Through the glass

"I've got you!"
"No, I've got you!"
"I have your ear!"
"I have your leg!"
"I'll pin you down!"
"I'll spring over you!"
"I'll stand on you!"
"I'll stand on you first!"
"I'll run!"
"I'll catch you!"
"I'll jump up!"
"I'll jump higher!"
"I'll roll over on you!"
"I'll grab your leg again!"
"I'm ignoring my owner now!"
"So am I!"
"It's good to be a dog, isn't it?"
"Yes, it's great...!"
"I've got you!"
"No, I've got you!"

Happy Birthday

My mother would have been 83 today. Happy Birthday, Ma...!

That's her in the white dress. I'm the short bugger...

No. Not the black and white one on all fours. The other short bugger.

The jury out on Crufts for another year

We watch this doggie show on TV every year, probably because from a situation where our formative years featured canines quite largely, our somewhat later years include no doggies at all. The substitute is about a million bewildering breeds of all shapes and sizes in the BBC's highlights programme from the UK's biggest dog show.

Tonight I was pleased to have reaffirmed again that for all the breeding and preening dogs are still just dogs. The presenter (who owns a black Labrador of his own) was flanked by a Westfalian Champion Wooly-Haired Whifflehound on one side and on the other sat a common or garden Welsh Border Worrier. The Whiffle, being the better bred of the pair, was, at about 200 pounds in weight, trying to climb into its proud owner's jacket pocket, because the Worrier was looking at it!

The presenter went on about the various prizes and made his links quite well, as the Whifflehound, a winner in its class, continued to try to escape the sniffing snout of the black and white patty snatcher. At one stage, the Worrier even blinked in the general direction of our champion.

There was a real "I can take him" vibe from the slightly built (but perfectly formed) Worrier. It surely was too much to bear! All that the Westy wanted was the warmth of the sofa and a rub behind the ears as its owner watched Corrie.

Each year we enjoy the spectacle of worthy winners looking bemusedly from behind well-draped ringlets, or fancy runners-up wafting along on castor-like paws across the carpeted arena. And every single one of them, under all the powder and paint (yes, we know all the tricks now) is just a bum-sniffing, leg-cocking, car chasing mutt at the back of it all.

Wouldn't it be great to have a supercharged exterior and still get to pee against trees? Maybe that's a bad example... I can cock a leg with the best of them. But still. To get a grand prize of a golden ribbon and have someone rub your belly by the fire as you eat crunchy treats... Again, a bad example....

Crufts continues on the BBC until Sunday night.

Put one small miscellaneous piece out of place and the whole thing comes tumbling down

I don't know exactly why the dog was called Patch, because I don't think it had one on it anywhere, but the fact was that patchy or patchless I was going to mind the darned thing. This was a few years ago, and the pooch was a kind of long-legged, wide-arsed Jack Russell terrier my sister had acquired. That Patch had made it as far as Tallaght on the bus was a miracle in itself, because the dog was hog wild, as our American friends say. I don't think it got out much. And while my sister, Eva and my mother went shopping, I was to make sure the same rule applied.

It was a fine day, and I think I was doing something in the front garden, so Patch got to sun herself on the lawn and look out the gate. I could keep half an eye on her. It was going fine, so my thoughts turned to lunch. There was a meat pie in the fridge which just fitted the bill, so I put the oven on to heat and went back to clipping the hedge. In about 20 minutes, I put the pie into the oven and closed the door. When I got back outside, the gate was open and two toddlers from up the road were waving Patch goodbye as she disappeared over the horizon.

I couldn't curse too much in front of the kids, so I made some noise like

"Nurr-gh-whaw!"

and galloped down the road after the dog. If my sister came back and the thing was lost I was a goner.

Patch and I shared one thing in common. Neither of us went running very often. Zig-zagging just didn't help her, I was gaining fast. Eventually, she considered a possible hiding to be better than the cardiac arrest she was about to suffer and keeled over on the green, four legs stuck stiffly into the air in submission.

I grabbed up the pooch and made for home in my best nonchalant walk. I put her down none-too-tenderly on the lawn and tried to remember how to breathe. Both our tongues were hanging out, but I resisted the urge to nudge her aside from the water bowl and start lapping.

When I got my breath back, I made sure the dog knew it was in trouble. She slouched around unhappily and tried to keep out of my way.

"Bloody dog," I grumbled, wondering how many years had been shed from my life.

After a while, I started to feel sorry for her. She looked so miserable, I decided she could share some of the meat pie.

We both looked into the oven on all fours. In fact, the pie looked so nice through the glass that if I'd had a tail I'd have wagged it.

Of course, thinking of the dog's discomfort, I forgot some basic safety procedures, such as

"Don't stick your head in the oven door the instant you open it."

Good God! The blast of heat singed my eyebrows and the dog's whiskers in one fell swoop and the two of us retreated, yelping, for the far corner.

When Eva and my mother arrived in later, Patch and I were sitting at the table, quietly eating meat pie. I thought it the only fair solution. If she noticed the dog was whiskerless, Eva never said.