Thursday, April 28, 2005

What's in a name

Naming a dog is a very serious business and I am not so sure the dog owners of Aston Peverell have been taking their dog-naming duties seriously. Now that I am allowed to go out for walks - and Ginny is taking me out twice a day as every good dog owner should - I am meeting and making friends (mostly) with the dogs of Aston Peverell. Meeting all these dogs has set me to wondering about the names they've been lumbered with.

Top name for the bitches I've met so far is Rosie - there are four of them. Confusingly there are two ponies called Rosie and at Jake's school there are at least three girls called Rosie. So when someone shouts Rosie in this village bitches, ponies and girls prick up their ears.

Max is a popular name for dogs - and boys. There are two of each.

Some dog owners go out of their way to choose funny (to them) names. Take Blot, Spud and Bimbo. I mean are these names that a dog can hold his head up high about?

I have noticed that people with two dogs often choose names that go together. So far I have met Barnum and Bailey, Cindy and Barbie, and Lapsang and Souchong. These three pairs really do suit their names. Barnum and Bailey are scruffy terriers who run and jump a lot. Cindy and Barbie are ever so pretty poodles. Lapsang and Souchong? Well wouldn't you know? A pair of snooty-nosed Pekes.

Giving dogs human child names seems a popular thing around here. There are two Megans, three Freds and a Matthew. What do these people call their children? Fido, Rex, Rover?

Spangle and Skittle - my two particular friends - are named after popular brands of British sweets. Apparently Spangles were very popular in the 70s and were Liz's favourites when she was a little girl. Skittles are very popular now. But not with Ginny. She has banned all multi-coloured sweets on the grounds that they turn her children into hyperactive monsters. (Clive disputes this. He says his children require no help to turn into hyperactive monsters.)

I'm pleased to say there are no other Arrows (although there is a Beau two doors down - Beau and Arrow, geddit?) My name was given to me by Rachel - my Mum's owner. Most puppies are renamed when they go to their permanent home but my name has stuck - Ginny liked it. Apparently I have a very distinctive arrow-shaped marking on the top of my head. I've never seen it because it's on the top of my head and that's not a part of your body you see very often. Unless you're Clive who contorts himself in front of the bathroom mirror like a circus acrobat in an attempt to gauge the spread of his bald patch.

'It's like the hole in the ozone layer. You know it's there, you know it's getting bigger but you're not sure what to do about it,' he moans.

'In the olden days men rubbed cow pats on their head as a cure for baldness,' Ben helpfully suggested. 'I could get you some from the field at the back of school if you want.' He'd do anything for his father that boy.

Everyone has been shown the top of my head. Ginny takes great pride in pointing it out to anyone who asks how I got my name and I have to sit (not so) patiently while various humans stroke my head and trace the outline of my arrow with their finger.

Naming a dog is a very serious business which is why I am not so happy about my pedigree name. You would think that for a dog with my pedigree, coming from a long line of show champions I'd have ended up with a decent, tongue-twisting pedigree name. The sort of name that worries the Crufts Dog Show presenters.

Ginny has a copy of my Five Generation Pedigree from The Kennel Club. I am descended from show dogs with glamorous names. Show Champions like Canisbay Captivation of Kazval, Dalati Sioni, Ferndel Vogue, Dalati Cymro of Tamaritz. Those are names to be reckoned with. You just know those dogs are going to look really good. So what Pedigree Name do I end up with? Tangerine Toffee! I'm named after a fiddly, hard-to-peel fruit and a sticky, hard-to-chew sweet. Talk about underwhelming.

Ginny asked Rachel how I got my pedigree name. 'The children chose the names. I thought it would be fun for them,' said Rachel.

