Jan
01

Happy New Year

By admin Posted in Christmas | No Comments »

Ahem.  Yes, I know; it’s been a long time.  A very long time.  In my defence, there isn’t actually, as a general rule, an awful lot to write about these days.  My life is a smooth and shimmering lake of contented tranquillity.  Well, not quite, but it is fairly dull.  I’m not a young dog anymore; my licence (yes, we still have dog licences in Northern Ireland, hence the natty little orange tag attached to my collar) claims that I am ten and a half, but you can safely add at least a year to that.

As well as being geriatric, I’m also disabled, having one leg that only intermittently functions as such.  Not that my condition cuts much ice with the house-humans who insist, in callous and brutal fashion, on taking me for walks the number and duration of which would severely tax a Labrador puppy, let alone a venerable terrier such as myself.  And, needless to say, the internal combustion engine continues to be conspicious by its absence from the Jones family drive….

But enough of this distressing and doom-laden despair.  Existence, even for a automotively-challenged chap such as myself has its occasional compensations.  One is called Christmas.  On the adjacent picture, in addition to my good self and young Aidan (yes, he has grown since last time, quite alarmingly) you may perceive a sock-shaped object suspended from a door handle.  This is my stocking.

On reflection, perhaps I should rephrase that.  I wouldn’t like you think that in my senescence I had descended into any variety of kink.  I’ve  never bothered much about that sort of thing, and I’m not planning to start now.  No, by ‘my stocking’ I mean the receptacle, purchased by The Mum from one of the excellent PDSA emporia, designed for the transportation and concealment of Christmas presents for yours truly.

Christmas presents!!!!

Sorry – got a bit carried away there – not really appropriate to my venerable age.  All the same, Christmas presents!!!  This is the boys getting very excited about one of theirs – I can’t say much about it myself, as Wii controllers and paws seem to have been designed for different paradigms of reality but I’m sure it’s all terribly fascinating.  Not as fascinating, however, as my two Christmas-themed soft toys, packet of mini-bones, biscuits, posh M&S dinner and tennis balls.  Oh, and there was a bag of what were described as ‘doggie choc drops’, though if they had any more than an Internet-dating relationship with a cocoa bean, then I’m an Abyssinian guinea-pig.

Never mind.  The really good thing about Christmas, apart from having the Gawain and the Sue here with us (last year they were prevented by the extreme cold and the year before by the trivial matter of being in the Antipodes), was that the Mum cooked, in addition to some ridiculous vegetarian concoction featuring cabbage and chestnuts, an actual turkey, and since most of them are now practically entirely vegetarian, there were only really the Gawain and me to dispose of it.  I just finished off the last bones this afternoon.

Talking of which, and to return to the principal purport of my post – a very happy New Year to you all!  Floreat lupus familiaris!

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Sep
11

Happy returns

By admin Posted in age, birthday | No Comments »

On August 31st it was my birthday.  My official birthday, that is – like other august personages, I have two.  Unfortunately, owing to the slightly mystifying nature of my origins, no one knows when the biological one is.  I therefore have to make do with celebrating on the day that I came to live with this particular tribe of house-humans.  Sometimes I wonder whether ‘celebrate’ is exactly the word (hint, car, hint, hint) but I seem to be stuck here now, and might as well make the best of it.  And this was certainly the best.  Yes, those are sausages on the table, real sausages, M&S outdoor bred genuine pork, though I’m not sure exactly what the green stuff in the bowl is.  I wasn’t going to risk it anyway, not at my age.

My age – that’s what I was going to tell you about.  Dear me.  Yes, I’ve been with the Dad etc for three years now, and was estimated to be seven when I arrived, which brings me to the satisfyingly round figure of ten.  And it is. (My figure, satisfyingly round – I’ve recovered my appetite after the various feline upheavals of recent months.)  What’s more, if one takes the conventional ratio of one dog year to seven human ones, that makes me, if my arithmetic does not err, the equivalent of seventy.

And seventy, I am reliably informed, is officially Venerable. (Wasn’t there a bean of that name, or is my hearing crumbling as well?)  So I am anticipating more than a modicum of respect from the house-humans and young Marco.  Not much sign of it yet, but perhaps this entry will remind them.  By the way, I hear that the Mum’s father became Venerable on the same day. We have much in common, particularly our distinguished grey beards, technological expertise and lively interest in geology.  (You didn’t know I was interested in geology?  I’m sorry, but the idle blog rambler really can’t be expected to become privy to every intimate detail of my life.  And surely you’ve seen me sniffing a stone or two?)  Anyway, I hope that the Grandad has more luck than me in inspiring respect and deference.

