read, learning French is easy, if you spend most of your time listening as you lounge around in cafes (more of that later).

It was hot hot hot pour moi, the humans spent a lot of time in the boring swimming pool but not moi as this activity is wrong for dogs. I like to dip myself gently in a stream or perhaps the sea. That is dignified, whereas a swimming pool or even an inflatable paddling pool is undignified and wrong, obviously.

For the first time in my life, I took to getting up at (or before) dawn to demand my morning walk and it was very pleasant to survey the countryside in the cool morning air. Despite the grumpy companion, obviously.

Walk round me!

I developed a winning strategy when we all went to restaurants or cafes. I lay myself in the doorway or in the gaps between tables. It is a strange thing but the French don’t seem to mind at all and politely step over me or walk around me – very gratifying, lol.

Whilst we were en vacance the French hunting season started. For the rural French this means that they dress-up like Serbian paramilitaries and go out shooting at the few songbirds left over from last year. Every year they shoot quite a lot of each other, particularly after the compulsory boozy lunch. They are supposed to wear orange tabards but our locals regard this as sissy – can you imaging Ratko Mlidic in one? So they shoot each other instead. Gus and Judy wear their jazzier shirts when walking me in the evening.

The shooters take their dogs out with them, about the only exercise these poor chaps have all year, the French aren’t hot on walkies. On one of my morning walks we came across a couple of heavily armed locals with their springer spaniels. The shooters were pissed-off that their dogs asked me, very politely, if they could come on my walkies instead.

Gus says, in the old days (pre-revolution) only the gentry could shoot pidgeons etc and there were all kinds of laws to stop the peasants hunting - so come the revolution it became part of the birthright of the French to slaughter the songbirds. 

I confine my hunting to giving the local cats a hard time. He he he. One year a cat dashed into a farmhouse kitchen window we were passing so I followed it in through the window. I can’t think what all the fuss was about.

This year on a dawn walk I saw a cat mousing very intently in the middle of a field that had just been harvested. I dashed at it, it swore at me and ran off but not bothering to run fast, I ran after it, but making sure I wasn’t too fast as I like chasing not catching. The cat got to a telegraph pole and looked round at me saying that this was ‘homey’, it acknowledged that I had won, but couldn’t be bothered to climb the pole. I wandered off to admire the view, this unsporting animal is not the kind of cat to chase, obviously.

AAagh! What is this all about? A dog wearing pants!

APDW at St Margaret’s Fair

OMG, OMG Rocco here again. Thought I should give you the heads-up about St Margaret’s Fair, which we went to on Saturday 14 July.  Rain, rain and more rain, still at least I got out of Barnes Fair which is hell for dogs rain or not. St Margaret’s Fair is in Teddington and had a big dog event with judges giving prizes for things like ’the dog with the waggiest tale’ (pass the sick bag Alice) this is the kind of event that no self-respecting lurcher should be seen near. I slunk away before himself had time to see through all the wet anoraks and umbrellas.

The Association of Professional Dog Walkers had a marquee (kindly donated by Twickenham Veterinary Surgery). At least it was dry inside that. Humbug was with me and he got many compliments as to how sweet he was (Alice, where is that bag?) Happily he found a box of dog treats they were going to give out and gnawed his ‘sweet’ way in.

Hubert with the lucky winner

The marquee had a giant soft toy rabbit fixed on a perch that swung gently from the roof, APDW folk inviting one and all to enter the “Name the Bunny” competition. Contestants could choose from a list of possible ideas, the contestants seemed unconcerned by the fact the rabbit was larger than they were. The draw at the end of the day established that he was called Hubert (my name for it was something else).

During the day the rain varied from drizzle to downpour, with the odd clear spell. I spent my time slipping my lead and wandering off, practicing my hard done-by dog in the rain performance and kindly APDW people would rescue me, put a lead on me and take me back to himself who was trying to flog raffle tickets for the APDW charities Pets as Therapy and Guardian Angels.

