The Dog's Blog

23:27:08 o'clock BST

For the first time in my short history of blogging, I have had to bow to a more supreme authority.  Some members of my partner's family objected to the entry that WAS in place here.  So I have removed it, and now leave you with:

JASPER'S HOLIDAY DIARY - DAY THREE

To the town of St. David's today, where there is a most impressive cathedral and ruined Bishop's Palace.  My partner and I waited outside while all went into the cathedral and enjoyed the peace of our surroundings.  I was very excited, as the Bishop's Palace looked a lot like an old castle and I have always wanted to explore an old castle.  Alas, the perennial problem again beset my plans - dogs were not allowed into the Palace.  I muttered silent curses, wholly inappropriate to my surroundings.  My partner was rather compromised as well, because entry to the Palace site was about £5.00 and spare cash is rather tight with us at present...

Thus it was that my partner and I enjoyed some quiet reflection, sitting on a medieval wall, next to a sparkling medieval ford, in between the cathedral and the medieval palace (having circumnavigated the all-too-modern gift shop) while Ewan (delightful nephew, as opposed to dimwit hound) and the rest of the family explored the Palace.
 Ewan and his parents explore the Bishop's Palace...

... while I sit upon my wall with my partner and her father:

As we waited and enjoyed the sunshine, I gradually became aware that a man was carefully walking up to us, snapping away with a professional-looking camera.  My partner gave him a rather quizzical look, and he explained that he was "really impressed with the handsome dog you have there."  He was an American gentleman, on holiday, and asked my partner's permission to photograph me properly.  With the appropriate permissions in place, I am always happy to pose for photographs and obligingly arranged myself into a variety of delightful situations while the chap snapped away.  How unexpectedly flattering.  After this we enjoyed a fine picnic upon the grass.

We returned to our cottage after a little potter around St. David's, followed by a rather disappointing drive (my partner's boss had recommended a visit to Whitesands Bay.  We found it, and it was well worth the recommendation, save for the large "No dogs permitted between May to September" notice.  Grrrowl).  Suitably rested and refreshed, my partner and I enjoyed yet another delightful cliff-top walk in the evening.
 Surely Heaven itself could provide no finer sight?

And the following day, I would finally - FINALLY!! - achieve one of my long-cherished holiday aims, and get one paw closer to achieving a second!  Happy days...

Good night.

Written by ruthnjasper Link to this entry | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 4 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

00:11:12 o'clock BST

Enough is enough.  I have endured too long a separation from my blog.  Do not seek to blame me, however, dear reader.  The blog and I were forced to part when I contracted a severe case of conjunctivitis.  I was very poorly, with sore eyes and a fever and my partner and Maisie have been most diligent in bathing my eyes and putting in drops thrice daily.  The only light note in this melancholy tune was the leaflet that came with my drops from the vet.  It exhorted me not to drive, operate heavy machinery or wear contact lenses when using the drops.  So, obviously, the keys to my forklift truck had to be put out of my reach...  For goodness' sake.

Happily, I am now almost recovered.  My partner, however, has been excessively troubled of late.  I am not going into details, as I do not want to depress you, dear reader.  I have been an oasis of calm and reliability throughout and she has delighted in my support.  I had almost - almost - got out of having to explain myself online following my naughty episode.  Less happily, Maisie did me up a salad for my tea last night containing, among other things, hard-boiled egg and cold steamed broccoli.

It kicked in about fifteen minutes after my partner and I had retired to bed.  She was too tired to get up again and open the window.  Let me just say that she was not happy and leave it at that.  Then, this evening, one of our online friends was encouraging my partner to make me repeat my tale of wickedness and what she said was enough to turn my partner's thoughts.  I mention no names - but, Angie, you have much to be ashamed of.

Right then - and let me make this clear - this is the first and positively, irrevocably, last time that my partner is allowed anywhere near writing in my blog.  And I'm not allowed to delete what she writes, because she's going to check it before I post it.  Read without prejudice:

Jasper's Version
After a delightful evening's stroll on Abbotstone, I took a brief lie down to enjoy a light snack.  After a moment my partner appeared, somewhat inexplicably distressed, and asked me to escort her back to the car.  I dutifully complied.  All was well.