In particular, I hope that his friends-and-relations show a more sympathetic understanding of the inevitable waning of his memory skills as the years roll by.  It’s really quite unreasonable to expect me to remember back as far as June and to recall that there’s a place called School where the boys are obliged to spend large chunks of the daytime.  The Aidan went back to it a couple of days after my birthday and sadly neglected to explain this to me, so that I spent nearly all day at the front of the house anxiously scanning the horizon for his return.

The Mum and the Dad did try to explain to me, but you know how it is; I can’t always decipher their weird English dialects.  Anyway, he came back eventually, much to my relief.  Really, you’d think they’d be more careful with an old dog’s blood pressure…

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Jul
23

Humph

By admin Posted in blogging, cats | No Comments »

They tell me that I need to get updated, go with the flow, embrace new technology, get down in cyberspace.  Humph, is what I say.  The old Terrier Diary worked perfectly well, with the odd little glitch to keep the Dad’s grey cells fizzing.  But no, all the others have migrated – is that the word they use; I thought it was something to do with swallows? – to these new-fangled WordPress operations, so apparently I have to do the same.  Mindless conformity.  And that blasted new assistant of mine, Marco il gatto, is no help whatsoever, unless one has a peculiar yearning for half-dead frogs and mice and games of snail football across the dining room floor.  (Actually snail football is quite fun, but don’t tell him I said so.)

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May
25

On His Hairiness’s Service

By admin Posted in cats | 1 Comment »

What? Oh, is it my turn now? What’s this thing with the light on it? Does it move if I push it? Oh yes! What? Oooh, look! Sorry, Robbie – Your Hairiness, I mean. Yes, of course I want to be your confidential secretary and transmit your deathless thoughts to all your global followers on the World Wide Web. Ooh, a web. Does it have flies in it? I like chasing flies. When I’m a bigger cat I’ll be allowed to go outside and chase birds, too. What? Oh, all right. His Hairiness says that the house-humans like birds, and they like them best alive. Okay. I’m happy to be corrected. After all, I’m only six months old, and I’ve only lived in His Hairiness’s household for six days – I’m sure I’ve got plenty to learn.

Eh? Oh yes. My name is Marco, after Signor Polo, the great explorer. My greatest exploration so far has been halfway up the smaller chimney but then the Mum blocked it up with cardboard. His Hairiness says she’s often like that.

I used to live with a different set of house-humans but I was too irritating to the senior cat. His Hairness says he can understand that. They’re not all spoil-sports, though, these house-humans. The Aidan is my particular friend and protector – he lets me into his personal territory to eat and sleep and even do the unmentionable litter tray business. Oh, sorry. His Hairiness says that sort of language isn’t appropriate in his refined journal. As I said, I’ve got a lot to learn. Oh look, another key to jump on! What happens if I do thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii

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Apr
30

Updating at last

By admin Posted in cats, politics | No Comments »

Apparently the Gawain has been muttering about the fact that I haven’t updated this diary for so long.  I suppose it has been a while, but after all, he’s the one living in Newsy Land.

Actually there is something to report: I’ve been abandoned once again.  Oh, not by the house-humans – as my regular readers will know, I’ve been trying for years to trade them in for a properly motorized family.  No, it’s Ellie who’s left me this time (well, left them and not taken me with her, which amounts to the same thing). Never trust a cat. She slipped out in her usual unobstrusive way one evening in early March, and hasn’t been back since.  I utilized all my keen terrier senses on the roads, paths and woods over half the town, but to no avail.  The Mum thinks she might have seen her early one Sunday morning, living it up with a feline companion round the back of the funeral director’s, but she can’t be quite sure.  Anyway, good luck Ellie, wherever you are – hope you have a good proportion of your nine lives left….

On a more cheerful note, I understand that I’m being called upon to appoint the next government.  I can fully appreciate that I’m the dog for the job; am only sorry that my sleeping commitments make me unable to take the appointment in person.  The three front-lollopers for the Pry Mini-Stir (is that a type of inquisitive Pot Noodle?) position paraded before me last night via a convenient video-link to my sofa.  I was quite attracted by Mr Cameron’s promise that he would put steaks in people’s houses (though knowing my lot, they’d probably request the vegetarian option) but in the end I was won over by Mr Clegg who declared that he was going to set up a dedicated Border Police Force.  The Dad was a bit worried that it would be too energetic for me, all that running around after criminals, but the Mum pointed out that I would make an admirable desk sergeant, as my snoozing skills are really second to none.

