Welsh mams and their babies

I didn't want to mention it until I was really really really sure it was going to happen. It's been a possibility for a number of years but it was beginning to seem like more of an impossibility.

Son-in-law has got a new job in Swansea and that means that Daughter and family will be coming home!

Literally home. Until they sell their house in Devon and buy another they'll be living with us. And Younger Son and Nuora will also be living with us for a month or so when they come back from Malaysia. So from there being 2 adults, 1 dog and 2 fish living in our house there will be 6 adults, 2 children, 2 dogs, 1 cat and 2 fish living in our house! It's a good job we have a large house.

I'm a Welsh mam; I'm delighted my babies are coming home. I'm sure there'll be some tensions but we're family; we'll manage.

Happy days.

And in readiness for those happy days I've finally been spurred on to make a start on de-cluttering, mainly to make extra cupboard and drawer space. I am trying to be ruthless but when I came across this I had to stop.

It's Harvey's old collar. I know there's no point or reason to keep it but I'm still resisting putting it in the bin. I've left it outside, in the hope, I think, that it will mysteriously disappear - or that Husband will bin it.

Four years ago today

We said goodbye to Harvey ... and a few months later said hello to George.
A swim wasn't enough to keep him cool yesterday; he needed to dig a hole in the sand to lie in afterwards.

George deprivation

Daughter has been complaining that we haven't had any photos of George for some time, so to put that right here George and Bungle cuddle up for a snooze. George had to make do with an Easter egg box - and you can see what he thinks of that from the look he's giving me!
George, all his attempts at squeezing through gaps in the fences having been foiled, begins to tunnel his way out. We should never have let him watch The Great Escape.

I was watching him in the garden the other day and I was struck by how scarily similar he looks to Harvey. Yes, I know all golden retrievers look alike but there are subtle differences.

When I used to walk Harvey we'd sometimes see Gus, another retriever who was a little younger than Harvs. Each time after we'd passed by, I'd whisper to Harvey, 'You're much handsomer than Gus.' Which he was. Gus's face was much squatter and he had a permanent frown. Harvey was handsome. And so is George.

The trouble is that now George isn't sure if his name is Georgedon'tdothat or Harvey.

xx

Does this look familiar?

I have photos of Harvey sitting in the doorway. I was outside taking the photo and (unsuccessfully) encouraging him to join me. At least this morning George co-operated - once he'd sat and viewed the scene for a moment or two.

(Notice the half-decorated walls. And the dustbin that can't be left in the kitchen with George.)

xx

Can't see the wood for the trees

Walking on the bike track this morning, Cleo and I both carried sticks ready for the river.At the first opportunity I threw Cleo's stick; it got stuck in a tree. I threw my stick; Cleo retrieved it but then decided she didn't like it as much as hers so left it in the middle of the river. Meaning we had to find another stick.

You'd think that finding sticks in a wood would be easy. It's not. It was ever thus. I remember Harvey getting impatient, standing round barking ('That's not going to help me find a stick, is it?!') as I kept him waiting to chase. He was oblivious to the fact that if he hadn't eaten the previous stick he wouldn't have had to wait.

Now I come to think of it, in 15 years of stick-eating, Harvey probably managed to munch his way through most of the woods. No wonder there are no sticks left.
xx

mud, mud, glorious mud

Husband set off for Hook at 6.15 this morning. Cleo took this to be a sign that everyone should get up and started howling pathetically at the bottom of the stairs (we have a barricade across it). By 7 o'clock, I'd had my breakfast, written an email and read some blogs - and the sun wasn't even up.

We went out for a walk in the woods just as the dawn was breaking. We heard a bird I'd never heard before. Obviously one of those that catches the worm but apart from that I don't have any idea what sort it was. Its cry was a high-pitched 'e-whoop' (long e, short whoop). Any suggestions?

Cleo is a water lover too and unlike Holly (but like Harvey), she stands next to you to shake.

