Wednesday, 23 May 2012

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 BĂ©arnaise 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.

Monday, 7 May 2012

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.

Wednesday, 2 May 2012

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.



Wednesday, 25 April 2012

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.

Tuesday, 17 April 2012

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.

Wednesday, 11 April 2012

More on our pack's thoughts

Ou est les chats? Rocco en France - nothing to do with this post - just wanted to publish this shot.

A Princess

The Princess walks out so as to provide the rest of the world with somebody to adore. She trots along confident in the cut of her fur and that her topknot is just the smartest thing - as indeed it is. But there is another side to her…

…One of Richmal Crompton’s William stories concerns Violet Elizabeth Bott, dressed in a frilly pink frock, demanding that she join William and the Outlaw’s red Indian games in the woods. They did not want her but as ever she bent them to her will. That evening William tried to return her to Mr & Mrs Bott at the Hall, but they failed to recognise William’s mud-covered companion as their own sweet child. Eventually, as she was led away towards the bathroom, Violet Elizabeth wistfully lisps ‘I like boyth games.’ The Princess also sometimes likes boy’s games and her owner is unimpressed by my returning with a bedraggled Tibetan terrier.

Baxter, a spaniel we walked when we first started looking after dogs, was a retired police drug sniffer dog. Nobody had told him he was retired, needless to say he could be fun when walking on Barnes Common on a sunny day. Sadly now he is employed in a celestial squad checking that there are no angels hiding dubious stuff in their harps.

Humbug, actually a delightfully affable fellow, we suspect of mentally compiling a long, long list of things not quite up to scratch on his stays with us. Hrumph, see that? Got fed third bowl down, not first. And another thing, the dalmation has grabbed the corner spot on the sofa again. What did the brochure say about sofa positions? And another thing…

Sunday, 8 April 2012

What to do on a walk


Many years ago when Jumble our last dog was a carefree un-neutered male a walk contained for him numerous elements. Of course, he would meet various of his mates, check their digestive systems, watch out for cats, squirrels and other annoyances. Even if he saw none of the above there was the olfactory importance of reading the parish notices, checking his mail and leaving answering messages. Not least were the lonely hearts advertisements to post and answer – ‘Handsome stud seeks hot bitch to pursue mutual interests’ etc.

Fast-forwarding to today’s world, every male seems to be neutered and the importance of leaving pee messages has diminished. Certain trees, bits of street furniture and landmarks on the common, formerly covered by invisible message boards, once oh so fascinating, are passed without so much as a sniff, not that I complain, but I recently got to thinking about what each of our floating population of pack members looked for in a walk.

Coca, for instance looks for the admiration and love of friends and strangers, ever keen to sit on a foot (immobilizing her admirer) and bask in their affection. Beyond that she looks for supplements to her diet, ‘I say, there’s fresh bunny poo over here’.

Mooli lives for the opportunity to ‘bounce’ some poor other dog. In the distance he sees a Fothering-Thomas of a pooch, happily minding its own business, saying as it were ‘Hallo Clouds, Hallo Sun’ in the way that attracted Molesworth’s scorn. Mooli’s head goes down into hunting mode, he pauses, then he charges, growling fearsomely in the hope the Fothering-Thomas will turn and run and be good for a snarling chase. When he returns oozing self-satisfaction he finds it hard to comprehend the lack of admiration. Admiration is what he clearly deserves as any fule kno.

I am ashamed to admit young Mooli developed this appalling behavior in association with young Rocco - yes this is a secret of the otherwise laid-back Rocco’s guilty past - Mooli acted as Rocco’s henchdog. Needless to say Rocco nowadays is above all this, ever keen to control his pack to walk in a crocodile holding hands. When I see Mooli’s head go down in hunting mode, I distract him sometimes with a ‘treat.’ He has amplified this into a protection racket - when he sees a Fothering-Thomas he catches my eye, ‘gimme a treat or that wimp gets it’.

Nessie, a black Labrador, is chiefly interested in food, (it is said that once a couple of centuries ago, a Labrador missed a meal, the breed have vowed never to let this happen again). Nessie (‘oh, no not Nessie’ used to be her full name) launches herself at any picnic or any person suspected of picnicking like a heat seeking missile. Otherwise, it must be said, she is a delightful companion. 

Archie is a natural scientist, ever interested in the flora and fauna, flotsam and jetsam, etc and etc that he comes across. He plays a reverse version of ‘Grandmother’s footsteps’ – whenever you look back to see where he has got to, he is twenty yards behind you trotting happily, bound to catch-up with you in a moment. You look away and know he will instantly stop to examine some fascinating leaf. You look back once more and he is twenty yards behind you trotting happily, bound to catch-up with you in a moment…

Bobby, the greyhound we are fostering, never looses an opportunity to greet people to impress them by his affability otherwise he is a keen squirrel chaser though a fairly hopeless one, he works up such a speed that he will over run the tree up which his prey disappeared by twenty foot.

More to come...