 

Jasper's Partner's Version
After a delightful evening's stroll on Abbotstone, Jasper disappeared off after a rabbit in the usual place (close to the warren).  I know that, if he has not reappeared after a few minutes, it's ok to walk back to the car because he will either catch up with me in a bit or cut through the woods and wait for me by the car.  This is ALWAYS what happens and I have no fear of him straying or getting lost - he often journeys back to the car by himself if he has had enough on Dartmoor (or elsewhere) and waits quietly and patiently for me next to our vehicle.
On approaching the Abbotstone car park, I could see that he was neither waiting for me there nor coming up the path behind me.  I waited for ten minutes, but there was no sign of him.  I then started to walk back down towards the rabbit warren (approximately three-quarters of a mile away).  No sign of him.  Back to the car I walked; again, no sign of Jasper en route or at the car.  So I wait in the car park for twenty minutes.  Still no dog.
It is now beginning to get dark, and Abbotstone is a fairly isolated spot.  I walk again from the car park to the warren, calling and whistling for Jasper, and starting to feel uneasy.  No sign of mutt anywhere - so back to the car I go.
I now feel distinctly sick.  I have been hollering for my normally well-behaved little Jasper for some time now, with no response.  This has never happened before, to this extent.  I am now scared and in tears - remember that Jasper has now been missing for nearly forty minutes.  On the way back from my third walk to the warren, desperately worried, near-hysterical  and almost hoarse from calling Jasper's name, I see a white shape lying on the ground a short distance away.  "JASPER! Is that you?!" I cry.  No response - not even a movement.  "JASPER!  Are you alright, sweetie?!!" Nothing.  The shape lies motionless, but I have stared enough to know that this can only be Jasper.
At this point, I believe him to be dead or dying.  There has been no sign of life whatsoever from the prostrate body.  He has either been shot by a poacher, hit his head on something or had a heart attack.  I had to get to him, but was terrified of what I would find, and dreading the confirmation of my worst fears.
To reach my beloved Jasper I must negotiate a barbed-wire fence, which I hasten to do, cutting my knee and tearing my favourite comfy jumper in my desperation to reach him.  All the while, I am sobbing out loud "Jasper! Are you OK!?  JASPER!!??!"
I reach him.
He is pretending to be unaware of my cries.  Feigning deafness.  Because he has a little prize of a deer-leg, which he is happily gnawing.  The look on his face tells me clearer than any words could do that he has deliberately ignored me so that he can have the maximum possible time with his meaty bone.  He looks pleased with himself and only just deigns to look a bit guilty.  He knows what he has done.
I can just summon the energy to glare at him and say "Car.  Now."  He does not protest.
To Jasper's credit, I will say that he knew straight away that his actions were terribly wrong and that he caused a great deal of distress.  He will probably not admit it, but he was extremely sorry for his deeds.  I have forgiven him, but I did send him to bed early that night, to think about what he had done.

She's gone now.  She and Dolores went to see the Sex and the City film the other night (which they very much enjoyed), so now my partner is watching the whole series through on DVD.  I don't mind it actually, and it keeps her out of my fur.

I meant to put in Day Three of my Holiday Diary with this entry, but my partner took too much time to put down her version of events and I have an urgent need to go into my garden and download some wee-mails, so that must wait for another time.

Do not judge me too harshly, my friend.  I was a very naughty boy, but my sweet partner has forgiven me.

And that deer-leg was mighty tasty, heh heh heh.....

Good night.

Written by ruthnjasper Link to this entry | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 4 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

22:50:28 o'clock BST

Man alive.  It has NOT been an uneventful week.  I hardly know where to begin.  In the first place, here I am dressed as Sherwood Forest from page 9 of the local newspaper.

In the background, you might be able to see my Little Green Corsa.  And, believe me, I was every bit as fed up as I look.

I have had the company of my partner today, as she was not at all well.  Yesterday, we did the Cancer Research "Race for Life" with Dolores.  I was festooned with a pink scarf and received a medal for completing the race at the finishing line.  I drew much praise and admiration from the viewing public, but the efforts proved a little too much for my partner.  We love our extra-long walks, but at our own pace and with appropriate rest-stops, and I am sorry to say a migraine ensued in the poor girl, which lingers on even now.  She made a valiant attempt to get up and dressed for work, but was ultimately defeated and returned to bed - with trusty Jasper snuggling down selflessly at her side.

Apparently, I have been a particularly naughty boy just recently.  Heaven alone knows exactly what I am supposed to have done but my partner says that the world must be told of my apparent crime, that I may think twice before repeating the offence.  However, this must be a tale for another time - my partner says that making any reference to my heinous actions (for she will not trust me to relate the tale myself and demands to be allowed access to my blog to commit it to posterity.  I have not yet managed to see a way out of this.) may bring about a return of her migraine.  Instead, I offer to you:

JASPER'S HOLIDAY DIARY - DAY TWO

My partner and I awoke to a glorious morning in Abercastle.  The sun shone and the gentle waves lapping at the beach serenaded us as we broke our fast with a pot of tea on the sun-kissed patio.  While I tried to work out a way of scaling the cliffs that descended to our garden (rock-climbing is a particular hobby of mine), my partner sipped her tea and read her holiday book - a biography of Marie Antoinette (a loving woman, innocent of what she was accused of saying and doing.  What happened to her was a travesty, but don't even get me started on that subject...).