When we got home and dried-off, it transpired that a large share of the raffle prizes went to us for all the tickets he flogged to himself.

APDW launch photos

Treats

The committee wearing pink sashes, (L to R) Jaya, M-J, Lucy & me. Plus assorted helpers, two and four legged.

Some pics taken by the proper, professional photographer at the APDW launch. At least is wasn't raining.

Mine

Launch of the APDW on Barnes Green

Billy stalks a tennis ball (note the APDW logo)

OMG! OMG! OMG! (Rocco writes) Last Friday was the launch of the Association of Professional Dog Walkers on Barnes Green. I came along as someone has to keep an eye on the old guy.

MJ wearing sash

He met up with several professional dog walking ladies, they put up a gazebo and put a lot of “doggy goddie bags” on a table top give out, nobody thought to give me one. There were a lot of puzzled looking dogs on leads. The dog walking ladies all wore fetching grey sashes with pink lettering spelling out the association’s name, I hoped against hope that they would make him wear one too but sadly they were not that foolhardy.

I spent my time demonstrating to the other dogs that I was exempt from lead wearing (tee hee) as he was from sash wearing.

Then him and me were off going round the green accosting people walking their mutts, giving them the goodie bags (the treats inside went down well as did the tennis ball) and ear-bashing them about the Association and how responsible we all were. I kept a straight face. Trouble was it was too close to lunch time to meet many dog owners. 

The professional dog walking ladies were somewhat shell shocked at just how unpopular the dog walkers who arrived in vans with millions of dogs had made dog walkers generally in Barnes.

They had a proper photographer in attendance, the kind of guy who kept saying “lets take that shot of that dog getting a treat again”. Nice fellow, I hope I meet him again.

Shaggy doggy lightbulb joke

How many dogs does it take to change a light bulb?

Golden Retriever: The sun is shining, the day is young, we've got our whole lives ahead of us, and you're inside worrying about a stupid burned out bulb?

Border Collie: Just one. And then I'll replace any wiring that's not up to code.

Dachshund: You know I can't reach that stupid lamp!

Rottweiler: Make me.

Boxer: Who cares? I can still play with my squeaky toys in the dark.

Lab: Oh, me, me!!!!! Pleeeeeeeeeze let me change the light bulb! Can I? Can I? Huh? Huh? Huh? Can I? Pleeeeeeeeeze, please, please, please!

German Shepherd: I'll change it as soon as I've led these people from the dark, check to make sure I haven't missed any, and make just one more perimeter patrol to see that no one has tried to take advantage of the situation.

Jack Russell Terrier: I'll just pop it in while I'm bouncing off the walls and furniture.

Old English Sheep Dog: Light bulb? I'm sorry, but I don't see a light bulb?

Cocker Spaniel: Why change it? I can still pee on the carpet in the dark.

Chihuahua: Yo quiero Taco Bulb.

Pointer: I see it, there it is, there it is, right there ...

Australian Shepherd: First, I'll put all the light bulbs in a little circle ...

Poodle: I'll just blow in the Border Collie's ear and he'll do it. By the time he finishes rewiring the house, my nails will be dry.

Ridgeback: I do not take orders.  If you wish to suggest I change the bulb, I will consider this in my own time and get back to you later.

Lurcher: It isn't moving. Who cares?

The Cat's Answer: Dogs do not change light bulbs. People change light bulbs. So, the real question is: How long will it be before I can expect some light, some dinner, and a massage?

Gyppo to boyo

Bobbi practicing for his dashes down the wing for the Welsh rugby team. Move over Shane Williams.

Bye Bye Mooli and Bobby

Life seems very strange at the moment. Firstly Mooli, who arrived in December, has flown the nest, his owner picking him up on Monday evening. On Tuesday mornings walk Judy was counting her four charges, Rocco, Bobbi, Mora, Bella and Mooli. Yes, he was back - temporarily deserting his owner to join-up with the pack on Barnes Common once again. Judy was more than a little surprised.