Comparative skills (out of 10 with 10 being best)
Watching which direction the stick is going in
Cleo 7
Holly 6
Harvey 5

Sniffing out the stick when it's lost
Cleo 2
Holly 9
Harvey 7

Eating the stick afterwards
Cleo 1
Holly 5
Harvey 9.5

Cleo (already known as HollCleo) did come back to look for me when I was slow as I struggled over muddy bits on the riverside. It was probably to laugh at me but at least I wasn't alone. When we were out there I was reminded of one incident many years ago.

At one point along the river walk there is a very muddy bit closely followed by a high steep-sided mudbank. Only about mid-thigh height but try kicking your leg up on that when it's wet. Harvey had skipped up it quite happily and was wandering on. I think a piece must have been washed away as we often walked by the river and didn't usually have the trouble I had that day.

I tried once to get my leg up: failure. I tried again. Again I failed. I looked around. There was an ivy creeper hanging down from an over-hanging branch. I grabbed it and jumped up onto the bank. I was still saying, 'Yay!!!' when my feet slowly started to slip back down. Slowly as in slow motion slowly when you know it's happening but there's nothing you can do about it. I was hanging backwards and my feet were were leaving me. Clonk. Back where I started. There was only one thing left. I took a run at it, leapt across the mud and flung myself at a thick tree trunk, hugging it for all I was worth. Then I gradually edged my way round from the mud side to the slightly solider ground side. And while all this was going on, Harvey was somewhere in the distance smelling the flowers.

I'm not very good at looking after other people's dogs. I mean, I can take care of them, but I worry about them being sad. It's obvious they're going to miss their families but I hate to see sad eyes staring at me. It makes me feel guilty. Cleo has been sticking close to whoever is in the house, staying in the same room and getting up and following around. I go in the kitchen to get a drink of water and she follows me. I try to explain that I'm coming straight back but she insists on getting up. I end up going without my drink of water because I feel so bad about it. Is it me?
xx

Holly and the Himalayan Balsam

Himalayan Balsam (according to my Collins Pocket Guide to Wild Flowers)

The sun through the trees

Holly has been down to stay. Only for one night but it gave me the chance to go walkies. I got home from work at lunchtime and Daughter and Son-in-law (who were also down) were out visiting friends. I didn't know if they'd walked Holly but I thought I should take her out, just in case. So we went over the tip, through the woods and back by the river.

It was a beautiful day and I spent most of the walk telling Holly stories about Harvey and how it was one of his favourite walks and how he loved the water too. Not that she was really listening; she just wanted to chase sticks.

I think Jesus must love Holly a lot. The best word to describe my stick-throwing would be erratic. Let's face it, I throw like a girly, and where it will go, nobody knows. But not one stick landed on Holly's head in spite of several coming within an ear's breadth, convincing me that someone was keeping an eye out for her.

Both Husband and I have been finding it more difficult of late. I think initially we felt relief for Harvey's sake - on the final morning he was very distressed - and, I suppose, a sort of relief for us. I often joked about checking that he was still breathing but I think we all were living with a sense of dread.

It's good that we're going on holiday tomorrow. Have I mentioned that we're going to start looking for a puppy when we get back? And I've offered to dogsit a friend's dog in October too. But little extras like walking Holly are a big bonus!
xx

Time's up

Husband was watering the path (with weedkiller) when I arrived home from Sainsburys on Saturday. It reminded me that in the past he had to do it last thing at night and we had to keep Harvey in afterwards.

And suddenly I thought, 'Okay, the joke's over now; you can come back, Harvey.'

I just wanted him back.
xx

So long and thanks for all the ... love

We gathered yesterday to drink a champagne toast to Harvey, in gratitude for the love and happiness he brought into our lives for the nearly 15 years he was part of our family. Of course he'll always be part of our family but you know what I mean.

We recalled his penchant for knickers, his tendency to walk into doors, and the elbow nudging when he thought you should be tickling his head instead of typing/eating/drinking/doing anything else.

We're laughing a lot in the photo because a) they're happy memories; and b) the camera was set on auto and balanced precariously on top of the champagne bottle on top of Harvey's casket. We like to think he would have approved.

