Celebratory walkies

Took a celebratory walk with Daughter this morning as George's eye is better and Holly's lung and heart scans showed no serious problems.

A beautiful morning for it too. While George has been receiving treatment for his eye the vet suggested cutting back on his arthritis medication so he's been walking more slowly than ever. I'll never be able to cross a busy road with him again. Although he's always taken his time crossing roads disregarding completely my urging to 'hurry up, George, there's a car coming.' In George's view all traffic should stop for him. 

Came home to left-overs for lunch. Some left-overs work better than others. Runner beans that weren't particularly nice first time round didn't improve with keeping. And now this afternoon I'm going to work on the marketing of my book, The Dog-walking Club, now available from the kindle store.

If you decide to buy and read it I would be most awfully grateful if you pointed out to me any typos, spelling, duplication or grammar errors that need to be corrected before I work on the paperback version. Thanking you in advance.

The continuing saga of George's eye

In our now twice-weekly visit to the vet yesterday we were told again that the ulcer on George's eye isn't healing as it should. A normal ulcer would heal in 5-6 days; it's been 3 or 4 weeks without any real improvement and it's now classified as a chronic ulcer.

Each time we go George has dye in his eye - bright green dye at that - and the last few times his eye has also been anaesthetised while the vet has removed the 'pretend' healing skin. Yesterday he underwent a further procedure: using a needle the vet scraped grid lines over the affected area. (I couldn't watch that bit.) The idea is that it will stimulate the body into repairing the cornea. There are signs the body is trying to heal itself - new pink blood vessels - but not quickly enough.

We go back again on Friday when, if it hasn't worked, and the ordered contact lens has arrived that will be fitted. The purpose of the lens is to be a protective shield while the eye heals. In the past they've sewn up the eyelid but the disadvantage is that you can't see what's happening underneath and if it gets gungy, or goes awry somehow, you don't find out until the stitches are removed.

In a separate or possibly connected issue we also told the vet about the patch of nearly bare skin where George has been biting at himself. She couldn't see anything obviously causing it except a couple of little spots but we have a foam to massage in several times a day. It's possible that he's biting his side because his eye irritates him ...

It's at this point in time that we wish we'd taken out doggy insurance. We were lucky with Harvey who was so fit and didn't have any problems until his very last year or so. George is still only eleven and, hopefully, will live quite a few more years, albeit expensive ones.

On the plus side the summer dogs on beaches ban ended on Sunday so yesterday we celebrated.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness

There is an unusually thick mist coming off the sea in the bay this morning. As I drove towards it I realised two things:
1) I didn't have my long glasses;
2) I don't know where my fog lights are.

Fortunately I only stayed on the misty road for about 200 metres before I turned off up the hill and all was sunny and bright again.

So we're taking George for a nice walk today. The trouble with Wales is that it's hilly. That isn't usually a problem but becomes one when you have a dog who can't do hills any more. All our favourite beaches involve a long walk down and up a cliff path and the easy accessible ones don't allow dogs until October. We're counting down the days.

Speaking of dogs, we took George for his now weekly appointment at the vet's yesterday. The ulcer on his eye is not healing as it should. The eye apparently shows signs of trying to but so far it's not succeeding. We have to take him back again next Monday when they will consider:
a) giving him his own plasma;
b) putting a contact lens in.

In the meantime we continue with drops seven times a day, each time accompanied by a treat. This had better end soon else he will turn into a little podge.


Meanwhile Younger Son has now bottled all his honey and has 68 jars.

And remember this man invited me to drive his train?

One more thing. I was listening to the radio in the car and caught a snippet of a drama about Lancelot and, as it turned out, how he lost his virginity and thus the power to perform miracles, such as freeing an eighteen-year-old virgin who had been boiled in water for five years and from which she emerged naked and unscathed.

She, not unnaturally, fell in love with her handsome rescuer and tricked him into sleeping with her by pretending to be Queen Guinevere for whom Lance - 'don't call me that!' - had a thing. He was furious when he found out and blamed her for his loss of power. Which seems jolly unfair as he was happy to lose his power when he thought it was the Queen he was bonking. Men!

A bit of a buzz

When you buy rocket, spinach and watercress salad only to discover you don't like watercress.

And our first jar of honey from the hive, courtesy of the bees and Younger Son. Very good. 

Watched the last episode of Bodyguard last night. Well, I wasn't expecting that. Still just a little puzzled over what happened exactly but I usually am. Apparently there could be more series of Bodyguard, especially as its final episode attracted a record number of viewers. I thought it was a little slow and then a bit fast. Could have done with cutting out a bit of the will it explode, won't it explode scenes as we all assumed it wouldn't, but then didn't really explain why the police officer went over to the dark side.