The unsettling feeling is more pronounced by Bobby’s absence. We heard a couple of days ago that a lady in Wales had seen him on the All Dogs Matter website wanted to adopt him. All we knew of her was she has a lady lurcher of her own and likes running on beaches. We were unsettled in that we knew so little about her but Mary the person re-homing Bobbi reassured us that she would provide a good home. On Tuesday afternoon Mary turned-up, she was impressively middle class and drove an impressive Jaguar.  She told us more about Bobbi’s potential new owner who is in her 60’s but has a son living with her in the countryside. We said that if things did not work out we would have Bobbi back.

We packed Bobbi’s many coats and possessions into the boot of the jag, he hopped onto the leather back seat and with a typical dog’s disregard for saying good-bye, he was gone.

Several times over the past five months he stayed with us, we nearly said OK we would adopt him. What stopped us was Rocco’s status as top dog in our household. He is now 11 and undoubtedly the boss on our walks. However when Bobbi and he race into our garden at dusk, Bobbi made it clear that he should be top dog in the chasing cats out of our garden etc department.

 We have trained Bobbi out of a few of his bad habits but the one he never managed to break was his desire for a dash in the garden between three and four in the morning. His agitation to go out got more vocal the nearer he got to the garden door. One had to hold his collar once the door opened to stop a mad fit of triumphant barking before letting him go. We thought that he might have some kind of bladder infection so I made an appointment at the vets. The vet’s nurse gave me a tiny bottle to collect a urine sample, it had a little yellow dish-like thing to help collect the pee.

If I had little enthusiasm for the sample collecting, Bobbi had none. He found my attempts as beyond embarrassment, his cooperation less than zero. I fancy Rocco enjoyed watching. I began to think that I would have to provide the sample - but the vet might be surprised by its alcohol level. Eventually on the walk before the vet visit I kept him on the lead, walking close. Eventually Bobbi lifted the rear leg furthest from me and I lent over him and I got the sample. The vet checked Bobbi and disappeared off to the basement to analyse the sample. He returned to say there was nothing wrong with Bobbi’s bladder. So he has gone to Wales with a clean bill of health and a hearty distrust of sample collectors.

Richmond Council's Regulatory Meeting

Rocco sleeps

We were in France last week when Richmond Council had its regulatory committee meeting so I was unable to add my fourpennyworth but Lucy Bonnett was and excellently presented the professional dog walkers case, well backed-up by other committee members of the newly formed Association of Professional Dog Walkers.. 

 

Lucy wrote the day after: "As most of you know the Regulatory Meeting took place last night.  It was a huge success and Richmond Council have decided to pass a DCO restricting the number of dogs any one person can walk to 6 dogs max per walk. Notices will be going up soon in the parks so the general public will be aware. I had previously raised concerns with David Allister that the public are confused as to the rules as the four dog max signs are still up. There will be now be a period of notification and the DCO setting the limit to six will come into effect on the 1st July, although of course for those of us already signed up to the Association we are already abiding by that.

 

The meeting was a huge success for us. Although there were some sticky moments and difficult questions, they loved the Association and everything it stands for. They want to work with us and endorse us. David talked to us at the end of the night about a press launch and other exciting things. We are delighted that finally we have had the opportunity to explain to the council, not only exactly what being a dog walker involves, but also that we are a group of dedicated professionals and that through our Association we will at last receive some recognition for our contribution to the community. David asked for us to contact him today to arrange another meeting where we can have a more in depth discussion.

 

Thank you to everyone who has supported us and applied to APDW, all your applications are being processed and we welcome you all on board.

 

I would also like to take this opportunity to say a huge thank you to Christabel Molesey from Twickenham Vets who spoke at the meeting last night and gave us her full support."

Badly behaved, Moi?

