Out! Out damned Spot! 2

And Jilly Cooper said that surnames were cool names for dogs, and I thought, well, yes, possibly, and then I went to the pub at lunchtime, and met a dog called Johnson! He was named after Martin Johnson, the rugby player. That's good. The SMD had a field day, by the way; the huge black Labrador, who she is madly in love with, was there, plus three bassett hounds and a collie-cross.

And what about town names? Also cool for dogs apparently. Barnsley. Harborough. Droylsden. Try them out. It could be a winner. Trust me.

Out! Out damn Spot!

It might have been the name of Lady Macbeth's dog but Spot doesn't make the Petplan top ten dog's names this year, or any recent year, come to that. Shame. The SMD doesn't feature either, but she seems to be coping. Whatever became of Rex? What happened to Patch and Fido? They're all middle class children's names now. Daisy and Molly and Holly. I like Jilly Cooper's suggestions. A dog called Decorum, and another called Discretion, so that we could be exercising Discretion. Geddit? Good one.

Dogs can't climb trees

I'm aware that you have not been kept up to date with progress with the SMD. She is nine months old now, and still looks like a 12 week Labrador, which produces lots of squeals of delight when we meet people. She enjoys tearing about at high speed; rushing through undergrowth; jumping; and throwing herself headlong into water. She enjoys the boat, and the Magic Bus, and is a very relaxed traveller and good companion.

We were up the woods this monring, and she was about her usual business of trying to catch rabbits and birds. One bird flew out in front of her, and up a tree. The only way you're going to catch that, I said, is by climbing the tree. Undaunted she threw herself up the trunk of this beech tree. It was only when she was about six feet up the tree, and our eyes grew level, that she realised that she was a dog, and therefore can't climb trees. She came down even quicker than she went up.

It's luurrve 2

The SMD also loves the Magic Bus. While Mrs Demon was on night duty we snuck off for a night up in the hills, just the two of us. Whenever I open the bus doors, to put things away, or just to let the heat out, the SMD is in there, looking expectant; "Come on! Let's go on a trip!" If I fail to start up and drive off, she stays there anyway, sprawled out on the rug (she also loves rugs).

It's luurrve

The SMD is in love. We can't get past the Little Pub with the Big Brewer because SMD has fallen for the pub dog in a big way. And he's a big dog; nearly one year old, a very large black Labrador. The SMD likes black dogs. She plays very well with her brothers when she sees them. She likes lots of other black things too, such as her bed, her chewy toy dogs and cats, and my shoes. But the love she holds for the big Labrador is something else. We are dragged down the road to the pub, and then she's jumping up at the doors and windows in case she can get a glimpse of her beloved; dragging us through the door if it's open, and scratching if it's shut. Now, as regular readers will be aware, I am not entirely unknown to the staff and customers at the Little Pub. But I'm not in there all the time. And not at nine in the morning. I've had a few sideways glances on my way up the street, I can tell you.

The SMD Genome Project

So we can now breed monkeys that glow in the dark. this could be a handy trait to have. Trying to find a black dog on a dark night is not easy. I know. I could do with a little help, such as luminous paws, or a glow-in-the-dark tail. And now that we have mapped the human genome, and the mouse genome, how about someone doing the Small Manageable Dog genome? And maybe they'd be able to tell us what proportion of the SMD's genes are devoted to
- sniffing out small animals
- digging holes
- burying things

I live with a serial killer

I am pleased to see that numbers of the dormouse are increasing in all parts of the country, except, for some reason, in certain parts of the Welsh borders ....

We can all have a silly moment

First pix of the SMD

Plenty of Fluff

Plenty of fluff keeps appearing, and when the SMD loses it, oh boy, can she hurtle and chew with the best of them! If only I had a faster camera. Maybe I’ll try a short video sequence. Anyway, all going well on day four, and Jan Fennell may possibly be a genius. If she could apply her mind to world peace and the economic downturn, we’d all be in a better place.