But, as I say, there are likely to be more series although whether the hero will star in them isn't yet known. As someone funnier than me wrote, 'He only had one job.' (And he failed in that if you haven't seen the programme.)

Very much enjoying Killing Eve though. There's nothing like a bit of (warped) humour to bring a drama alive. So many of television's drama series are very black and depressing and life's not like that. Even in the grimmest of situations there's always a bit of humour; it's what helps us get through the rest.

And now I should be practising the talky bit for tonight's bible study. I subjected George to it while we were walking although now I come to think of it he hung back, by a goodly distance, most of the time, until I put my notes away.

George and the prince of wales

Another strange blip in my blog statistics: yesterday's views total more than doubled my personal best. One last week was similar and it seems I have the Prince of Wales to thank. 

So, what has the Prince of Wales ever done for me?
Increased my readership levels.

For that I thank him. But I still think we should get rid of the title after/if Charles becomes king. 

* * * * * * * *
Unrelated to anything, George has a small ulcer on his right eye. It's healing and we have drops and gel to put it. I am beginning to think the residents of this household are vying for the title Crock of the Year.

George and I have another argument

One of Mini's little peculiarities is to tell us if something needs checking. She does this by flashing a message on the dashboard. It's currently reading, 'Remote control battery.'

'Remote control? Mini has remote control? Why did nobody tell me? I could have stayed at home and sent her on her own to places if I'd known.' ... 'Although that would be a bit dangerous, wouldn't it?'

Fun though. I can picture it now. Puzzled looks from people on the pavement as Mini zooms past with NO driver!

I was discussing this with George. He was sceptical. 'This from the woman who won't even use cruise control because she's afraid the car will start going where it wants to instead of where she wants it to.'

I pointed out that literature was full of man-made creatures that had gone rogue. He said, 'Did you note the important word in that sentence? Literature. Stories. Fiction. Made-up. Not real.'
'You are such a smarty pants!'
George shrugged. 'Some of us have just got it.'
'Yeah well you've got a black eye too.'
'Oh, below the belt!'
'You look as though you've done ten rounds with Muhammad Ali!'
George sighed. 'Have you finished?'

We continued our walk in silence. Then George said, 'I assume you're going to write about this in our blog?'
I nodded. 'I'm composing it as I walk.'
'Please point out that I have a poorly eye and that you're taking me to the vet very soon. Either that or say that I retorted, "You should see the other guy."'
'You mean I should make up our conversation to make you sound witty?'
'It's what all good writers do. Exaggerate a little.'
'Huh. As if I would.'

Not at all holiday related

Did that 'I know where I'm going so I don't need to check' thing this morning. Turned out I did know where I was going but I was two hours early. Hey ho.

I blame my pinging head. Woke up with a ping shooting up my head. My first thought was, 'I don't want to die today.' I blame that reaction on the fact I'm writing a book about a man who at one time had a near-fatal stroke. Admittedly his began with a 'really really really bad headache' not a ping.

I've since decided that I have earache as it hurts when I eat.

* * * * * *
All three children are currently in the process of buying or selling houses. It all seems awfully complicated. I am glad I have Husband to sort out this sort of thing for me. Also glad, when someone phones regarding anything that is in any way finance connected, I can do 'little woman' routine and say, 'My husband deals with all that sort of thing.' 

I'm sure I could do it - I'm almost sure  - if needed but dog and barking come to mind. 

* * * * * *
Good to be back at Zac's last night. 'Did you miss me?'
'Have you been away?'

One man whom I've seen in and outside prison told us of his decision to give up drinking after fourteen years and start to live again. He's been dry since January 11th. It's early days - he has the rest of his life to go - but it's a beginning to be applauded. 

* * * * * *
GrandSon4, who is currently in Italy visiting his Nonno and Nonna, loves Granddad's tomatoes and drags us off to the greenhouse to pick them. As they're only just beginning to ripen I bought a carton of Sainsburys Vittoria toms to keep us going. (If you've never had them they're little and very nice.) Nuora offered him one. He put it in his mouth then spat it out. He has high standards for his tomatoes.

* * * * * *
When George and I were out yesterday we met a man who lives in the road behind us. He reminded me of the time, in George's escapee days, when he turned up at this man's house early in the morning. Thinking he looked hungry the man gave him a bowl of food. Then another two. And he'd already had breakfast at home.

He doesn't escape any more but he still loves his food.

A little bit of wire wasn't going to stop George escaping.

On the walk I: George throws a wobbly

Okay, actually it was me who threw the wobbly. I'm not sure what George threw.