Those readers who remember my writing about Rocco biting a jogger on the towpath back in February might like to see how a real writer tells the story...

C'est la folie: badly behaved, moi?

Dear old Pike, the rescue dog with a heart condition. Surely this endearing character’s bark must be worse than his bite...

Step change: Pike in peaceful mode  

By Michael Wright

29 May 2012

Centuries of being slapped in the face with the wet flannel of disappointment have taught the British to be wary of looking forward to anything. Instead, we warn each other against tempting fate and counting chickens; claim not to be superstitious and touch wood if we catch ourselves banking on anything. Don’t sell the bear’s skin until you’ve killed it, the French say. They touch wood, too. The people of most European countries do, except the contrary Italians, who touch iron – tocca ferro – instead. This may be where they’ve been going wrong all these years.

We are terrified of losing something good by wanting it too much. But what about when it’s the other way round: when we expect the worst, yet things turn out just fine, or better? We all live with so many swords suspended from horsehairs above our heads – the credit crunch, global warming, asteroid strikes, superbugs, drought, the Schmallenberg virus, the varroa mite and Simon Cowell – that every extra moment we manage to eke out on the planet really is a miracle. Having no word for whatever is the opposite of disappointment, we can barely even shape this emotion in our heads. But there is such a feeling, and it’s more than simple pleasure or relief. It’s what you feel when you have been told that your adored rescue dog is likely to die of congestive heart disease before Christmas, and he is still going strong in April.

Actually, my emotions about Pike’s survival against the odds are complex. Mostly I feel grateful and amazed. But I feel ever-so-slightly embarrassed, too, having publicly anticipated his death months ago, with perhaps a few too many violins playing the Ave Verum Corpus in the background. In my defence, the stages of congestive heart disease are graded in severity from one to six. And the Jolibois vet, shaking his head with a mournful smile, classed Pike as somewhere between five and six.

At first, it felt as if the vet had passed a heavy sentence upon us, and it was hard to look at the little fellow – Pike, I mean, for the vet is actually quite tall – without a pang. But I have managed to stop picturing his diseased and enlarged heart as a ticking time-bomb, liable to explode at any moment. After all, the high-speed pleasure he takes in life makes it easy to forget how sick he is, and the vet’s prognosis merely makes us appreciate him all the more. “Even if it is to be,” as Seneca puts it, “what end do you serve by running to distress?”

Today, Amélie and I are out walking with Digby and Pike before breakfast. I’m not sure who spots the runner first, but now Pike is off, sprinting in the direction of the tall figure in black Lycra who is lolloping towards us. I am expecting Pike to sprint up to the runner and sprint back again, his duty as chief scout done. This is his usual technique with walkers. And, because he is a timid terrier and only about the size of a briefcase, even the French – who are often far more fearful of dogs than are the English – tend to be amused.

So I am stunned when the runner suddenly emits a high-pitched shriek, clutches his bottom as if he has been peppered with a 12-bore, and starts screaming that the little dog has bitten him. His legs spasm like Galvani’s frogs. Tears stream from his eyes. And he wails à la Beaker from The Muppets in an anguished falsetto, with such histrionic wretchedness that I can but stand there, open-mouthed, and gawp.

I do not mean to make fun of him. I am merely attempting to express how extraordinary the young man’s response to a greeting from a little dog appears to be. Initially, at least. You’d think the poor chap had been Tasered; that he has been watching too much grand opera, or premiership football. Pike is still running in circles around his ankles, visibly gobsmacked by the soprano ululations, leaping up with the excitement of a Callas groupie wanting to give yet another ovation after an encore. More spasms, more screams, more tears.

I run towards them both, calling for Pike to come back. I can see that I have a problem on my hands, even before Digby gets involved. He lumbers up to the runner like a well-meaning St John’s Ambulance volunteer, wanting to see if he can help. And the man kicks him so hard that it quite makes my eyes water. Digby’s, too. I know what this means. It means that the man has been pushed beyond his limits. And now he’s not just hurt. He’s angry, too.

