Fame at last
Well, an exciting day yesterday. I finally got to put my new hairdo (now sadly looking more stringy than swingy but hey, it’s been a few weeks) and fab nails to use when we were visited by.. a camera crew! I know, I can hardly believe it myself! They were filming a programme to air alongside the Irish greyhound racing about J and the wonderful work she does in rehoming retired greyhounds. She asked if we would be interviewed about how it’s been adopting an ex-racer and we were happy to oblige. Hilariously, J convinced #1 that it’s standard Irish telly procedure to curl your lashes and add copious amounts of rouge, so he was well relieved when no-one came near him with a make-up bag.
It really is the most bizarre situation and it’s totally impossibly to ‘act natural’ while there’s four billion watts of lighting dazzling you and the man with the camera pointed straight at your face. I have to say though, they were such lovely people and they made it really easy for us. In any case, it was B that was the star of the show, and they got some great film after hiding pieces of biscuit in and around #1 and #2′s clothes, then letting B loose to forage for it. Much tickling and laughter ensued and I bet it will look lovely. Let’s face it, if it persuades even one person to adopt a greyhound then it will be worthwhile.
I don’t think I was a natural interviewee. I rather tend to talk a lot and very fast when I’m nervous and I also stumble over my words, so a couple of times I had to go all showbiz and say ‘sorry, could we do that again’ which was just cringe-making! The whole thing took a few hours and was quite full on, so when Hubby came home having missed all the fun, I was slumped dramatically on the sofa with a G&T and actually got to say ‘Darling, I’m exhausted..I’ve been filming ALL day’, which was worth it just for that.
Back to reality, B discovered that the beanbag can be quite a comfy place and with much wiggling and rustling she settled in for the evening. Bit of a problem getting out again with all those long spindly legs, but that just gave her an excuse not to move. Stardom and a comfy beanbag all in one day? Doggy heaven.
Ups and Downs
I realise I’m in a pretty privileged position living here. I have the luxury of being able to stay at home with my two boys and our lovely new doggy and this is in no small part due to my hubby who is not only disgustingly clever, but has managed to channel that cleverness into a job which he loves with a passion. Now I know everyone’s different and you’ll always get people to whom my life would be so dull it would be suicide-inducing, and I totally respect that. I sometimes wish that I, like Hubby, had always had a yearning to do a specific thing and managed to fulfil my dream, but in my advancing years (!) I’ve actually become quite relaxed and realised that what I like to do is what I do here, every day, and I’m very thankful for it.
No idea where it came from. So, now I’ve got that off my chest — I’ll tell you about yesterday. First thing I went to the dentist and finally had that awful-tasting clove dressing removed. The down side is that it’s such a big filling he really thought that a white filling wouldn’t be suitable, so I’ve had to have an amalgam one. It’s such a relief to get it done I’m not bothered what colour it is frankly, but I’ve still got to wait another week to let it harden fully until I can really chew on it to test it out. When we came back, #2 and I took B for a walk. We turned right down the drive for a change, and very nice it was too. There were massive heifers in the field who came straight over when we walked by and proceeded to follow us all the way down the lane. It’s actually a bit disconcerting to be walking along knowing that 30 bloody great cows are tiptoeing along behind you playing ‘what’s the time, Mr Wolf’, but we tried to ignore them. At the end of the lane we discovered some barns and farm buildings and also a very spooky derelict building which I think will prompt further investigation at another time (when Hubby’s there for backup). B surprised us by taking no notice of the bunnies running across the lane in front of us, in fact, we wondered whether her eyesight’s a bit dodgy as she seemed to notice them ages after we did. She did nearly pull my arm out of its socket when she finally spotted one, but generally she enjoyed herself sniffing and rootling in the hedgerow and sticking her tongue out at the cows.