We were walking on the tip. It used to be the municipal tip but thirty years ago they stopped dumping and left it to nature to reclaim. And Nature has done a very good job. It's a very pleasant place to walk now and usually very quiet. 

Today I was approaching a bend in the path. I couldn't see around it and George was walking behind me. Suddenly he shot ahead, and ran around the corner, growling.

It scared me to death!

It's bad enough when he suddenly stops, his hackles rise and he looks around warily; this was taking it to another level altogether.

He must have got a scent, strong scent of something but I couldn't see anything and he came out of the bushes and continued to walk as if nothing had happened. 'Good grief, George,' I said. 'Please don't do that again. You'll give me a heart attack.'

He looked at me and shrugged. 'A dog's got to do what a dog's got to do.'

Anniversary flowers from Husband? Or not?

Husband went shopping while I did some cleaning this morning. On his return he said, 'Oh bother, I meant to get you some flowers but I forgot.'
'You forgot? Even after I deliberately walked slowly past you with a vase of dead flowers in my hands just before you left?'
'I thought about it.'

In case you're wondering about the photo that was a bunch of flowers given to me by a Zac's regular back in 2008.

Husband and I decided some years ago not to exchange cards or gifts on our anniversary but we did go out for a walk this afternoon and we're eating out tonight.

We walked from Kittle through Bishopston Valley to Pwll Du, a walk that is always further than I expect. And George took advantage of the visit to the beach to rescue some stones.

At least we always think he's saving them but a thought occurred to me this afternoon: perhaps rather than saving stones he's catching them. Some dogs like to catch cats or squirrels. Maybe George just prefers the stone catching option. He's very good at it. And determined. He spent ages in that rock pool trying to catch the stone.

Walking in the Med

A lovely walk yesterday through Clyne woods and into Clyne Gardens.

The smell from the orange blossom, I think, to the right was absolutely heavenly. I could have been walking in the south of France.

When I was about 13 my mother planted an orange blossom tree in the garden so 'you can carry some blossom on your wedding day.' She died long before I was married but I made sure some of the orange blossom from the garden was included in my bouquet.

Today the smell was less pleasant or would have been had I gone close enough to sniff the valerian, or as we used to know it, the one that smells of cat pee.

That was on Mumbles Hill. I said, 'Look George, loads of rabbit poo. Go find a bunny!'

He gave me his 'Seriously? In this heat,' look. But we both know he has no idea how to hunt rabbits. Or even what a rabbit is.

Stop the press: George is off his food!

No improvement - in fact George is off his food and he is NEVER off his food - so back to the vet who mentioned lungworm.
'I panicked when he said that,' I said to Husband on the way home in the car.
'I could tell,' he said. 'Your brain froze.'

Vet: 'When was he last treated for lungworm?'
Me: 'I can't remember. September I think.'
Vet: 'It says in his records that you collected the treatment this month.'
Me: 'No, I've definitely not treated him this month.'
Husband: 'It's the stuff you put on the back of his neck.'
Me: 'Oh, yes, I treated him earlier this month!'

He's having blood tests and we'll get the results tomorrow. There's nothing obviously wrong with him from the vet's point of view, temperature, heart etc all okay, so we're still hoping it's just a bad cold and nothing really nasty.

'I was a very brave boy when they took my blood. Unlike my mum who had to sit down.'

Dog flu

Back to the vet today as George was worse than yesterday. And very sorry for himself.

He had a bit of a temperature and a bunged-up nose so the vet diagnosed a cold.

'Do dogs get colds?'

Apparently yes.

It's most likely just a cold - or dog flu as George likes to call it - and he will recover in a few days and in the meantime he has pain-killers and antibiotics.

'See? I told you I was ill,' he muttered under his breath as he stretched out on his bed and sighed pathetically. 

An adventure with George

'Let's go and explore today!' I suggested to Husband.
'Nah, you can go. I'll do some weeding.'

So George and I set off to follow the Bishopston Valley and Pwll Du Bay walk as described in the Gower Coast walks leaflet I'd acquired somewhere on my travels.

It's a fairly basic sort of map, the sort even I could follow. You'd think.


So off we went.

According to the signpost it was 2 and a quarter miles to Pwll Du Bay. 'That won't take us long,' I said to George. 'People can run a mile in a minute.'

Some three-quarters of an hour later I was wondering:

a) how I'd managed to miss the clearly-marked View Point*;

b) what had happened to the stepping stones**;

c) if we'd ever reach the sea.

We did. But by then I'd realised that we had to be somewhere else soon and we wouldn't have time to paddle or even admire the view for longer than it takes to take a photo to prove we got there.