Then Husband buried the casket just next to the ramp we built specially for Harvey, and we all laid stones on it.

P.S. The title of the post is from a Douglas Adams book called So long and thanks for all the fish.

There's nothing like a good shake!

xx

A lot easier to carry

We collected Harvey's ashes from the vet this morning. They're in a wooden casket with his name on a little plaque at the top. We're hoping all the children will be home at the beginning of September so we can bury or scatter his ashes and plant a bush or tree in Harvey's memory.

Sometimes I just feel like hitting something.

No-one will notice me

This morning Husband and I were discussing Harvey's behaviour with other dogs.

When out walking, if he saw a strange dog approaching - strange as in one we didn't know rather than one with five legs or fangs dripping blood - he adopted the Statue Response. He'd stand stock still, barely breathing, as close to the edge of the path or the trees as he could get, in the belief that, 'No-one will notice me like this.'

Now you know - you've seen photos of him - Harvey was a big dog, and golden. He didn't easily blend into a woody background.

Small dogs with a Napoleon complex were the biggest threat, but the worst Harvey ever did was accidentally stand on one that was running between his legs.

On three or maybe four occasions during his lifetime, he was forced to defend himself when set upon by a vicious big dog: he was well able to do that and never came off worst. But he much preferred not to have to.

On one of those occasions I had assured him that the other dog didn't pose a threat: 'don't be silly, Harvey; he's a nice friendly dog.' The look he gave me afterwards said it all. 'Well, that's shows how much you know. Next time I'll stick with my own instincts.'

We sometimes called him a big soppy coward but he wasn't that at all. He had power; it just wasn't his nature to use it.
xx

Sleep tight, Harvey

In the garden yesterday.

We took Harvey to the vet for the last time this morning.

He could barely lift his head from his mat, his breathing was quick and shallow, and he was distressed. The vet came out to the car and we were stroking him at the end.
xx

The Holly and the Harvey

We were supposed to be going to Devon this weekend to dogsit but we didn't want to leave Harvey so ... Husband, who was working away, travelled home via Devon, to bring Holly to stay with us.



Harvey, as usual when we have this young visitor, felt obliged to put on a show so, after Husband had lifted him into the garden, he walked round a bit. Very slowly but he did it. We waited to see what he would do when he reached the top of the steps as turning causes him some problems but, very gradually, little step by little step, he managed to turn himself round.

Holly can't understand why Harvey is apparently standing, staring into space; she doesn't realise he's adapting my 'I'm just admiring the scenery' approach when I stop, panting, halfway up a hill.

And this evening he ate some fish skin and a bit of dog food - hand-fed by me. One is born every minute.

* * * * * * * * * *

A couple of posts previously I said I'd put my foot in it again. This wasn't blogging related although several people seemed to think it was. Does this mean I have blogged something for which I should be apologising as well?!

xx

Like a teddy bear

I managed to get Harvey up this morning and he got as far as the rug in the hall. I couldn't get him out in time and then his left back leg sort of stopped working. He tried to walk but ended up going in circles.

You've got to laugh.
xx

In which I am a little concerned

Harvey continues with his dead dog routine. It's not funny any more, I've told him.

We got him onto bed in the kitchen last night and he hasn't moved from there. He hasn't looked for food since the day before yesterday and he doesn't raise his head when I talk to him. He did lift his head to take a couple of treats from me just now but it wasn't his usual grab'n'gulp.

Our community cafe is open for the summer holidays and I'm down there today. If it's very quiet this afternoon - as it might be with the rain we're having - I'll try and come home early.

How to play dead

Harvey has spent the day doing his dead dog impersonation. I do wish he wouldn't; it's very stressful having to keep checking if he's breathing.

He was very active yesterday even to the extent of getting his head stuck in the arm of the chair; today he is paying for such exertion.