When we came home I went all Stepford Wives and decided to make an apple and blueberry pie. Good old Jamie Oliver provided the recipe and, not having made pastry many times before, I thoroughly enjoyed myself rubbing in flour and rolling out. I even decorated the finished article with little pastry leaves. Sad. I also roasted a big fat chicken from the lovely butcher and when Hubby came home we sat down to a big family dinner while B sat in her bed moaning at the unfairness of it all. Imbued with a sense of wellbeing and unable to stagger much further than the lounge, we all collapsed and had a big family argument in the shape of a game of scrabble. We all love scrabble, but it makes me really cross as all the others try to put the most ridiculous words down and then argue when they’re not allowed. B slept happily with her head on Hubby’s legs during all this mayhem (having had some chicken with her dinner), occasionally making us all gag (she’s got a bit of wind) then opening one eye as if to say ‘what’s the problem?’.
This picture of domestic bliss was then well and truly shattered when I got up to go to the loo, left the door open, and B decided to hop up onto the work surface and steal the other half of the chicken, breaking the plate in the process. I shrieked, Hubby yelled at me, and the game of scrabble was abandoned while I picked up splattered chicken and small shards of Denby from a rather large area of kitchen floor. I would have won anyway.
Language Difficulties
The vet was American, which made a nice change. I’m rubbish at accents. I can hardly understand Irish people, let alone anyone else. I think I’ve spent more time saying ‘pardon?’ here than I have saying anything else. And don’t think just because we speak the same language that we speak the same language, if you see what I mean. For example, there’s a place round by the airport called Baroimhe. Now we’ve been referring to this place as ‘ba-roy-ma-hee’ as it sort of seemed right. Recently though, one of Hubby’s colleagues (barely suppressing his silly grin) informed us that the word is pronounced ‘ba-ree-va’. Go figure eh? Another puzzling term is a ‘yoke’. Yoke seems to mean anything, as in ‘pass me that yoke would you?’, rough translation being a thingy or whotnot, but it can even stretch to ‘his yoke’ as in his girlfriend. Mostly though, when referring to someone’s partner the term seems to be ‘yer man’, or ‘yer wan’ even if it’s a woman. Although sometimes ‘yer wan’ seems to be when you refer to your child. With me so far? Ah, yes, but then ‘yer man’ can also refer to any number of people, even those you don’t know, for example: ‘yer man in the bank told me about it’. One of hubby’s colleagues said to him that he’d heard from his mate, my dentist, that I’d been ‘giving out’ about a night out we’d been on. I immediately worried that I’d said too much, but then realised I didn’t know anyone so hadn’t said anything and had to ask hubby if I’d upset someone. Apparently not – ‘giving out’ just means talking, whereas I’d taken it to mean ‘giving it large’ which is completely different, in a Jamie Oliver ‘cor blimey’ kind of way. Another favourite of mine is ‘I’m after getting me one of those’ instead of I’d like to get one of those. Confusing I’m sure you’ll agree. I’m heartened though that when I talk to people in shops, they look at me as if I’ve just asked them for one of their ribs, so they obviously can’t understand me either. The lady in the vet actually laughed because I said ‘gosh’. Apparently she’d never heard a real person say it before.
Swearing is a whole different matter as well. #1 and #2 stared open mouthed when the lovely J from the greyhound rescue charity said that she couldn’t fecking believe something. But as I told you before, everyone says feck – even people on the telly. J says gobshite isn’t swearing either, but then she could just be having a really good joke at my expense. Actually, swearing here is really enjoyable – people say things like ‘HolyMaryMotherofJesus’ altogether like it’s one word. Beats bugger for originality.
The slight lack of communication with the nice Chinese torture girl in the nail bar the other day reminded me of the nice Lithuanian lady in the sandwich shop who had me and hubby stumped by asking if we wanted ‘wettis’. We conferred about what ‘wettis’ might be and obviously looked so puzzled that the nice Lithuanian lady had to wave a wet bit of Iceberg at us before the lightbulb moment ensued: ‘oh – do we want lettuce? Yes please!’. Actually we thought wettis should become a new word in our language, because it kind of implies the meaning of wet and lettuce without needing to say two words. Brilliant.