We are a dog-owner

Yes, the breathless world can stop holding its breath; the SMD has arrived. Currently, it is behaving very well; few little presents on the carpets; trotting outside (into the freezing snow) to do its jobbies; eating tons of food; and sleeping at night with just two quick excursions. So not bad. Also, it is enjoying exploring any room it enters, going round by the walls and under the furniture, and getting into the less frequented parts. This is turning up lots of fluff and bits and pieces that we haven’t seen for a while. It’s rather like having a free-range anti-static duster. If it ever stops still long enough, I’ll take a picture.

The Dog Listener

I’m also working hard on the psychology. The canine psychology, that is, with the Dog Listener, Jan Fennell. I’ve got a pile of books to read, and I think there’ll be an exam next week when Mrs D gets back from her shifts. The psychology makes a lot of sense, I have to say, working with the dog as still, essentially, a pack animal descended from the wolf, rather than some sort of furry version of a human child. The idea is to establish that it is you, the human, the owner, who must be the leader of the pack. The four questions each dog owner should ask themselves every day are, apparently:

When the pack reunites after a separation, who is the boss? (Each time you come home)
When the pack goes on a hunt, who is going to lead them? (Each time you go for a walk)
When the pack eats its food, what order do they eat in? (You first, dog next)
When the pack is under attack, who is going to protect them? (That’s you as well)

I hope the SMD has read the same book. Nine days to puppydom.

Doggy Heaven

According to the literature, leaving mother and siblings is an immensely traumatic experience for the young puppy. If that’s the case, then the Small Manageable Dog will at least probably assume that after the trauma it has died and gone to heaven. The front porch is now half full of a massive dog crate, big enough for a St Bernard, which Mrs Demon found last week at the car boot sale. She came back triumphantly with not one, but two, crates. The other will fit in the car and on the boat. Since then she has been busy with the soft furnishings, and the crate is fitted out with a very beautiful set of bedding in lemon yellow with small blue flowers (What? Stop sniggering at the back there!) and there is a big bag of toys, chews, bowls, leads, collars, and pretty much everything else that a puppy could possibly ever think it might need, if it ever thought about it. Ten days to puppydom.

Viva Espaniel!

We can now reveal that as part of the Exit Strategy, we WILL be taking on a dog again, after twenty years without one, and that it WILL be the result of a union between a very sweet border terrier (mum)



and a wonderfully calm and obedient (though randy) working cocker spaniel (dad)



which has produced this delightful bunch ...



... one of whom will be joining us in a few weeks.

Combating Terrierism

Well the cuddly-wuddly puppy-wuppies are growing nicely (am I still looking at this clearly, I wonder?) We’ve been to see them, and it’s all being discussed with Mrs Demon and many friends and relations, and the decision is …. no, on second thoughts, I think you’ll have to wait until after Christmas to find out….

Meanwhile, three young men set out from the east, on a long journey to a far country, following the smell of food and the prospect of a washing machine, saying unto their father, “Pick us up from the station will you, dad?” And their father was troubled, for he had a lot to do, and privily called them on their mobiles, to enquire what time their train would appear. And behold, they came, and went into the house, and saw their mother, and fell down, and opened their treasures. Yes, the boys are back in town, and the consumption of lager and mince pies has increased accordingly. Good to have them around.

Up the creek without a poodle

Votes are flooding in, and I think the results will be tight (or maybe I'm just spinning the thing out??) I think I said patrimony the other night, when I meant paternity. Sorry. I've changed it now. Anyway, the latest is that the cocker's owner reckons they are dead ringers for his dog. We'll see. By the way, more dog puns than you ever thought possible at Les Barker's website, plus great poems, songs and a whole lot more! Go check it out now!

Dogspot

Thanks for the comments passed in a variety of media re the canine question. thanks to women friends and colleagues who pointed out that a small manageable dog that could also mend the computer and the car would be an unbeatable combination. We have another slight problem .... paternity. The working cocker might not be the father. It might be a collie. Or a labrador. When it comes to dogs, our curate has evidently not been fashioning her household after the example of Our Lord.