I wonder if he has heard us saying that we're going to Devon to dogsit this weekend. Last time we went away he was poorly; maybe he's getting his 'I'm old, you can't go and leave me,' act together early. (Of course we're not leaving him alone; Younger Son is here to take care of him.)

xx

How does your garden grow?

After the wettest June since records began, the first full weekend in July has been pleasant enough. Warm and sunny in between showers. So pleasant, in fact, that I took it into my head to do some gardening. Now I may have mentioned before that I am to plants what Jack the Ripper was to prostitutes, but never fear, I did the sort of gardening that i am good at: the destructive kind.

Give me a patch of overgrown ground and I am in my element. I clear the way; Husband plants and nurtures. We make a good team. So, inspired by the cottage garden we saw in Stratford, I set to with my three-pronged fork (Husband has had it since before we were married, so it's probably over 30 years old) and my rubber gloves. I am ruthless; I show no mercy.

The first photo shows the patch of garden as it was, overgrown with buttercups, which were very pretty when in flower but the very devil to dig up. Photo two shows the clean soil complete with the first of the plants we've bought in order to try to create the cottage garden look.

I would be slightly more hopeful about the result if it hadn't been for the raspberries.

Last year I cleared what had been the raspberry patch and we planted eight new sticks. No, that's not it. Canes! Three survived until last week when one got broken. Today I've planted six more canes: three of them look as though they might survive...

Harvey made his way out to join me during the afternoon. It was quite a challenge for him, so I promised him that we'd have a drink soon, and then I carried on gardening. After a bit Harvey wanted to know when we were getting this drink.

'Now, in a minute.'

'Do you mean now or in a minute?' he asked pedantically.

I looked at him. 'You're a Welsh dog; you know what I mean.'

He shrugged. 'Well, I assume you mean in a minute - or ten - as you're showing no sign of stopping gardening.'

I went and got him a drink.

He was born on a farm in Wales so he has no excuse. From the pedigree papers it looks as though someone else had him first and then changed their minds and returned him. We think it was because - hang on, I'll just make sure he can't hear what I'm typing - that's all right, he's in the other room, sleeping - he has a pink nose. Black-nosed Golden Retrievers look down their black noses on their pink-nosed cousins. There is snobbery in every walk of life.

I'm back!

The last thing I said to Harvey before we set off for our hols last Saturday was, 'Now, don't be ill while we're away!' And what is the first thing he does?

Sunday evening we were trying to decide whether we should go home after a phone call from Younger Son saying that Harvs hadn't got up for 36 hours. Daughter offered to travel up from Devon and look after Harvey while Younger Son was in work. They said he was alert and eating just not able to stand. We suspected that he'd fallen and had got stuck and lost his confidence. And that seems to have been the case.

We were supposed to be finishing our holiday by going to Devon today until Monday but we came straight home instead. Harvey is ... all right. Yes, he's - okay. He can walk when helped up and can even manage to get himself up if the temptation - left-over steak - is enough. He's not in pain and he's happy, so we'll just wait and see.

So, the holiday. Remember what I said in the last post?

Dogs and devils

Harvey is feeling a little better today and he thanks everyone for their kind wishes. Mum says he's certainly barking better.

Because of his back leg problems we've put bits of carpets all over our lovely wooden kitchen floor. The things we do for dogs.

Dog, n. A kind of additional or subsidiary Deity designed to catch the overflow and surplus of the world's worship. This Divine Being in some of his smaller and silkier incarnations, takes, in the affection of Woman, the place to which there is no human male aspirant.

From The Devil's Dictionary by Ambrose Bierce.

I wouldn't argue with that except to except to query the specification of small and silky; in my experience dogs of every shape and degree of silkiness hold the highest place in Woman's regard.

P.S. I read about the Devil's Dictionary on Russian Wolfhound's blog. I'd never heard of this exceptional little book before. It was first published in 1911, written by a man described as 'a Yankee Oscar Wilde'.

Alliance, n. In international politics, the union of two thieves who have their hands so deeply inserted in each other's pocket that they cannot separately plunder a third.

Immigrant, n. An unenlightened person who thinks one country better than another.