Vet
Ohhhh dear. Hubby is not amused. It’s kind of my fault and kind of B’s, but actually I’ll blame J the greyhound rescuer – J, if you’re reading – you’re a bad girl.
Let me explain..well, actually I won’t explain because I promised not to talk about dog poo any more, so I’ll skip the reason why and just tell you that B needed to go to the vet. Hubby had my car today because the exhaust has gone (sounds mighty fine actually – I feel like Michael Schumacher when I’m driving it) so I took B to the vet in the back of his car (you can see where this is going can’t you). Apart from a regrettable incident down the drive when a rabbit ran out in front of us and she jumped on to my lap to growl at it through my window, B was very appreciative of Hubby’s car – she went all the way there with her head stuck out the window, tongue flapping in the wind, smiling at all the other car drivers at the traffic lights and getting lots of admiring glances.
Well, the vet thought B was lovely. She was full of praise and reassured me that her poor little bald backside will grow furry once more, and she gave her an injection and checked her over. She also said that she needs her teeth doing, but that it can wait until she’s settled in a bit more as she’ll need a sedative. Coming out of the vet’s, we came face to face with a little Boston Terrier who reckoned herself a bit and growled ferociously at B. Happily, B rose above it and got her own back by stepping completely over the top of the little runt. That shut her up.
On the way back J called and we were having a lovely chat about the more bizarre aspects of greyhound ownership: the underwear stealing, the weird bark, the answering back and the blanket-attacking, then slowly but surely the conversation descended into one about poo and I was still laughing heartily (she’s a very funny lady) at one of her stories when we arrived back at the house.
Well I was enjoying our chat, as I always do, and B seemed quite happy in the back, so we carried on yabbering for quite a while. I did hop out to let the dog out of the car, but she was lying quite happily and didn’t seem to want to get out, so we finished off our chat and I headed inside.
Five minutes later and a furious Hubby discovered a rather large wet patch on the back seat of his Beamer. Oh dear. He’s out there now scrubbing away. I’ve just smiled sweetly at him through the window. Lucky I can’t lip read really.
Subliminal messaging
Well you’ll be pleased to know I had a little text conversation with J yesterday, and the stealing of undies is apparently quite normal behaviour for a greyhound. Why the harvesting of people’s underwear should help you rocket round a track at the speed of light is beyond me, but apparently its inbuilt behaviour. J confided that she worries her neighbours have the impression that her and C are right ravers, the amount of underwear that finds its way onto her front lawn.
Talking of worrying, Hubby and I did a bit of that ourselves last night. We’d had a few drinks (medicinal) and watched Love Island (Chris was evicted, a total travesty in my opinion), and decided to go to bed. We took the pocket rocket out for her late night walkies, which was very exciting as we have had two new visitors in the back garden recently in the shape of two beautiful young foxes. They were playing in the corner of the lawn and were just stunning. Their fur is a really bright gingery orange, and as they’re still young, they haven’t yet got that scrawny look of an older fox, looking kind of pert and..well..foxy.
So..plenty of nice foxy smells for B to investigate, then Hubby mentioned that B had not done a..er..number 2 (not to be confused with son #2 obviously) since her dinner. This started us worrying that she was about to be locked up all night with a rather full stomach, so we decided to try and persuade her. Not being dog people we weren’t at all sure how you get a dog to ‘go’, but we wondered whether she was a bit shy with us watching her, so we turned out backs and let her alone in case she had a bit of performance anxiety. This was a problem because it was dark and we needed to keep an eye on her, so then we tried a bit of ‘subliminal messaging’. This was basically in the form of a really loud, giggly conversation which went something like ‘I did a really big poo yesterday, did I tell you?’, followed by ‘no, really? I bet it wasn’t as big as my big MASSIVE one that I did…nothing better than a big POO to make you feel better’ etc etc. As a strategy this was somewhat unsuccessful, not only because I’m sure the dog had no idea we were subliminally willing her to have a poo, and secondly because it ended up in an enormous bout of drunken hysterics, which she had to come over and check out to make sure we were both alright. So basically, we staggered off to bed and B went to her bed both full and somewhat confused. Funny things, humans.
