This could be one of the reasons ( muddy walks carrying little bags containing… ) why people who bought puppies during Lockdown are now getting fed up with them. Ironically, while shelters fill up with unwanted dogs, people who want to keep their pampered ( and expensive ) pets are having them stolen, because of the increasing demand for dogs during lockdown. If the dog thieves could be persuaded to only steal unwanted dogs…
Fed up with bad news and endless media discussions about That interview? You too can start your own lively debates on social media, you don’t have to be famous or important and you certainly don’t have to be clever. Here are some suggestions for Facebook, Instagram or wherever you like to waste your time; one picture or casual remark is guaranteed to get hundreds of comments, mostly negative.
Post a picture of the worst pub you can find in your area and ask what the food is like in there. Comments will flow about the time they had food poisoning while others will respond angrily and rave about the great atmosphere.
Name a popular restaurant in your area which is busy keeping everyone happy with home delivery take-aways and post a picture of the rat you saw scurrying out of their kitchen. This doesn’t have to be true, this is social media after all.
Post a completely innocent picture and relate the story told to you about your neighbour’s sister’s friend whose daughter was out walking her dog and saw someone suspicious talking to dog owners. Well done; you have started wildfire rumours that dognappers are targeting your town.
Tell everyone you are moving to the area and can they recommend a good doctors’ surgery.
We just had a new extension built by W. R. Ecking, we’re not too happy with the result, has anyone else had work done by them?
Post a picture of your dinner and wait for vegans and the ‘Save our Haggis Society’ to start arguing with meat lovers and issue you with death threats.
I may not be a medical person, but I can help those who are, make life easier for them. We’re only taking the children of key workers now, but we’ve extended our hours. They work long hours, so do we. My staff are super committed, they love their job.
Yes we are seeing a lot of anxiety among those we care for, they are sensitive to the tensions at home. They know life is not normal at present, we give them plenty of one-to-one attention. We give them individual balanced diets and plenty of fresh air and exercise. Our aim is to socialise them within their bubble groups and we have a full programme of activities and rest periods. They love the outdoor adventure playground and the indoor fun gym.
Yes we are fortunate to have this beautiful setting at Sunshine Valley. No not at all, the price reflects the cost of running an establishment like this, the high staff ratio and the excellent staff qualifications; but there is a discount for NHS. Well, all my employees are professional dog walkers and I have a degree in dog psychology. You can tell your listeners their Fur Babies will be totally safe with us at Sunny Valley Doggy Day Care.
Today I welcome another of the occasional guest blogs written by my sister in Australia. This time she reflects on an unusual find near a country town in Western Australia.
A Tribute to Those That We Love by Kate Doswell
It could be mistaken for the dog that sat on the tucker box, 5 miles from Gundagai, but instead, it was a dog sitting on a small concrete plinth, 5 km from Corrigin. Corrigin is a small wheatbelt town, population 800 or so, 230 km south east of Perth in Western Australia, and the red kelpie dog immortalised in stone was guarding the entrance to the Corrigin dog cemetery.
My visit to Corrigin was nothing to do with dogs, but I couldn’t resist stopping and having a look around. It was quite large and surprisingly well kept, considering it seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. It was surrounded by the flat dun paddocks and the dry stubble of harvested crops, and only a blur on the skyline to suggest the presence of a town.
The ground around the graves was dry and sandy, with hardly any living green, but all the graves were well tended and each was utterly distinct. The owners of these beloved dogs had used imagination and care in designing the graves, and it gave some sense of the stories that lay behind their pets’ lives with the family, and there was no doubt they were family members and friends.
A black poodle statue with surprised eyes sat on a bed of stones, and the plaque told me she had lived for 14 years. Poor Rusty had died the day after his 10th birthday, and his grave was a simple oblong, surrounded by the railings that I had often seen around human graves for those of a higher standing in the community.
The one that touched me most was that of Dexter, who had a cross formed from bricks laid on a simple slab, with a clay scroll into which a child had carved “Dexter – A dog who is missed Heaps”. It was sad to see a little stuffed puppy sitting on the grave as well, and I wondered if this had been Dexter’s favourite toy.