Fun! Choosing a name isn't meant to be fun. I should have a name I can be proud of. What's going to happen when I win Crufts? Peter Purves will be waxing lyrical about my merry, active personality, my long, muscular neck, my straight, well-boned forelegs, my smooth, ground-covering action. Then he'll say something like: 'What a fine, active dog, a perfect specimen. I bet he's a wonderful dog out on the rolling hills of Worcestershire. He's called Arrow at home and you can see why - he's a fast mover, lovely gait. His pedigree name is Tangerine Toffee . . . ' and he'll stop, convulsed with laughter and Clare Balding will have to step in and rescue the whole show.

I'll never make Crufts with that name. One of the last things my mother told me was to be 'true to my breed.' True to my breed? With a name like that I'll be a laughing stock.

Oh well it could be worse. I met a dog today called Poo. Now that's just cruel.

Tuesday, April 26, 2005

Clive goes into shock

I think Clive occasionally dreads returning home from work. I can hear his car the moment it hits the gravel driveway. As I sit by the front door awaiting his entrance I hear him hesitate in the front porch and I'm never sure if he'll come on in or think better of it, turn around, and go somewhere far, far away from the stresses and strains of family life. His family are oblivious to all this. Their hearing isn't as good as mine and the first they know of Clive's return from work is the front door opening and my excited barks. I give Clive my customary greeting - I bounce up and down a few times, roll on his feet and then try and lick him all over. He doesn't seem to like this as much as I do. 'Get that b****y puppy off me!' is his usual greeting to me.

Clive had a nasty turn yesterday. He walked through into the kitchen and turned deathly pale. To say the colour drained from his face was an understatement. He stared at Ginny, eyeballs popping, mouth agape: 'You're not?!'

'Not what? Clive.'

'Pregnant.' His mouth was opening and shutting like a stranded fish on the beach.

'Pregnant!?' Ginny screeched. 'Of course I'm not pregnant.'

'Well why are you wearing that dress?'

Now Ginny's clothing usually errs on the practical and veers just this side of boring. She lives in a small English village and spends her days ferrying children to and from school, clubs and sports facilities. In between that she takes care of me, spends a few hours tapping out articles for women's magazines and pops out to the supermarket now and then. There's not much call for Jimmy Choo and Prada in Ginny's life, even if she could afford them.

Ginny's usual attire is: one pair of jeans (Per Una), one T-shirt (Tesco's Florence and Fred), one piece of sensible knitwear (Next or Marks & Sparks) and that's it. So I have to say it came as quite a shock for Clive to see Ginny in her new (to me) ensemble. For Ginny was wearing a dress. It was quite pretty - pale blue with little polka dots, a sweetheart neckline and a dainty little bow. True it was rather shapeless. The fabric skimmed Ginny's bosom and hung straight down, free of any tailoring whatsoever. It wasn't the most flattering piece of kit but then it wasn't meant to be. Quite why Ginny had chosen to wear one of her old maternity dresses wasn't immediately clear. I mean why would any sane woman choose to wear something that made her look like the proverbial 'back end of a bus'?

'I thought you'd got rid of all your maternity dresses,' Clive was still in shock. He was like a drowning man whose life is flashing before his eyes. Images of nappies, prams, baby sick, potties and massive overdrafts were scooting around his brain. Being chased by the image of him and Ginny in their dotage rocking a cradle. He sat down.

'Please take it off Ginny, it's horrible.'

'I can't.'

'Why not?'

'It's the only thing I've got that doesn't rub against my waist.'

'What's wrong with your waist?'

'I've got rope burn.'

'Rope burn?'

'Yes.' There was a long pause. Ginny looked flustered, she suddenly had an urgent appointment with an onion and a chopping board - the onion got a right seeing to.

'Well? Aren't you going to enlighten me on how you got rope burn around your waist?'

'I was trying to get fit.'

'How?' Clive looked puzzled. It was clear that nothing in his experience of fitness and sport involved the risk of rope burn around the waist.

'I've been dragging a tyre round the back garden. Only today I decided to put two tyres on and I think I overdid it.'

At this point Ginny lifted up her dress to reveal two large red grazes around her waist. It wasn't a pretty sight, and I don't just mean her injuries. 'I can't bear to wear anything tight until those have healed.'