Speaking of which, it’s probably time for a quick mid-morning nap before my pre-prandial zzzzzzzzzzz

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Feb
01

Where has she gone

By admin Posted in humans | No Comments »

Can’t seem to find TJ – I remember walking to town with her but can’t recall her coming back.
Strange today with the wrong one doing the cooking – still, seemed to result in more leftovers.

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Dec
29

Bark the herald…

By admin Posted in Christmas | No Comments »

Another Christmas.  I’m old and sensible now, and don’t get so carried away as I did in my youth, so no humiliating encounters with waste bins or cheese.  Santa Paws did his customary stocking stuff, very acceptable – several bones, a pig’s ear and a soft festive puppy to be ripped to shreds.  And there was lots of that snowy stuff that sets my fur off to such good effect.  The Aidan took this picture – I’m thinking of making him my official paparazzo.
Smile

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Nov
12

A martyr’s got to do…

By admin Posted in cats, virtue | No Comments »

Sometimes one has to make a point. When one’s resident feline spends half the morning eating a bird and consequently disgraces herself on the carpet, one has to point out in no uncertain terms that there is one animal in the house whose virtue shines with effulgent light. And if that requires squeezing into a cardboard box and shivering histrionically until the Mum notices and brings a blanket, then that’s simply what has to be done.

Once the point is made, of course, there’s no reason not to move, blanket and all, into the luxury padded bed that was available all along. After all, you don’t have to be a saint to be a martyr.

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Sep
06

Reunited

By admin Posted in humans | No Comments »

The Gawain and the Sue have at last turned up again after their long travels in Newsy Land and Us Trail Ya. I’m making sure that it will be remarkably difficult for them to leave again…

… except when I’m busy trying out Ellie’s box-with-a-cushion-in-it. Some uncharitable persons have been making remarks about ugly sisters and slippers but I don’t pick up on all these human references.

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Aug
23

Disillusion

By admin Posted in humans, walks | No Comments »

Once more my hopes have been cruelly elevated, only to be dashed yet again. A couple of weeks ago a friend of the Mum came to stay together with her teenage son who is almost exactly the same age as the Rory. Apparently the Mum and the Ann met sixteen years ago at Anti-Natal classes (strange – I’d have thought the South African boycotts would have been practically over by then).

Anyway, apart from being remarkably understanding about my need to lean heavily upon other occupants of the sofa (about which the Mum continues to be remarkably dim), the Ann and the David had another, even more valuable asset: a small red motorized CAR!!

Owing to the Mum’s chronic petrophobia, I can’t show you an actual photograph of the car or enumerate its many features and gadgets. Suffice it to say that for a few days I was treated with a modicum of decency and respect and taken on Proper Walks.

A Proper Walk, as any well-brought up terrier knows, does not begin with one’s house-humans walking out of the door and down the road to a nearby park or piece of woodland. Oh dear no. A Proper Walk commences with the placing of a motor vehicle as close as is physically possible to the front door. One is then carried to the back seat upon which one reclines in comfort until the car park of some suitable beauty spot (or out-of-town supermarket; I’m not pernickerty) is reached. The car door is then opened and one is lifted out and invited to sniff the circumference of the car park for five minutes or so before returning to upholstered luxury and the chauffeured ride home.

Now I can’t in all honesty concede that walks with the Ann fulfilled these criteria in their full paradigmic glory. No doubt under the malign influence of the Mum, the walks we went on were a great deal longer than the ideal, and involved terrain that in some cases was almost devoid of all tarmac. Nevertheless, she did her best, and I was most appreciative. (Though I must admit to having not always demonstrated my gratitude to the full, as on this occasion at the Marble Arch Caves, when she wanted to walk along the designated path while I had noticed a most intriguing Jack Russell leaping across the rocky ravine).

Alas! Just as I had settled down happily to the new routine, the Ann and the David callously left, without a single word. (Well, with a few words, actually, ones like Goodbye, but why spoil a nice bit of pathos?) I spent the whole afternoon and most of the next day lying out on the pavement, my tail trailing forlornly in the gutter, but although a few cars passed, none of them were small and red, and none contained anyone prepared to lift me onto the back seat. So it’s back to the Dad (and occasionally the Mum, if the weather’s not too foul) and thrice daily yomps to the wooden bear. C’est la vie, as the poodles put it.

p.s. Thanks to Sabine for her kind words – good to hear that someone is keeping an eye on the Gawain. And yes, Ellie is recovering fast – slightly too fast, in my view. I don’t think she’s fully appreciated the implications of complete recovery – that both of us will be taken off our luxury chunks-in-jelly repasts and returned to the old bags of dried pellets. Vets may well recommend it, but you don’t catch them eating the stuff.

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