One dog’s family had improvised with a brass fire screen with a scene of Pointers out hunting. There was no doubt that the image on the next grave was of the dog itself, a hand painted china plate with a picture of the dog and words telling of the wonderful companionship he had given for 15 years.
There was even a multi-story grave that housed 3 successive dogs. Some people cannot face the idea of having another dog when the one they have loved for years dies, but I think most people recognise that each dog is loved for his or her own original personality. A point for writers – one of my teachers firmly instructed me that the animals in my stories (usually – well OK – always, about dogs or horses) should be referred to as it, rather than he or she. I have never been able to comply, as I know they are living, breathing personalities who deserve to be recognised as such. Maybe there would be less cruelty if we could all see them in that way, rather than as objects or commodities.
Looking around this cemetery, there can be no doubt that many people see dogs as valuable and much loved members of our families; companions, helpers, protectors and comforters. This cemetery started as one man burying his dog in the 1970s, then others from Corrigin joined him in laying their dogs to rest. Over the years it has attracted the interest of people from far afield who want a permanent memorial to their companion. So it isn’t just the people of Corrigin who feel so strongly about their animals, though this IS the town that set the record for the most number of “Dogs in Utes” – a parade of 1,527 utes ( Aussie abbreviation for utility, any vehicle with an open cargo area at the rear, which would be called a pickup truck in other countries ) each with a barking, tail wagging dog in the back.
We all have our own ways of remembering those that we love. Personally, I have never felt the need to have something tangible to remind me of a loved one – I have lost 3 dogs, and each have been cremated. I have never wanted an urn with their ashes in, though I understand and respect those that do. With my last dog, a close friend came with me to the veterinary surgery for that final visit, as she had looked after my dog many times when I worked away and loved her as much as I did. When they asked me if I wanted to keep the ashes, I shook my head, but as I did I noticed the look of dismay on her face. “Would you like them?” I asked her and she said yes. I was happy for her to have them, I could think of no better person to keep them.
I have recently lost my Mother. She was 94 yrs old and she had lived close by for many years, so it was sad to have to say goodbye. This Sunday her ashes will be placed in the memorial garden at our church, next to my Father’s ashes. There are no plaques, simply a book inside the church with the names of all those who are in the garden. When I think of my father, I don’t think of the garden, I think of the furniture he built, the advice he gave me, the funny things he said. Likewise with my mother, it is and will continue to be, the memories of all the times we had together, the laughs we shared, and the problems we talked over. It doesn’t matter whether we have a grave to visit, a plaque, or nothing solid to see. The important thing is that we remember our loved ones, human or animal. I wonder if our animals remember us after we’ve gone?
Sam spotted her locking up her bike, hoping she was coming to the meeting, wondering if she would remember him. Two of his team had dropped out already, he didn’t imagine they had anywhere better to be on a Friday afternoon, but that’s the way it was; some homeless people didn’t like being organised and they didn’t like talking. He couldn’t remember her name, despite making such an impression on him. Katie, no, perhaps the earnest facilitator would say her name. He whistled to Sheba who helpfully rounded up his new charge, a snappy terrier mix the elderly owner claimed was a Jack Russell. He would have to keep her on a tight lead at the meeting.
Cassie removed her cycle helmet, took her shoulder bag out of the panier, stretched her back, stepped onto the path and nearly tripped over a little dog.
‘Sorry.’ Why was she apologising to a dog?
‘Bella, come here…’ a man’s voice called.
Bella! Maybe she was pretty as a puppy. Cassie regained her balance and carried along the path, wondering how today’s meeting would be. One of the others from work couldn’t come, he was actually back in the office so had a good excuse. All the more reason for Cassie to feel she should attend, even though James had suggested a trip over on the ferry and lunch outside a waterside pub.
She was aware of someone behind her, in these days of pandemic it wasn’t just women in dark lonely places who were nervous of strangers, anyone who took the virus seriously did not want people breathing near them. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a man on the grass, giving her plenty of space on the path.