“I’m so sorry,” I tell him, in French, grabbing Pike. “He’s a sweet dog, but I can see he gave you quite a scare.”

“Il m’a mordu! He’s bitten me!” he howls. His face is wet with tears.

“I really don’t think so,” I reply, glancing at the man’s shorts, and wondering if he’s got a no-win no-fee lawyer tucked inside them. Pike has never bitten anything before.

And then the man points at his left buttock. My jaw drops. A square of Lycra hangs flapping in the wind, like the door of an advent calendar. Behind the door, I can see a slash of red on white. So I was quite right about Pike not biting the man. Unfortunately, he appears to have knifed him instead. With one flick of a razor-tipped canine, he has sliced through the man’s shorts and carved an angry welt in the skin beneath.

My apologies are fulsome and heartfelt and, frankly, a bit desperate. Thank goodness the young man is so forgiving, when he has every right to feel aggrieved. He agrees to accompany me back to La Folie, so that Nurse Alice can patch him up, and I can find some cash to pay for his shorts, before he continues with his 14km run.

As we go, I attempt a little male bonding by telling him about my own running training, and asking about his.

“I’m cross-training for le vélo,” he explains. “I’m currently champion of Haute-Vienne, and hoping next month to become champion of France.”

“Ah, d’accord,” I gulp, badly wishing Pike could have chosen a less distinguished buttock to lacerate.

While the champion of Haute-Vienne runs off into the distance, Alice and I stand looking at Pike, wondering what on earth we are to do with our wayward invalid. From now on, he must stay on his lead for the duration of our walks. This is no bad thing, for slowing him down should reduce the chances of a heart attack in mid-stride.

Even so, the stain on his record means that our every walk must henceforth be conducted with a new sword hanging from a horsehair above my head. And, more than ever, I shall be craving my daily shot of that nameless emotion which is the opposite of disappointment, when you expect the worst, yet everything turns out just fine. I’m sure it will, too. Touch iron.

Coca

Coca on a Richmond Park walk, the other dogs are trying to hide behind Phoebe.

Sad news, we have just heard that our old friend Coca has died. She was a gentle Béarnaise Mountain Dog, as affable a soul as one could ever encounter. You would meet her on Barnes Common and be greeted with a Woo Woo! She then would lean on your leg sitting on your foot, so as to immobilise you, whilst accepting the love to which she was certainly entitled. She would assure you that you were the one person in the world for her and one felt happier for that. Then she would spot another bestest best friend and amble over to tell them…

Not a very tasty stick.

She was keen on her food and tended to regard walks as mildly disappointing moving picnics, on which surely somebody would leave a few hamburgers lying around.

Who has brought the sandwiches?

She will be greatly missed.

From the Torygraph

Dinosaurs passing wind may have caused climate change

Huge plant-eating dinosaurs may have produced enough greenhouse gas by breaking wind to alter the Earth's climate, research suggests.

Barnes Common 

Like huge cows, the mighty sauropods would have generated enormous quantities of methane. Sauropods, recognisable by their long necks and tails, were widespread around 150 million years ago.

      They included some of the largest animals to walk the Earth, such as Diplodocus, which measured 150 feet and weighed up to 45 tonnes.

      Scientists believe that, just as in cows, methane-producing bacteria aided the digestion of sauropods by fermenting their plant food.

      ''A simple mathematical model suggests that the microbes living in sauropod dinosaurs may have produced enough methane to have an important effect on the Mesozoic climate,'' said study leader Dr Dave Wilkinson, from Liverpool John Moores University.

      ''Indeed, our calculations suggest that these dinosaurs could have produced more methane than all modern sources - both natural and man-made - put together.''

      The research is published today in the journal Current Biology.

Methane is a more potent greenhouse gas than carbon dioxide, with a stronger ability to trap heat.