'Well you're not leaving the house wearing that. Everyone will think we're having another baby. I'll take the boys to their clubs tonight. You stay indoors. Don't let anyone see you. And chuck those b****y tyres out.'

Saturday, April 23, 2005

A bit about Ginny

It's nearly two months since I came to live with the Philpotts and I sometimes wonder if they're a normal human family.

Take Ginny. She has recently taken to tying a length of rope around her waist. Attached to the rope is a car tyre. She then walks briskly around the garden 100s of times, sometimes breaking into a run and always breaking into a sweat. I have a lot of fun chasing her. She never does this when any of the family are around - I suspect they'd laugh.

Ginny has an ongoing problem with her weight. From where I'm standing - about 9 inches off the ground - Ginny's proportions are immense. She has quite thin legs for a human but a very ample behind and is what people call 'well endowed'. I'm not quite sure what this means. At first I thought it meant she had loads of money but having seen her 'borrowing' money from the boys' piggy banks I don't think that's so. I think it may have something to do with her top half. In the mornings Clive often creeps up behind Ginny, grabs her bazookas and asks endearingly: 'And how is my busty, young wench today?' Ginny shakes him off - she'd usually in the middle of making the boys' sandwiches - with a sort of 'can't you see I'm busy' shrug of the shoulders, but the half smile on her lips indicates that she's secretly pleased that her husband of 17 years still finds time for a bit of a squeeze.

Ginny is always worried about her size. She's tried every diet that's going and is fond of taking up exercise fads. This week's fad is the tyre thing. In the cupboard under the stairs is the evidence of previous fads. An exercise bike - boring. An abdominal toner - cricked her back. A step-er-cise - tripped over it. A hula-hoop - couldn't get it up. A Pilates machine - 'why do I need a machine to clench my buttocks?' I'm a bit concerned about Ginnys fads. I heard her on the phone to her friend Liz: 'I thought if I got a dog it would help me get fit. I mean springer spaniels need loads of walks so it'll be the perfect excuse to get out of the house.'

If I'm one Ginny's fads I hope she sticks with it. I don't want to end up in the cupboard under the stairs.

Thursday, April 21, 2005

Oh Joy!

This is a post-script to this morning's blog (Ginny is trying to kill me). I take it back Ginny is not trying to kill me. The strangulating collar? The stabs from the V - E - T? It all had a purpose. And that was so that I can be taken OUTSIDE for a walk. Not just outside in the garden but out in the wide, wide world. I have taken my first walk. And it was FUN. The whole family came and I skittered and skipped and ran and jumped and danced with the sheer joy of it. I'll tell all when I've more time. But be relieved. Ginny is not a canine destroyer.

Ginny is trying to kill me

It's a suspicion that has long been building up at the back of my mind. The evidence:

No. 1. On several occasions she has tried to strangle me. She keeps putting this band around my neck and then pulling it as tight as she can. Then she wedges a couple of fingers between my neck and the band and pulls it. While she'd doing this she's reading a book called: New Dog in the Family, which advises that you should be able to get two fingers between the collar and the neck. I'll give them two fingers! Anyway this collar thing started off in small bouts. Ginny would wrestle me to the ground, then buckle it tight around my neck until my eyes were popping out and then leave it on for a few minutes, feeding me little morsels of roasted chicken. Durrr. Have you ever tried to swallow anything while your neck has been constricted to half its size? It was hard but I managed. Where food is concerned it's important to overcome these obstacles.

Ginny has progressed over the past couple of weeks from just strangling me for a few minutes a day to now when I have to wear this thing all day. I have a go at scratching it off but nothing shifts it. It looks like I'm stuck with it. And the worst thing is she's tied a couple of dangling pendants to the buckle so every time I move I hear ringing in my ears. It's driving me crazy. Festus is overjoyed. It means he can hear me coming, so no more pouncing on the unsuspecting, fur-ball.