‘I’m so sorry, the dog, not mine, exercising her for an old lady. You don’t recognise me, do you?’
When a shaggy dog bounded up she realised who it was.
‘Sam, oh sorry, haircut and wrong dog.’
‘No wonder you’re confused, you are going to the meeting again?’
‘Yes, yes, I’m a bit worried as one of my team can’t come and it was my company that started this in the first place.’
He laughed. ‘Two of my team are missing, not as if they had anything better to do, hope we don’t get told off.’
‘She is a bit serious isn’t she.’
Cassie smiled to herself. Sam brushed up well with his neat haircut and she found herself glad he was going to be there. Perhaps a reflection on her lack of a social life, no that was a condescending thought, Sam was as worthy of sharing her afternoon as James and probably more interesting.
‘You must like dogs a lot Sam.’
‘I like Sheba, not too enamoured with this one, but the lady who is fostering Sheba while I’m in the hotel suggested I get into dog walking, might be an earner.’
‘Oh yes, it was big business where I was in London, some walkers even had their own doggy mini buses.’
He looked crestfallen.
‘Oh I’m sure most dog walkers just have strong leads and a good supply of those plastic bags… hmm rather you than me.’
‘That is a downside, but I’ve seen worse in my life.’
‘Of course, I mean er…’
He smiled in a way that suggested he was worried about embarrassing her, rather than the other way round. ‘Hey, what was pre Covid stays pre Covid, new haircut, new man. That’s what I liked about the group, not dwelling, just looking for solutions, looking to the future.’
‘Will you still sell the Big Issue?’
‘Yes, I just started again, over the water is my pitch, small town, but no other sellers around. Trouble is, people haven’t really started coming out much, I need more strings to my bow.’
‘People going back to work – lonely dogs, people isolating – bored dogs, yes I’m sure there will be customers out there.’
That’s what Sam liked about Carol, no that wasn’t her name, anyway she was easy to talk to and positive. She was pretty in a quirky sort of way, not that she could ever be more than a friend, what clever career woman would want to go out with a homeless chap. Besides, she was probably married, children, teenagers even, hard to say how old she was, his age, younger… Still, it was good to have a nice sensible adult to talk to, though he would not mention the fact that he was likely to have to leave the hotel next week with no idea where to go. It was unlikely that well intentioned meetings could come up with solutions quickly.
They were all greeted by name by the earnest facilitator who seemed relieved that anyone had turned up again. Cassie, of course, why hadn’t he remembered that was her name. He smiled at Cassie across the six foot gap between their folding chairs, but was jolted out of his relaxed state by a familiar grating voice. Lindy, one of the other homeless staying at the hotel, Lindy who loved talking, Lindy who he tried to avoid.
She did not wait to be introduced but launched straight into her spiel.
‘So can your company, PMJ…’
‘MPJ’ Cassie tried to interrupt.
‘…JPM really help? I’ve been here before, talk, talk, talk then you all go back to your comfortable homes.’
Sam felt his stomach clench, mortified for Cassie, most people weren’t given life on a plate, what did Lindy know about Cassie and her colleague. He managed to catch her eye and wink, did she smile back or was she just cringing. For a moment he closed his eyes, imagining going over, clasping her hand and taking her away… but Lindy was still talking.
‘… and then there’s poor old Sam, gotta leave the hotel next week, can’t chuck me out yet, cos I’m a woman…’
Sam kept his eyes closed, could he ever really move forward?
One of my New Year resolutions has been broken already, on the second of January; to cook dinner on time. As Cyberspouse had cooked dinner on the first of January this was a record failure to keep a resolution. Another resolution failed; to go to bed earlier, as opposed to early in the morning. The most obvious excuse is that I have been kidnapped by aliens, my memory wiped so I have no recollection of hours stolen.
This picture cannot be taken as an accurate representation of dinner ChezTidalscribe.
Or it might just be that I was busy keeping up with that other New Year favourite with writers and bloggers – GOALS. Some bloggers have blogfuls of goals, while the rest of us are just trying to keep up with self imposed targets of writing blogs and interacting with other bloggers.