After I had reluctantly conceded my inability to climb the cliffs without the aid of a crampon, my partner and I quickly and efficiently unpacked our Little Green Corsa and stacked away our goodies (my partner did the work: I supervised).  We then pottered the few yards to the little beach and I took a most refreshing dip in the crystal-clear Atlantic waters.  At this point, two golden retrievers ambled down the hill to introduce themselves - the first of my holiday friends.  Their names were Mali (a chap) and Cadi (an elderly, yet elegant, lady).  They lived in a big pink house on the opposite cliff and were allowed to wander at will around the hamlet.  They made a tour of all the houses every morning and were most affable.

 Cadi (on the beach)

 Mali (on his rounds, at my front door)

Their compatriot was a little brown chap of indeterminate origin (but with a truly majestic tail) named Bobby, unfortunately I don't have a picture of him.  The three were really quite comical.  All very sociable, and at 10.00am sharp every day they would trot off to the end of the hamlet to await the bus.  The driver always had a biscuit for them.  At 10.30am they moved on a little further to greet the arrival of the postman, who was also armed with a supply of biscuits.  How I envy their lifestyle.  I also enjoyed meeting a lovely young lady, a whippet named Rowley, who was holidaying with her partners from Henley-on-Thames.  She was very sparky and fun to play with on the beach.

Just after lunch-time we were joined in our cottage by my partner's parents, along with her brother, sister-in-law and little Ewan.  I was most relieved to see that they had performed their journeys without incident.  Following an afternoon of football in the garden and a little bit of sandcastle-construction on the beach with Ewan, my partner and I took a simply delightful walk over the cliffs in the evening.  I share with you now some pictures from this.  Witness heaven on earth:

Good night.

Written by ruthnjasper Link to this entry | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 2 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

23:54:48 o'clock BST

Ah, how swiftly the paw of Nature works its magic in such a short time.  The bluebells are all gone over and sylvan glades that once were light, airy and inviting are now dark and forbidding as the trees stretch their emerald canopies wide to absorb the sun.  And all this in the space of one week - Yes: I have returned from my holiday in Wales and have been out to inspect my woodlands.

I am not currently speaking to my partner as, today being a Bank Holiday and the annual fête in a neighbouring village, she had volunteered herself (and me) to assist with a stall for her local Dramatic Society.  I wore a vest emblazoned with the name of the society and the fact that this is its sixtieth year.  I did not agree to this, but decided to tolerate it.  Due to the foulness of the weather, the fête was moved into the village hall, so all was cramped, crowded and distinctly damp.  My spirits picked up a little when I was recognised by a family who had seen one of my turns as "Bullseye" in Oliver!, which was hugely flattering.  My recovery continued as a gentleman representing two of the local main newspapers asked if I would appear in the photographs to accompany the articles reporting the event.  I naturally concurred; this was my first mistake.  The next production for the theatre company being a pantomime version of "Robin Hood", a large string of silk and plastic foliage was produced and my partner proceeded to dress me with it - in addition to the vest - to portray me as "Sherwood Forest".  The photographs were taken outside, in the car park.  In the pouring rain. 

AND I had to sit in a pram. 

Depending on how the photographs turn out and how they affect my public image, I may have to take steps to deal with my partner.  I shall consider the matter privately.

My holiday was hugely enjoyable, however.  Far too full to summarise in one blog entry, so I have pleasure in presenting Part 1 of a brief new series:

JASPER'S HOLIDAY DIARY - DAY ONE

My partner and I were travelling a day in advance of everyone else in our party, as the others had been summoned to a celebration elsewhere.  Our scheduled time of departure was 11.00am, but customary unpreparedness and procrastination saw us off, following a tearful series of goodbyes for me from Maisie, at 3.30pm. 

We made good progress in our Little Green Corsa, stopping only twice for downloading wee-mails.  A sight which caused intense irritation arrested me on our first stop.  A number of cars containing football supporters had overtaken us at one stage - the day being that of the FA Cup Final between Portsmouth and Cardiff, held at the Welsh stadium.  As I passed my golden-amber liquid at the edge of the service station car park, two cars seemingly engaged in some sort of race, squealed into the area, turning every head.  The cars sped through the parking area and stopped in the two disabled-only parking bays nearest the doors of the restaurant complex.  A number of young chaps poured out of the cars, all drinking some sort of beverage from lurid tins.