      Dr Wilkinson and colleague Professor Graeme Ruxton, from the University of St Andrews in Scotland, began to wonder about Mesozoic methane while investigating sauropod ecology.

      Research on a range of modern species has allowed experts to predict how much methane is likely to be generated by animals of different sizes.

      The key factor is the total mass of the animal. Medium-sized sauropods weighed about 20 tonnes and lived in herds of up to a few tens of individuals per square kilometre.

      Global methane emissions from the animals would have amounted to around 472 million tonnes per year, the scientists calculated.

      The figure is comparable to total natural and man-made methane emissions today. Before the start of the industrial age, about 150 years ago, methane emissions were around 181 million tonnes per year. Modern ruminant animals, including cows, goats, and giraffes, together produce 45 to 90 million tonnes of methane.

      Sauropods alone may have been responsible for an atmospheric methane concentration of one to two parts per million (ppm), said the scientists. In the warm, wet Mesozoic, forest fires and leaking natural gasfields could have added another four parts per million.

      ''Thus, a Mesozoic methane mixing ratio of six to eight ppm seems very plausible,'' the scientists wrote. ''The Mesozoic trend to sauropod gigantism led to the evolution of immense microbial vats unequalled in modern land animals. Methane was probably important in Mesozoic greenhouse warming.

      ''Our simple proof-of-concept model suggests greenhouse warming by sauropod megaherbivores could have been significant in sustaining warm climates.''

EDIT: So Mooli is really dangerous, says Rocco.

Latest news from Richmond Council and other bits and pieces.

"Sit" Lucy with a class

Lucy Bonnet (Riverside Dog Training) yesterday gave us the latest news about Richmond Council’s proposed dog order via her facebook page:  

“Feedback from Mr Allister is that they are still going through consultation! Blimey it didn't take us that long to research and prepare it, think they might need reading lessons! Either that or they are not making a decision until after the elections......”

A couple of week ago she let us know: 

“Hot of my email!!!! News is that the Council is very busy compiling a summary document and they anticipate that is going to take a few weeks. I have asked David if he will meet with me in the meantime. More persuasion might be needed!”

A cute StreetKleen graphic

On a related theme…

During this mornings walk a friend told me that there was a plan to put dog poo to use. I have tracked down the newspaper article, it seems two guys, Gary Downie and Christopher Dunn in Flintshire have designed “Dog Stations” – receptacles with biodegradable bags – which will be placed around their area in a trial. The collected dog poo (or “waste” as they call it) will then be broken down by micro-organisms through the process of anaerobic digestion to produce a biogas which can be used to generate electricity. 


EDIT, Rocco would like to point out that what dog poo can do, why can't human poo do the same. Why can't Messers Downie and Dunn develop their "stations" to take human poo bags... A vote winner for the green party?

On a completely unrelated topic:

When Rocco first came to live with us, I took a couple of days off to help settle him in. On the second day I got a call about a potential pitch for the creation of a city PR company’s corporate identity. I drove into the city for the briefing. Rocco, along for the ride, didn't like the idea of being left alone in a dark car park so I took him with me. We passed a guy sitting with his dog outside a tube station soliciting donations. Rocco was fascinated.

We got to the PR company and were both shown into the boardroom, which had a fine reproduction antique table. As the brief was outlined to me, both the PR folk and I could hear the sound of gnawing, one leg of the table was acquiring a bit of character.

We walked another way back to the car, again passing a chap and his dog begging outside a tube station. Strangely, I did not win the pitch for the PR company’s corporate identity but I have managed so far to avoid Rocco’s career choice for me – to be with him on the pavement outside Putney station.

A tale of two litters

Merlot (age two days) and his mother, all puppies in this litter are alive and well - see the last paragraph

By in large the British treat their dogs as if they are members of their families, indeed their dogs regard themselves as such. A generalisation with undoubted exceptions such as genuinely working dogs, I know.