On the way back George said, 'It was four minutes.'

'What was?'

'The mile. Roger Bannister. Not one minute.'

'Oh, that explains why it took us longer than I expected.'

Roger Bannister also didn't have to avoid huge muddy puddles, climb steadily up a steep slope for five minutes, or scramble through nettles and over rocks.

And I have to say that reaching the sea was the result not of my map-reading skills - the deficiency being in the map not me obviously - but of my tunnelling - no, wait, that's not right - channelling my inner outdoorsman and realising I probably needed to go downhill and follow the river to the sea. Helped a bit by the occasional signpost. Okay, frequent signposts.

Very lovely walk though.

Apart from aforementioned 5 minute hike up the side of the valley.

I'm not resting, George. I'm taking a photo.

Incidentally, thanks to the wonders of FitBit I can tell you that on the return journey, uphill, I covered the ground at the speed of 1 mile in 22 minutes. Which actually I think is pretty impressive.

* I can only assume it's a winter only view point.

** There is a bridge about where the stepping stones may have been supposed to be possibly maybe. So maybe they were replaced?

Multifarious uses for poo bags, no. 5

Carrying the result of an impromptu blackberry forage.

Not a huge amount of ripe blackberries but enough, with apples, for a crumble.

Cyclists are sneaky: they creep up on you when you're least expecting them. You might hope that your dog would give you notice - by barking - of their approach but to be fair George was engaged in conversation with me - the first time since our little disagreement over my choice of clothes - so I shouldn't grumble.

I was saying something along the lines of, 'My mother said I never should wear shorts for blackberrying,' to which George was adding his three-happence along the lines of, 'If you'd listened to me blah blah blah,' when the cyclist appeared. 

'Afternoon,' I nodded.

He hurried past.

'That's your fault,' I said to George. 

'What did I do?' he asked indignantly.

'Don't get me started.'

P.S. If you've missed the previous posts in the series the first four uses for poo bags are:

as a rain hood;

picking up poo;

collecting shells on the beach;

carrying wet clothes following impromptu paddling.

I could be a second Dorothy Parker

It's very strange. In the morning I shower and dress and my boobs are perfectly positioned in my bra. Come dinner-time they've gone astray. How does that happen? Do they have minds of their own? It would explain a lot, for example, how some people can make them twirl in opposite directions. No matter how I try they simply shudder and flop back down. Then again I struggle to even do the tapping head rubbing tummy trick. So if each bit of my body controlled itself it would explain my lack of general togetherness. 

Ah well, just another of life's mysteries. A bit like the fact that I never come up with a sharp and biting retort to something until at least two hours after needed. Then I have a wonderful riposte and nowhere to put it. Such a waste. I could be another Dorothy Parker if ... well, quite a few things probably.

I've also left it too late to order WonderWoman knickers. 

And on a separate note, George has eaten our guest-dog's bed. 

It's very confusing having an Ollie to stay when we have a grand-dog called Holly. Especially as they're both brown. Ollie has one of those stretchy leads and I took him out by myself today for the first time. Pretty soon we got wrapped around a tree.

Ollie also doesn't like steps. He came to greet me and then couldn't be bothered to come back up the steps, settling himself down at the bottom in preference.

What? No honeycomb?

You'll notice that this blog is sub-titled 'The thoughts of me and my dog etc.' but you may have also noticed that George doesn't say much. I have come to the conclusion that he is less articulate than Harvey although it may be his age: he may still be in the bolshy teenager stage.

Why speak when you can stare sullenly? 'Of course I'm not speaking to you. What do you expect? you made me move off my rug.'

I'll try to get more contributions out of him - when he's in a better mood.

* * * * * * * * *

I was in a bad mood yesterday. Or rather I was downhearted. A setback we hadn't been expecting in our Zac's initiative. What I needed was ice cream.

Ice cream is always good but I was just a tad disappointed with this. I wanted apple crumble ice cream but the girl at the till said they didn't make it in winter. That would have been okay if I hadn't later seen it in the freezer selection.

My praline pecan was nice but the honeycomb ice cream I had with it didn't contain one tiny piece of honeycomb! Which, let's face it, isn't what you want. I think I may email Verdi's in fact.

Anyway, as my fitbit was reading less than 3,000 steps I decided I'd walk home, a distance of about two miles along the prom. Nuora joined me and the walk went so much faster with company. I shall miss them both very much.

And then I went to Thrive circuit training as well! (Which was a clever trick I played on myself telling myself I wouldn't go and then only deciding at the last moment so not giving myself time to be miserable in anticipation.) (I do enjoy exercising - after it's over. Just not the looking forward to it. Or the pain of doing it.)