No 2. She's taken me to the V - E - T twice to be stabbed. That's no way to treat a puppy. I thinks there's a conspiracy to inflict pain on me. It's quite funny she doesn't say the word 'vet' in front of me - she's obviously cottoned on to the fact that I have a superior intelligence - she spells it out V - E - T. When she draws breathe to whisper the letters I instantly know something's up. Another word that is spelt out is B - I - S - C - U - I - T. I suppose if you're an American dog your owner would spell out C - O - O - K - I - E? Clive always has a biscuit with his cup of tea and he has taken to offering me a few crumbs (when Ginny's not looking). So now as soon as I hear that tin I know it's snack time. To prevent me begging from the table, which is said by humans to be bad manners, Ginny has taken to spelling out the word biscuit. It won't work though. I know there are biscuits around long before a word has been said. That's because I can hear the lid coming off the biscuit tin from 1000 paces. Wherever I am in the house - and thanks to my persistence I now have free run of the Philpott maison - I come running as soon as the lid is pried off.

That's the end of today's blog, I'll keep you posted on the attempts to harm me.

And many thanks for the comments I've had from you. I have yet to meet any real live dogs since my arrival at The Philpotts, it's great to know that I have canine friends in cyberspace.

Saturday, April 09, 2005

Festus returns

Festus came home last night - to general jubilation from my family. Not from me though. I can't see what they see in the puffed-up fur-ball. I mean what is it with all the hissing and spitting? Get a life Festus! Funny thing is he doesn't seem to do it to his family. They get the full-on winding round the legs 'look at me, look at me' treatment. Then they melt and pick him up and fuss him and he starts that under-the-breath growling thing that cats are sooo good at. It's all an act. Nick picked him up this morning and Festus gave me the sort of smirk that badly needs wiping off his sly little face.

'Oh Festus, it's so good to see you, where have you been all this time?'

Festus purred and rubbed his face against Nick's cheek.

'It looks like he's been getting plenty to eat,' said Clive.

'I know where he's been,' piped up Ben.

Everyone gaped at Ben.

'Where?'

'At the Garners.'

'How do you know?'

'I saw him there last week when I went to play with Dominic.'

'Why didn't you tell us Ben? You know we've been looking for him everywhere.'

'I forgot.'

Ginny sighed. She does that a lot with Ben. Ben has a habit of forgetting things. Usually it's homework, or his school lunch box, or PE kit, or telling Ginny that he needs money for a school trip.

'They must have been feeding him, look at the size of him.'

'Yes, he's got his own bowl of food and a bed at the Garner's, and they don't have a dog so he's happy,' said Ben.

'How dare they assume our cat's not happy,' Ginny fumed. 'Why do people feel they can just take other people's cats in? Festus will be quite happy once he's got used to Arrow. He's not going to get used to him if he can turn up on the Garner's doorstep and be treated like the prodigal son.' Ginny was angry.

Clive huffed and buried his nose in the paper. 'Being pounced on every time he comes through the cat-flap doesn't help him settle.'

'Festus can stand up for himself. Arrow's just being playful.'

Yeah, I am! I haven't seen another dog for weeks. It's getting a bit boring. Cats are no substitute for puppies but they're good sport. Since Festus came home he's not been allowed out again and he's getting tetchy. He's taken to creeping around the door of each room he enters, looking to left and right, like a secret agent on a mission. Then he tiptoes in as quietly as he can. That's when I pounce. This morning he leapt a good two feet - amazing - and then scarpered across the wooden floor in the hall leaving a trail of scratch marks. Unfortunately I was the one caught running through the hall. And I'm the one that's been blamed for scratching the precious floor. And I'm the one that's been banished to the back porch while Ginny tries to wax out the scratches. Festus had taken refuge on the windowsill of the living room. I now know what the term 'butter wouldn't melt in his mouth' means. Festus's smirk is never far from his lips - he thinks he's got the upper hand, and I'll admit he has. For now.