I did fulfil one big goal I set myself in January 2019 – finish my novel. Not too difficult as I had been writing it for *** years. The ‘final manuscript’ was finished in July so I’m not sure what happened between then and November.
Perhaps goals are easier to attain than resolutions, the latter implies a bit of soul searching. You can have a goal to eat less meat, but you will need a resolution to become a vegan, especially now it is officially a philosophy. Ethical veganism is a “philosophical belief” and so is protected in law, a tribunal has ruled for the first time. It makes my resolution to just cook dinner on time seem more attainable.
https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-50981359
I can do it when we have visitors; there is a good incentive to have a meal ready so adults don’t stay too late and little children don’t get hungry and grumpy or tired and grumpy and can be put to bed on time.
What are some other attainable goals writers and normal people can aspire to?
Look into joining a gym – this is much cheaper than actually joining a gym and only going once.
Take advantage of goals set by others. Use less plastic. Sainsbury’s supermarket has now dispensed with those annoying flimsy plastic bags, that I could never open, for their loose fruit and veg. Now you must take your own containers or buy some netting bags.
Start a novel, much easier than finishing one.
Go to bed at a reasonable time; taking your lap top with you because you have a bad cough and need to sit propped up in bed.
Cook meals from scratch. Avoid buying any food in plastic packaging and you will find yourself cooking from scratch…
Cut down on computer time – buy a puppy of a large energetic breed or acquire an energetic human toddler. You will spend lots more time outside, off line AND get plenty of exercise, so no need to even look into joining a gym.
Cheat – Blog about running or cycling twenty miles a day, post a few pictures you took while parked at that scenic viewpoint… we will never know it’s not true.
Have you bothered with resolutions or set any goals?
‘Good morning Marjorie.’
‘Good heavens Sally, what are you doing out on the common?’
Her question was soon answered when a young Springer Spaniel came bounding up.
‘I’m stepping outside my comfort zone, as Harrison would say, puppy sitting for my neighbour; there’s a triumph of contradiction for you, this canine delinquent is going to be the spearhead of counter terrorism.’
Marjorie laughed, their homework for Harrison Tenby’s U3A Philosophy class was an essay entitled ‘The Triumph of Contradiction’; his pupils were even more confused than usual.
‘Greetings Brian, how’s Jack today… oh what happened to your finger?’
‘Just a little bite.’
‘So Jack’s bitten the hand that feeds him’ said Sally.
Brian fostered dogs for Waggy Tails charity, tales of his charges made light relief during the coffee break at their philosophy class. The other dogs had found good homes, but Jack, a bad tempered mix of the worst characteristics of several breeds, had not yet been successfully placed; every few weeks he would say I’ve got Jack back.
Brian ignored her remark. ‘What brings you out in the wilds Sally?’
‘Next door neighbour’s doing jury service, she told them she was puppy walking for the police, but that doesn’t count as an excuse; I hope it won’t turn into one of those cases that goes on for months.’ As she spoke she realised Barney the Springer Spaniel was nowhere to be seen.
‘Don’t panic,’ said Brian getting out his mobile phone ‘we’ll alert Dog Watch.’
‘Seek’ barked Marjorie, sending her well behaved Labrador off into a nearby copse.
At last, when muddy paws landed on Sally’s knees, she was so glad to see her charge back again she didn’t worry about her trousers.
‘Time for a rest,’ said Brian ‘I’ll buy the first round.’
‘Oh, are we off to the pub?’ said Sally.
‘No, hot chocolate, Bob’s van by the education centre and toilets, we always stop there. We can talk about our homework.’
With the dogs safely tied up the three humans relaxed on the splintery wooden seats.
‘Dogs,’ said Marjorie ‘how can an article about dogs be philosophical?’