George and the birds

Younger Son has been eating a gluten-free diet but I was still surprised when Husband announced that the bird seed he'd bought was wheat-free. It seemed a bit extreme.

Turns out the lack of wheat is supposed to make it less attractive to pigeons. 

It doesn't.

Just about all the birds that visit our front feeder are pigeons.

Except George who strictly speaking isn't a bird but likes to eat peanuts.

Talking of George, the whole expanse of Swansea bay to frolic across and he still manages to home in on the dog treats dropped by another owner.

That was just before he ingratiated himself with an elderly dog owner who told him and his own dogs to sit. George's bottom was on the sand before you could say periwinkle putting the man's dogs to shame and leading to more treats. 

He knows to whom to cosy up.

In which George outmanoeuvres me

'I'm sorry, George,' I say, 'but I've come to the conclusion that the only way I'm going to have a clean house is by getting rid of you.'
George ponders this for a moment then says, 'May I put forward an alternative solution?'
'Of course. I am not one to deprive you of your human rights.'
'Huh hm, canine,' he coughs.
'Of course, I mean canine rights.'
'It is my belief,' he says, 'that there is only one answer to the how-to-get-a-clean-house question: you have to go.'
'Me? I don't create the dirt you do!'
He shakes his paw. 'No, no, I'm not suggesting that you do.'
'What then?'
'It is my suggestion that we exchange you for a woman who likes to clean.'
'Oh,' I hold my hand to my heart. 'Cut me to the quick why don't you?'
'And do you think my skin is impenetrable to your jibes?'
We both pause and think. Eventually I speak.
'Let's agree to disagree and, tell you what: if you don't tell Husband your idea, I won't tell him mine.'
We shake on it.

And I go back to cleaning.

In which George is super embarrassing

Lovely walk today eastwards from Southgate to Hunt's Bay.

This was the view looking back just before Husband had me climb a sheer cliff. (Okay, an exaggeration: a quite steep cliff that I took mostly on all fours making sure I didn't look down.)

Daughter and family are living in a rented house next to a coffee shop. On return, while we were drinking tea - or in my case cwtching baby - Son-in-law let the dogs out into the back garden. What happened next is speculation but it probably went something like this.

George, his nose twitching: I can smell ... food.
Holly: Probably from the coffee shop next door.
George: Coffee shop? You mean cake and coffee shop?
Holly shrugs and nods.
George: What are we waiting for? Let's go. Where's the way out?'
Holly: There isn't one.
George: Whaaaat?! (He begins to wail.)
Holly: Only this gap in the hedge and I expect you're too big to get ... George! Come back! Wait for me!
George hurries into the coffee shop, sees lots of people all eating goodies and thinks he's died and gone to heaven. Customers smile and pat him but no-one offers him as much as a crumb. Then he notices a table. There's no-one sitting at it but there are things on the table. George glances around, licks his lips and sidles casually over. He takes another quick glance over his shoulder then it's tongue out, food in, before you can say, 'George, don't do that!'
He hears his master's voice calling his name but there's still food left on the table and he's pretty sure nobody else wants it. His tongue works at superfast speed and he's still licking his lips when Son-in-law appears and drags him away. See postscript.

I'm guessing he probably won't be allowed in again.

P.S. Husband explained that I "missed the final part of the George story - probably too engrossed cwtching Granddaughter 2. 

"George was so intent on ‘clearing tables’ that he refused to leave. The only way S-i-L could get him out of there was to pick him up and carry him home. No small feat given that George was 36 kg last time he was weighed. And probably a bit heavier now."

No wonder Son-in-law said the customers were laughing.

George thought all his Easters had come at once ...

when he discovered chocolate eggs hidden in the bushes in Clyne Park.

We had walked on ahead and were oblivious until we heard some crazed shouting and a woman running towards him. There've been some instances of poison left down in the park so I thought at first that she was concerned or maybe she'd had a dog who'd taken ill after eating at that spot so I hurried back to grab George.

It turned out, of course, that he'd eaten at least one egg.

The nice woman was less worried about the loss of an egg and more worried that eating the foil would make him sick. I reassured her: he's eaten much worse than that.

It'll all come out in the poop.

And then, when we got home, after working in the garden Husband removed his shoes and socks making George happy again. there's nothing he likes better than a smelly foot to lick. (Actually there are probably lots of things he likes better but it is one of his favourite activities given the chance.)

And you can't see very well in this photo but the fish were fascinated by George's tongue. they swarmed around, circling frantically as he licked. Husband has only recently put the fish in the top pond so they've not experienced it before. I was convinced George would accidentally lap one up.