The urban French I imagine are much the same, less so their country cousins. M Bernard, the friendly farmer who owns the vineyards and farm neighbouring our maison secondaire in the Charente Maritime, is a charming man who has offered us nothing but help. He speaks zero English but at least speaks French slowly so I understand much of what he says. His mother, in her late eighties lives at the farmhouse (he lives elsewhere).  The dogs on his farm are farm animals and treated as such. An elderly yellowish Alsatian cross guard dog is chained to a tree. A couple of labradors, a black male and yellow bitch seem to run free. They regard themselves as having an easement into our garden so as to avail themselves of its facilities. He also has a couple of spaniel types who are given their head when the shooting season starts in September but otherwise seem to live in a pen behind the farmhouse. All dogs seem to live in harmony with free range flocks of sheep, geese and hens.

A couple of years back an aggressive boxer/something cross joined the menagerie. Rocco and I had a couple of confrontations with him during our September holiday. The next month, whilst the English lady, who looks after our house whilst we are away, was talking to the farmer, the dog ran out of the farmyard and bit her on the leg, an entirely unprovoked attack. The farmer drove her to hospital. She stopped looking after our house, but for other reasons. Representations to the local mayor (Mairie) of the commune failed to get any resolution. An English woman bitten by a French farm dog gets little sympathy from a Mairie, himself a farmer. Rural France is run by and for its farmers. You might add this is also pretty much true of the EU. 

Clearly we couldn’t let the house out to holidaymakers with this dog on the loose. The following spring, the first time we were back in France after the attack I went over to the farm. I had mugged-up on as many variations of ‘Your dog must be under strict control or put-down’ as my schoolboy French could manage. Fortunately, the new lady now looks after our house, volunteered to join me, she speaks very good French. There was no sign of the dog, the farmer was out and we met his elderly mother. Her farm kitchen, earth floor and pot of stew hanging over the fire in the hearth, was straight out of a nineteenth century Zola novel. I was able to present her with a Dundee cake I had bought and after talking at cross-purpose for a while, we brought-up the subject of the dog.

“Oh, that dog was shot in the winter,” she said, “it attacked one of our farm workers.” It turned out to belong to the son-in-law of the farmer’s girlfriend.

Last year when we were again out opening up the house for the season, the farmer waved me over to talk about our barn, which we keep locked-up. I was not sure what he was on about but opened up the large barn door for him. It turned out that his Labrador bitch had found a way in and had just produced a litter of puppies behind a mountain of straw. The farmer and one of his men removed the straw and a few hidden empty oil barrels and got the puppies out, we provided a large cardboard box and admired the litter. The farmer seemed uncomfortable with our interest. When I saw him the next morning I asked after the puppies. They had been drowned. One can't help concluding that this is cheaper than having the bitch spayed.

Merlot and sisters

On a happier note back when the renovation of our house was underway we were over in May for a conference with our builders. We stayed in a gite owned by a British Airways pilot and his wife who had retired from flying. The have a pair of splendid retriever labradors one of which was due to give birth. We ended up taking the soon-to-be dad out for a long walk so that his partner could have some peace. We came back to admire six splendid tiny retriever labradors. They were all spoken for except one fellow, now called Merlot, who has stayed with his parents.

omg

just snoring now

omg, omg, omg.

rocco here, I think he has finally flipped. he’s got spotify on his mac – sounds bad - and it is. it was sort of ok but hes found werewolves of london by warren zefon and he thinks it funny to sing it on our walks. any singing is bad but the lyrics – if they can be so described – mainly comrise of 'ahhooo, werewolves of london, arghhoooo, arghhoooo,' etc, embarrassing or what. he thinks he is being funny. omg. stop him somebody, shooting is too good, or get him back to van morrison, he doesn’t know the lyrics of van’s stuff despite having heard it all for years and years. omg

sorry can’t manage caps on the keyboard.