A Bertie-less walk...

As I mentioned in my last post, I haven't been feeling too great lately. (On Monday Gail thought I was getting better, but I haven't been wanting to eat, or do much at all these last couple of days and I'm told another vet visit may be in the offing).

So anyway, I would like to consult my readers on an important matter -  the appropriate behaviour to be expected of one's human carer when she (or indeed he) is faced with a poorly pup. I raise the question because, in my opinion, Gail's response to my indisposition has so far been less than satisfactory. Borderline unacceptable, in fact.

For example: We  journeyed over to Torridon late on Friday and I was still feeling a little queasy on Saturday morning so, after a brief sniff around the garden, I retreated to a comfy berth on the sofa.

I was imagining that Gail might stay beside me for the rest of the day, to mop my fevered brow and so forth. In retrospect, I guess I was mistaking her for a patient, caring person who might have considered nursing as a profession. That person is not Gail.

"Well Bertie, it's a beautiful sunny day, such as we rarely enjoy in these parts. It would be a shame for both of us to stay in, wouldn't it? Since you look quite settled, I think I'll leave you there on your own for a while and go for a walk along the coast. See you in a couple of hours or so. I'll tell you what, I'll take my camera so you'll have some pictures to put on your blog."

And off she went.

Let me tell you, I was all for refusing even to look at her photos, much less include them in this post. But then I was reminded that it is the EU 'in or out' vote in the UK this week, and that some readers - at least the British ones - might be anxious about the result, and would appreciate the opportunity to spend a few moments contemplating scenes from the UK of great beauty and tranquility, after all the ugliness of the referendum campaign.

But surely, people like to hear me bark?

This is so humiliating.

Gail has told me I have to hand over my blog to her today, 'cos she wants to consult my readers on a 'behavioural question'. At first I thought fine, as she does exhibit several behaviours that could be considered questionable. But then it turns out that it is my behaviour that is at issue, and that treats will be withheld unless I comply with her 'request'....

Thank you Bertie!


Readers, I know that many of you are more experienced dog owners than I am, and I'm wondering if you have any helpful suggestions to deal with a specific, irritating trait of Bertie's that I have so far had no success in modifying.


Although wire-haired fox terriers are known as enthusiastic barkers, in most circumstances - in the house, at night, out on walks, in the car - Bertie is a relatively quiet dog. There is one notable exception to this. Whenever Bertie runs out unsupervised into my back garden, he barks his little head off. Often the barking is triggered by hearing another neighbourhood dog, but sometimes it seems he is trying to initiate the conversation. Once started, he will not stop unless I intervene. I have tried (for as long as I can stand) leaving him to wear himself out. I have tried telling him "NO BARKING" in my most severe voice. I have tried bringing him inside and 'sin binning' him in my downstairs toilet for quarter of an hour as soon as he starts up (a tactic which worked a treat with other annoying puppyish behaviours like persistent ankle chewing...) I have tried rushing out with a reward on the rare occasions when he goes into the garden and remains silent for a few minutes. But he will not learn.


I have a 'dog flap' in my back door. When my old Westie, Hamish, lived here, I would allow him access to the garden through the flap as and when he wished, which was especially useful if I was out for long periods. With all the barking, I don't feel I can use this system for Bertie, if I want to remain on good terms with my neighbours. 


For the past two years, since Bertie arrived on the scene, I have been working mostly at home, but next week I start a new office-based job, initially two days a week, then, from August onwards, four days a week. Fortunately the main office is only a ten minute walk from home (or a five minute bike ride), so I shall often be able to nip back at lunchtime, and when this isn't possible I can arrange for Bertie to be taken out. But, obviously, it would be handy for me, and better for Bertie, if he could run in and out of the garden as he pleases while I am away at work. 


One more perhaps relevant detail. My inner city garden is enclosed by 4ft granite wall, which Bertie cannot see over. 


Anyway, I'd be delighted to hear any ideas on how I might persuade Bertie to break this barking habit and use the garden quietly. Bertie has never, to date, shown signs of separation anxieties, and overall seems a happy, confident wee chap, so I am optimistic that he will generally cope OK with not seeing quite so much of me. 


Cheers!
Gail. 

Nature red in tooth and claw...

Scientists are always arguing about Nature versus Nurture.

One of the things you have to put up with if you live in a scientific household is that your human is endlessly speculating about the origins of your behaviour.

Take toys for example. Just something to play with, right? Some are more fun than others, end of story?

Oh but no.

You see I have this great little mouse (or is it a hamster?) It was given me by a lovely lady called Diane. I have lots of wonderful toys but this one's my absolute favourite. It's all brown and fluffy and if you pull the tail it vibrates as it scoots across the floor. If I'm quick I can catch it in my mouth mid scoot, and after a few seconds the vibrations cease. I find this immensely enjoyable.

So of course there has to be a theory about why I like this toy best. A certain person, a friend of Gail's whom we shall call 'Rhoderick' ('cos that's his name) put forward the idea that when the vibration stops, it's as if the animal has died, and the reason I like the mouse is that it satisfies some primal urge to kill. An urge not otherwise satisfied if one's food supply comes in the form of dried pellets out of a packet labelled 'Burns Mini Bites'.

Well I wonder what you think about this hypothesis?

Should I be insulted by the implication that I may not be quite as sweet and innocent as I sometimes appear?

Or should I be proud of my killer instincts?