Sally put her case. ‘Thousands of years ago a few wolves, probably the runts of the litter, not the leaders of the pack, made a lifestyle decision to throw in their lot with humans. A supply of scraps and the warmth of the campfire in exchange for being on 24 hour alert for sabre tooth tigers and woolly rhinoceri. Thus started a uniquely complex and contradictory relationship of trust and betrayal. Now our so called best friend expects us to feed and cosset him, while disdainfully leaving his mess for us to pick up and occasionally eating our children.’ She smiled as her friends rose to the bait.
‘Far more people harm dogs than the other way round’ bristled Marjorie.
‘Yes and we abuse them in a variety of ways, messing around with their breeding to amuse ourselves, so a huge mountain dog picks up a ridiculous ball of fluff, not even knowing it’s a fellow dog. But they bear us no grudge and happily put their lives in danger, like Barney’s going to do, sniffing out explosives.’
‘Or those assistance dogs who put on the washing machine and answer e-mails’ said Marjorie.
‘I think they tell you when the phone or door bell’s ringing if you’re deaf,’ said Brian ‘I don’t think they’re on line yet.’
‘But the principal’s the same,’ said Sally ‘they do it altruistically, no days off, no holidays, no time for their own interests. What stops them leaving, walking out the door?’
‘Guide dogs and sheep dogs,’ added Marjorie ‘so clever, pity Jack hasn’t found a career to keep him out of mischief.’ She bent down to bravely hug the mongrel straining at his lead. ‘Who’s a big useless lump then?’
The dog wagged his tail and Sally shuddered, but she was determined to get in a last word. ‘So if dogs are so intelligent, how come they haven’t learned to use toilets?’
‘Nor have some humans’ said Brian. ‘Anyway, I’m off, see you on Thursday, hope I don’t get told off for not doing my homework.’
But Brian wasn’t at the class on Thursday, Marjorie relayed the news to the rest of the class with relish.
‘He’s okay, just smoke inhalation, he thinks he must have fallen asleep doing his essay late and then his angle poise lamp tipped over on a pile of papers. The smoke alarm wasn’t working, Brian took the battery out, because the noise sent Jack into a frenzy if he burnt the toast, if Brian burnt the toast I mean. Anyway, if it wasn’t for Jack barking who knows what might have happened, he bit the hand of the fireman, but they wear gloves and Jack was only trying to protect Brian.’
After the excitement settled down, it turned out only Sally had done the homework.
‘Pompom’ called a shrill voice.
When did real dogs turn to toys wondered Vince as he trudged through the mud, conspicuous as the only human without a dog. The dogs skittering around two women did not match the environment, what happened to Labradors and Rottweilers? As if in answer, a large muddy dog, originally yellow, bounced playfully out of the bushes only to find itself attacked by a tiny ball of white cotton wool.
‘Pompom, naughty boy, heel.’
The Labrador’s owner laughed, so did Vince until the ball of fluff veered towards him, jumping up growling to snap at his ankle.
‘If he was an American Pit Bull,’ said Vince gruffly ‘you’d be in trouble with the police.’
The owner scooped up Pompom and marched away as if he had incited the attack.
The walking business, to avoid blood pressure tablets and type two diabetes, was proving to be worse than going to the gym. Vince’s life of crime had not involved exercise, he had had other people to do that for him. But he hated hospitals, so he had no alternative but alternative therapy.
He paused to avoid a large puddle and looked up to see a young man pushing a three wheeler cross country pram. Inside it was a miserable looking baby, but slung under the man’s arm was a baby sling with a fluffy white face poking cheerfully out.
‘It’s even muddier further along’ said Vince, imagining with relish the pram getting stuck and baby falling out.
‘I know,’ said the man cheerfully ‘we must be mad. Oh, you haven’t got a dog… this one’s getting on a bit so he can’t walk far.’
That was when Vince had his idea. Fluffy toys didn’t attack Vince the Mincer and get away with it.
On the internet that evening he looked up breeds of dogs, it turned out the mini monster cotton wool ball was actually a valuable breed. Vince looked up battery operated toys and ordered some ‘Fur Babies’ – barking, bouncing, battery operated toy dogs that looked remarkably realistic.