Anyway, I’m pleased to report that she managed to wait til her walk with the real #2 this morning. I’m really going to have to start getting out more, a whole blog about my dog’s bowel movements is not going to entertain my readers..
Weird…
The most spoilt dog in the whole of Ireland is currently curled up on the beanbag with #2 son, her silky ears twitching as she obviously has a lovely, bunny-chasing dream. She took hubby and #2 for a drag around the field this morning. He also let her off the lead (I know I did too, but I learnt my lesson) and had to wait for half an hour until she’d finished rocketing backwards and forwards from one side of the field to the other like a large, furry pinball. Once again she came back though, which is surely more than a fluke?
I have noticed that she’s already absorbing some of the madness that is inherent with living in this household. She’s also started back-chatting, so she’s certainly fitting in well. My Mum, who has sadly gone home now, and who has no truck with this pampering of pets stuff, told B in no uncertain terms this morning that she would get fed after, and only after, she’d drunk her tea. B threw herself down on her blanket, muttering in an unbelievably sing-songy growl, which translated would surely be: ‘bloody hell, I’m starving, move your arse and make my breakfast woman’.
The bunnies, who have taken a severe knockback by B’s appearance, have regrouped, rallied and come up with a new plan. We found this out yesterday when B was on her bed by the large front windows and all of a sudden there was such an unholy row we wondered what the hell had happened. Rushing to her aid, we found that a couple of the bunnies thought it was very funny to parade on the front lawn, shamelessly goading poor old B, and waving their fluffy white bottoms in her direction. No amount of yowling, barking and hurling herself at the front door could stop their little games, and we did wonder whether the little devils were actually enjoying themselves. Bunnies 1, B nil.
B’s other worrying habit is tidiness. We’re not sure exactly why this strange behaviour is manifesting itself, and there seems to be no particular purpose in her tidying, but she seems to find it quite satisfying. Yesterday when I was in the bath, she sauntered in, picked up the bath mat and walked out with it. Okay, I thought to myself, I’ll just ignore it and see where this is going. Then she came back and picked up my undies, which had been discarded when I hopped into the bath, and walked out with those. This was slightly more worrying, but my Mum intercepted her in the hall with my knickers so no harm done. My favourite is when she picks up her blanket, gives it a good shake and a bite for good measure (‘grrrrrr, take that, bastard blanket’), then drops it again in exactly the same place. It must accomplish something, we’re just not sure what. Still, seeing as she’s the only one in the house who ever picks anything up, I’m happy to let her get on with it.
Harry Houdini
Hmm..we seem to have adopted Harry Houdini. #2 let B out for her morning constitutional (not using a lead, or keeping a very good eye on her it has to be said) and five seconds later she’d vanished. A quick scoot down the drive later and we could see her over the fence in the field, having a lovely play and probably totally ruining all our painstaking bandaging from the night before.
Let me try and explain the layout of our house: imagine if you will a large rectangle, which is the field, with a roughly square chunk out of it on one of the long sides, which is our house and garden. If you can imagine that, you will see that we are basically surrounded on three sides by the field, and although we are surrounded by bushes, and then by the electric fence, madame seems to be able to squeeze out of any tiny hole, limbo under the electric fence and bugger off to gambol about, chase rabbits and basically be disreputable on the other side, whilst blowing a hearty raspberry to all of us trying to chase after her. Happily, she lolloped up to #2, expecting him to join in her game and was a bit disappointed when he grabbed her collar and lead her home. Spoilsport. I’m kind of pleased that she’s easy to get back though – this indicates more a need for freedom and fun than a desperate desire to escape…I hope.