[By the way, for this blog post, Gail wanted me to pose for a photo with the mouse in my mouth, dripping tomato ketchup, but I vetoed the plan on grounds of bad taste. Aren't you glad?]

Smelling of roses?

It's a thorny issue isn't it? How to avoid being defined by one's worst moments. (I think Bill Clinton has faced the same problem).

You know, I was SO well behaved for so much of the time on my trip down to Nottingham to stay with Gail's Mum and Dad. Impeccably well behaved, you might say.

There were no 'accidents' leaving marks on the carpet. At least not from me. (A certain person did drop a glass of red wine but that's another story).

Neither did my teeth leave any marks on the shins of my dearest human grandparents. Or on their hands or wrists.

I settled down happily at night in my cosy corner of the utility room, never making a noise or fuss. Of course it helped that I was given my first ever proper bone.

Even though I quickly spotted a hole in the hedge, I never once tried to escape from the garden into the neighbours. (The garden is too nice for that).

There was no hint of car sickness, despite the fact that we drove over a thousand miles.

The white Nottingham lace table cloth remained jam free.......

I performed all my puppy school lessons and Granny was impressed. She's a great believer in education.

So what ever could have gone wrong, I hear you ask?

Well, you know what it's like when someone invades your personal space? I mean, don't tell me, you humans, that you haven't stood in a queue at an airport and spotted some blimp-shaped traveller just in front of you and prayed that you won't be sat next to them?

I had always thought that the rear of Gail's Mini was my domain and mine alone. But then, last Friday, Gail decided we all would go on an outing to Newstead Abbey (ancestral home of poet Lord Byron). It's only a twenty minute drive. So I would travel in the back as usual, and all three humans could fit in the front surely? They're thin, not blimp-like, after all. And these new Minis are much bigger than the originals.

Well. Just imagine my horror when human Granny, despite her arthritic limbs, bent herself into the rear of the car and sat down beside me (I was in my crate). I can tell you, I voiced my disapproval of the arrangement VERY loudly. And yes I can keep going at full volume for twenty minutes, no problem.

Is there something about sound reverberating in a confined space? Human Grandad was sat in front of me in the passenger seat and I guess my mouth was only a few inches from his ear. When we arrived at the Newstead car park he was all dizzy and confused. Gail led me away from him and gave me a right old ticking off.

Luckily, Human Grandad recovered enough for a walk round the Abbey gardens. Just in case he should be starting to doubt the benefits of canine companionship, I took him over to see Lord Byron's monument to his beloved dog, a Newfoundland called Boatswain. On the monument is inscribed Byron's famous epitaph:

NEAR this spot

Are deposited the Remains

of one

Who possessed Beauty

Without Vanity,

Strength without Insolence,

Courage without Ferocity,

And all the Virtues of Man

Without his vices.

This Praise, which would be unmeaning flattery

If inscribed over human ashes,

Is but a just tribute to the memory of

"Boatswain", a Dog

Who was born at Newfoundland,

May, 1803,

And died at Newstead Abbey

Nov. 18, 1808.

But do you know, I don't think, that particular afternoon, that Gail's Dad was quite in agreement with Byron.

What do think will be remembered of my first trip to Nottingham?

Do you think I came out smelling of roses?

Can I confide in you please?

Oh I have been getting so many lectures this week.

"Now Bertie, you won't be doing that when we visit Granny and Grandad's will you?"

"Bertie you must remember to be very quiet because my father just hates yappy dogs."

"Bertie you must realise that the human grandparents aren't used to puppies and they won't understand the difference between a friendly nibble and a nasty bite."

"Bertie, your Granny won't want her pale coloured summer trousers decorated with a pattern of muddy paws."

"Bertie, if you see a plate of scones temptingly laid out on a lace tablecloth*, DON'T YOU DARE GO ANYWHERE NEAR!"

And finally:

"Bertie, when we're in Nottingham, I am afraid that we won't be able to devote much time to your blog, so you'd better warn your pals that they may not be hearing much from you over the next week or so".

So I admit I am just a little apprehensive about this visit down south to England.

We head off later today. Wish me luck!

*Reference to a notorious incident...

In defence of my record at puppy class...

It has come to my attention that Gail has been going around saying some very unfair things about my behaviour in puppy class.

Now is the time to set the record straight! Let me make clear the following points:

1. Unlike EVERY SINGLE OTHER DOG IN THE CLASS I have never pee'd or poo'd on the floor of the scout hut where we meet every Thursday evening.

2. I am really quite co-operative at doing stupid exercises like weaving between poles, despite the fact that, being of superior intelligence, and unlike certain other dogs present, I fully recognise that these things are totally pointless.

3. Provided that my mouth is continually crammed full of tasty treats, so that I have no teeth free to bite at other dogs or their handlers, I behave impeccably.

4. That Daisy Dachshund needs to learn that some dogs find her very irritating and I think I am providing her with valuable life lessons, at no extra charge.

5. It is my understanding that teachers like kids who will speak up in class, and I am SO MUCH BETTER at doing this than the other puppies.

6. Obviously, I am the favourite of Mr and Mrs Munro, who run the class. Why else would I, more than any other pup, be so often singled out for their special attention, scooped up and cuddled very tightly in their arms, etc. etc.

7. Last but not least, taking me to puppy class has surely given Gail (who, I believe, was herself a bit of a goody two-shoes at school), new insight into a different approach to the learning process...

And all this despite still no black pudding.

PS Why oh why oh why did I ever allow myself to be persuaded to support the ENGLAND football team...........??