His daily two mile walks had a purpose now. Among the many mutant miniature wolves he encountered, Pompom was a regular, his owner had a strict routine, returning to the car park at the same time each day.
At the dog parlour he bought a National Trust green puppy sling.
Vince hid in the bushes, hoping no one would think he was a flasher. Did blokes do that any more, he wondered, or was it all on the internet? In five minutes Pompom should pass that way, trying to avoid having the lead attached to his diamond studded collar. For Pompom was a real dog at heart, who preferred puddles and fresh air to the pink Kar with its sticker ‘Precious Pet on board’.
Some ancestral lupine instinct stirred in little Pompom as Vince waved the dripping fresh raw meat. Within seconds he was in the bushes, within seconds he was bound in the puppy sling and Vince was switching on the battery operated Pompom doppelganger.
‘Pompom, here Pompom, Mummy’s got a treat for you.’
Vince remained motionless, one large hand clamped round Pompom’s tiny muzzle. He remained just long enough to see the toy dog trot obediently out of the bushes and the owner bend down to pick up him up. Her scream attracted the attention of other dog walkers and Vince slipped away.
At home, Pompom was in an old rabbit cage and Vince was wondering if he should put the dog on EBay or if a ransom demand would yield more money, or perhaps he could do both.
That night he taped a notice on the window of the little coffee kiosk in the car park.
FOUND – ADORABLE WHITE MINIATURE DOG.
IF YOU ARE THE FRANTIC OWNER
PLEASE PHONE THIS NUMBER…
Roger had enjoyed his exhilarating swim in the sea, but a breeze had sprung up and the others wanted to stroll through the gardens into town. They dodged other holiday makers, jumped over the rails onto the lawns and joined in a ball game with a group of teenagers. When they reached the square, someone suggested ice cream, but there was so much going on it was difficult to spot a kiosk. They weaved their way through shoppers and families, past a carousel, avoided a man singing out of tune and stared at a human statue, his gold skin glistening with sweat. They took in the exotic scents of the international food stalls, but as the sun reappeared from behind a cloud they still longed for ice cream.
It was at this moment that Roger saw her, blond hair, perfect figure, alluring expression, but as he edged closer, away from the others, he detected a cheap scent and wondered if the sun had affected his brain. Unlike the human statue who was real, she was lifelike, but lifeless, just a model. Then Roger had an idea, it would be a laugh, the others would certainly laugh. He would pretend to believe she was real. Close up, her unblinking soulful brown eyes gazed at him; he paused for a moment then commenced the game. His lips touched her soft neck and for a moment he could believe she was real.
Everything seemed to happen at once; Lucy watched her boyfriend and brother approaching, laden with ice creams, her little sister waved from the carousel, she heard a man shouting, a child crying. It was at this moment she realised that if she wasn’t holding Roger’s lead, who was?
Geoffrey’s morning with the ‘Sponsor a Guide Dog’ stall had been more rewarding than anticipated. The cuddly life sized Labrador attracted more attention than a real dog. He had forgiven his mother for landing him with the task when he realised how many attractive young women, in skimpy holiday outfits, stopped to stroke ‘Cindy the Wonder Dog.’ It was while he was chatting to one of these young ladies that the commotion broke out; an enormous shaggy dog had seized the helpless Cindy by the throat and was shaking her with what could only be described as blood lust. Children were crying, stuffing was flying. This situation had not been covered by the guidelines for volunteers.
‘Roger, Roger, here boy… Daddy’s got you an ice cream…’
A young woman was shrieking at the dog, but he took no notice.
A curious crowd had circled round the now demolished stand, but parted like The Red Sea when the wild dog dashed for freedom, with the eviscerated, no longer cuddly Cindy in his jaws.
A young man made a grab for the trailing lead, but fell headlong in a splatter of ice cream. Suddenly the dog halted, dropped its prey, sniffed the air and returned, tail wagging, to lap up the ice cream.
Roger wagged his tail furiously, his friends had enjoyed the joke so much they had given him all their ice cream.
Times and Tides of a Beachwriter 