A small manageable dog

Since we are on our own together, I’ll let you in on a conversation between Mrs Demon and myself some time ago. Having been married for many years, I summoned up all my courage and asked, if I were to die first, if she would miss me. She thought about this for a few moments.

- Of course, she said eventually, but the dog would be a consolation.
-What dog? I said. We haven’t got a dog.
-Well, I thought I’d probably get a small manageable dog, she said.
-As a replacement? I said.
-Well, yes, kind of, she said.
-You think I can be replaced by a dog?
-Well not entirely, in every respect, of course!
-But some of my functions?
-Well, yes, I suppose so!
- A small manageable dog?
- Well, that’s what I thought.
-Can I meet the dog before I go?
-How do you mean?
-Well, can there be an overlap, a sort of handover period?
-I suppose so. I don’t see why not.
-And I’ll be able to help to train the dog?
-Well yes, I suppose so.

So that’s how it all ends. Replaced by a small manageable dog. How humiliating. And is that the period we are now entering? I feel fine. No health problems. But maybe Mrs D can see things I can’t. Is this the beginning of the end… ?

We have a problem here

So we have a problem here. The keen reader will remember the post about the cockapoos (can’t remember when, sometime in the summer, look it up). Well, following that glance back into the world of dog-owning, Mrs Demon laid down the following conditions before any dog-owning could even be considered:
- The dog must be female (more than enough men about the place)
- A cross between a border terrier and a working cocker spaniel sounds like an interesting combination.

So here’s the problem. The curate’s border terrier has just given birth to five puppies; three male, two female. They are border terrier and working cocker cross. They are cute, and I mean, cute. Mrs Demon knows that they have arrived, and will be back from work (cos she works away) in a couple of days. The noises she was making over the phone when I told her suggested to me that dog-ownership was a distinct possibility in the not-too-distant future.

I have found myself driving about today imagining how the day would have run with a dog in the back of the jeep. Okay, was the general conclusion. Any dog has to be good with boats and water, and borders are good boat dogs. But what about all the other stuff that goes with having a dog; the restrictions on travel, going away for a few days, etc?

Well, I think I know what is going to happen, but in the end you, the reader, must decide. The decision is yours, unless we don’t like it. If you think that we should get a dog, and it’ll mean I get out more, and do all that exercise that I should be doing, then vote YES. If you think it’s a crazy idea, and these days dog owners end up walking around with carrier bags full of poo, then vote NO. The number to ring is 0999 123 45678. Lines are open until midnight. Remember to ask the person who pays the bill before you dial. The cost of calls is astronomical, and we’ll make sure you can’t get through the first couple of times. I’ll pocket all the money and invest it in a couple of business opportunities I’ve heard about on the island of Sark. Or start my own hedge fund scam. Can’t decide which. Lines are open now.

Emergency! Which service do you require?

The call we must all prepare for but hope never comes came on Sunday afternoon. The snooker was just getting interesting, and the log fire was well banked up. I had a nice cup of tea and a piece of Battenberg cake beside me. Suddenly, the red phone on the coffee table began to ring and flash on and off. “Emergency!” I said, “Which service do you require?”

“Evensong!” said an anxious voice. “Now!” It was the curate. “Eh?” I said, “It’s six o’clock already, and it’s your turn!”

“No can do!” she panted, “The dog’s having her puppies!” she gasped, “Gotta get her to the vet! She needs a caesarean!”

“Leave it with me!” I said, and sprinted to the study where a cassock and surplice hang ready for just this eventuality. I grabbed a prayer book, stuck the flashing light on top of the car (the purple one, for Advent), and drove at top speed four miles through the freezing night. The noise of my pounding feet rang on the stones as I dashed up the church path, and reached the door.

“Let me through, I’m a vicar!” I said, to no-one in particular, but I’d always wanted to say it. The congregation of eight looked around, rather startled.

I arrived just in time. “You’ve arrived just in time!” said the churchwarden, “I’ve announced the first hymn!”

“Keep calm, everyone,” I said in my reassuring, measured tones, “Everything’s going to be OK.”