This, coupled with two puddles on the hall floor, has added up to a somewhat eventful morning. The other thing that’s odd is that greyhounds can’t sit. Well, I suppose physically they could, but they find it very uncomfortable. I suppose having hind legs shaped like chicken drumsticks makes for a rather uncomfy cushion, so they tend to stand or lie. Sometimes this inbetweeny bit between standing and lying takes a bit of effort, and we’ve had a couple of misunderstandings when she was wobbling herself into a horizontal position and we thought she was gearing up to decorate the carpet. I think she’s going to be somewhat damaged if every time she starts to sit down, someone yells ‘noooooo!’, grabs her and takes her out for a walk. It could all get rather exhausting. In fact, it’s all a bit psychological this dog-owning lark – J gave me lots of information about making sure we’re the pack-leader and she’s the…well, peasant basically. This includes feeding ourselves first, walking through doors first and generally keeping her in her place. Finally as my friend B (yes, B the person not B the dog who has been to Sweden and whose very funny and eternally upbeat emails I have missed greatly) informed me, I really shouldn’t bake biscuits every time the dog rushes off after a rabbit and cuts all her paws. After all, as she points out, self-harming shouldn’t be rewarded with carbs. This dog is definitely going to need therapy.
Bloodshed
When we got back, our little baby B was sleeping peacefully on her bed and I decided to treat her good behaviour with a female-bonding ramble round the field. I climbed over the fence and B limbo-ed under (difficult for B, her legs are rather long) and had a lovely sniff round all the rabbit holes. I even felt confident enough to let her off the lead. Just as I unclipped it though, a rabbit shot straight past us, and B was off like a rocket while I stood like a lemon wondering what the hell I had just done. It must have been a turbo-charged rabbit because she didn’t seem to be gaining on it, and after yelling my head off to try and get her back, I decided to carry on walking and hope she would eventually catch me up. I was quite glad I was on my own as my face was feeling a bit red and hot and I think I was just about to cry.
Luckily, the dog apparently has more brain than its owner and I shortly heard the distant rumble of greyhound upon pasture, and a rather knackered and cross-looking but thankfully rabbit-less B appeared by my side. After that fright I decided enough was enough, clipped the lead on and returned to the house. This time at the fence, however, there was no graceful limbo. B just sat there with a very stubborn look on her face and refused to limbo. Swearing and once again about to cry (I know, I’m a big girl) I tied her to the gate, stomped back to the house, got the key to the fence and walked back. I unlocked the padlock and then swore like a trooper for ten minutes as I tried unsuccessfully to budge the heavy bolt across. I finally gave up and with no amount of cajoling working to persuade her to come back under the fence, we had to walk right round the field to the other side of the house where I finally persuaded her under a higher bit of fence there.
When we got back in, I grabbed a towel and had started to rub her dry when Mum came in and said ‘God, is that blood?’ To my horror we noticed that her back leg was dripping blood. On further inspection, all four of her feet were bleeding. Greyhounds seem to have a little fleshy pad that looks kind of like it would be the heel of the hand. She’d managed to cut two of them, and had two other grazes on her paws. She was so good while we bathed and inspected her paws, standing patiently with one paw raised and never once crying or wincing. Luckily, after a bit of pressure, the worst one stopped bleeding and the others didn’t seem too bad. I felt terrible though, and had to knock up a batch of biscuits to make myself feel better (of course B was the grateful recipient of the first one – don’t tell Hubby).
Feeling like a total failure as a dog owner I called J from the greyhound rehoming charity for some therapy. I couldn’t work out how she’d cut herself but figured maybe the field was very uneven seeing as it sometimes contains cows. J was her usual patient, reassuring self and made me feel slightly better, saying that when greyhounds have been exercising, the tiniest cut will bleed a lot. There’s no excuse though, as J had told us before that greyhounds do have quite delicate feet (they race on soft sand) and I should really have thought about the field being too rutted. I do think I was a bit enthusiastic in my new dog-owner role. I have this vision of striding round the field in my Barbour jacket and Hunter wellies while my faithful hound trots at my side (or in B’s case, runs complete laps of the field and shouts ‘loooooooser‘ from the other side while I puff after her).
Lesson learnt, young B will be receiving a lot of TLC while she recovers and has obviously forgiven me, as she’s asleep on my feet as I type. It’s a right guilt trip this dog owning business.
Shopping
It’s raining again. It rained all morning and little B had her long nose glued to the window when we woke up, possibly in the vain hope that today was the day she was going to catch her first rabbit. As it happened, she was nearly right!
First, though, the time had come for us to make the dreaded school uniform shopping trip. The school the offspring are going to has a uniform list slightly shorter than Schindler’s, and armed with our plastic and two very huffy children, we set off.
We decided to try and visit the enormous shopping centre that a few people had told us about. This called for a bit of motorway driving (difficult as my Mother and I both talk a lot and we always miss the exit we need: ‘oh, was that junction 7? Yes, that was the one we wanted’). The M50 toll was fun though – you throw your money at a basket as you’re driving through – like a sort of drive-by shooting without the violence. Very entertaining.
Anyway, we managed to get most of the clothing without spilling blood (more bloodshed later), and I resisted the temptation to beat both of my children to death with a coat hanger in Marks and Spencer when they whined about trying things on, although it must be like shopping with two mothers as we both say the same things and have the same aversion to changing rooms (‘just try them on here..go on, take your trousers off, no-one’s looking’). After the torture that was shoe shopping, we rallied with the football boots and pencil cases, and made it home still speaking (just).
This just leaves:
2 x pairs wellington boots
2 x hockey sticks
2 x riding back protector
2 x pairs proper riding boots (no furry moon boots then..)
2 x approved riding helmet (approved by whom I wonder?)
And you think I’m joking don’t you…
Settling In
Well, what a whirlwind first day of doggy ownership! B didn’t have very long to wait overnight as #2 was up bright and early and disgustingly excited at 5.30am to take her out for a walk. I was relieved and somewhat proud to discover that everything was intact – nothing chewed, gnawed, or indeed even nibbled. She’s just such a gentle little sweetheart. I said to Hubby last night, I really feel a big swelling in my heart when I look at her. And no, it’s not wind.
I had my return dental appointment with the rather nice dentist at the marina town whose name cannot be mentioned at 10am, but luckily Hubby was around so she didn’t have to be left on her own. I went to be drilled and filled, and Mum and offspring went for a quick rootle around the shops. I was numb but once again dentally intact by 11am, meeting up with the now Yu-Gi-Oh card-bearing children and bored-looking Grandma and rather smugly noted that B skipped around and looked incredibly pleased to see us. She even did a little hoppy, jumpy thing and sort of half leaped up to greet me. Aw…I welled up (again)!
J&C said that greyhounds sleep an awful lot but there’s no stopping this girl. She’s just so intent on following us (I think she’s suspicious because we’re being too nice -is she going to be whisked back off to her concrete kennel at doggy boot camp any minute now?), that any time anyone moves, she’s hot on their tail. And when she’s not tailing her suspects, she’s sniffing round the garden for any sign of the rabbits (who, incidentally have packed their little furry suitcases and scarpered – from the back garden at least).
This evening, with Hubby off working, we decided to risk a quick hour at the pub. We gave her lots of reassuring cuddles, kissed her soft head and legged it to the door. Needless to say, we came back to find her curled delicately in her bed, watching for our return with those big, beautiful brown eyes. Once again, we were greeted with a little hoppity skippity dance, and – amazing – even a lick (only on the hand you understand, she’s not a vulgar greyhound). We really feel like she’s our dog now and it’s magic. Go out and rescue a greyhound, NOW!, before everyone else pinches them all. They adore you with every fibre of their being, they are adorable, gentle, affectionate and go 0-40 in a couple of seconds – something for everyone there then.
Finally, I just had to share with you the picture that J took of B on her way down to us in the car. Aww..wook at her wittle nose…