Now, as a supporter of Southampton FC (well, it's more toleration than support these days if I'm honest), I naturally would not wish to impugn my Portsmouth brethren - but suffice it to say that these chaps were Pompey fans, and fine upstanding examples of the Fratton Park community they were too.  With a disdainful stare, I was ushered into my seat and secured within my seatbelt.  It gave us great pleasure, an hour or so later, to see one of these same cars parked up on the M4 hard shoulder, flanked by two lights a-flashing police cars and a group of angry rozzers.  With a wry smile, I settled down to sleep.

I woke only to observe our passage over the Severn Bridge (the toll has increased to £5.30!), and slept well again until we reached our destination.  Surprisingly, we did not get lost, and the journey took just under 5½ hours, including the two stops.

The cottage, the hamlet (Abercastle) and the beach immediately before us were all an absolute delight.  The cottage owners had left two bottles of wine to welcome us, one of which my partner cracked open to toast our successful journey.  I was thrilled with the large patio and garden, and its proximity to the shore.  We wasted no time in taking a stroll on the sand and I launched myself into the sea with great gusto and a happy yelp.

We decided to round off the evening with a dvd from the selection provided in the cottage.  We found a copy of "Ricky Gervais - Animals" and, as my partner is a huge fan of his work, settled on that.  We opened the case - to find that someone had nicked the disc.  Ah well - we were so pleased with our holiday location that, with a philosophical sigh and a last swig of wine, we retired to bed, the gentle lapping of the waves soothing us off to a happy sleep.

Good night.

Written by ruthnjasper Link to this entry | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 4 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

14:44:30 o'clock BST

I have had a very busy week and must apologise to those who sent me messages.  I deeply regret my inattention in not being able to respond - and send you my grateful thanks.

My partner and I are off to Wales in a moment.  Our deadline for leaving was 11.00am this morning.  It is now 2.39pm.  We are almost ready to depart, however, so this is better progress than usual.

My goals for this holiday are as follows:

1) Playing on the beach.   LIKELIHOOD: 100%. The cottage has its own beach.
2) Fight with a seal.   LIKELIHOOD: 42%.  My extra long walks with my partner have made me quite buff of late.
3) A Boat-trip.   LIKELIHOOD: 67%.  Depends on the weather.
4) For the journey home NOT to take over 8 hours, with my partner stopping to vomit every half hour because she had gastric flu and drove the wrong way.   LIKELIHOOD: 2%.

Will I achieve these aims?  A full report will be provided upon my return next week.

Good afternoon.

Written by ruthnjasper Link to this entry | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 2 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

19:37:28 o'clock BST

The weather of late has forced me into idleness.  For we are enduring a heat-wave in my lovely part of the country that is most unseasonable and which renders activity during the day nigh-on impossible.

My partner has installed a small paddling pool in the garden for me, that I may take refreshment at any time I choose, but it is still something of a trial.  Last weekend I did brave the heat in order to inspect the bluebells in the woods where my partner works.  I have to say that they were worth the effort.  Observe:

 Here, I am pretending to be a bluebell. Can you see me?

But the passing over of the bluebells swiftly ushered in my first tick of the season.  My partner pulled it off with tweezers last night, which was slightly less than pleasant.

Barking of annoying parasites, the fat waster of a hedgepig has now taken up permanent residence in my garden, the git.  He didn't even deign to ask my permission.  I know where he is - he's in the corner by the Hostas.  I have issued him with repeated eviction orders, but I'm sure I can hear him laughing at them from the safety of his many-rooted cabin.  Just the other day, my partner's mother was being complimented on the beauty and slug-free nature of her border plants.
"Yes." she said in reply, "We have a hedgehog now." Eh?  WE HAVE A HEDGEHOG?!?  It sickens me the way he has wriggled his way into the household.  Well, he is not on MY list of employees.  I trust he is not expecting the pension or health benefits that I provide to my staff.

The one thing that amuses me is seeing how fat he has become.  He is at least twice the size he was last year.  There is a most satisfying squeaking and grinding noise when he tries to squeeze his fat ar*e under the gate to next door's garden.  It reminds me of a line from that excellent film, Parenthood.  Jason Robards is describing fatherhood to his put-upon son played by Steve Martin.  Of the experience, he says "It's like your Aunt Edna's a*s - it goes on forever and is just as frightening."  The hedgepig is looking like a spiky Aunt Edna.

This time next week, I will be in Wales!  I am getting so excited!  The cottage where we are all staying this time is of a luxury nature and has its own beach.  Here is a little picture of it:
Oh yes.
My partner and I are to make up the advance party in our Little Green Corsa next Saturday, being joined on the following day by her parents, brother Tim and sister-in-law Nicky and the ever-delightful Ewan.  It is a year ago that I was forced to revise my opinion of him (I formerly believed him to be a little git-wizard.  I now admit that I was wrong) - it may be that I find additional closeness with him as the months pass, because I have to report that Nicky is again in pup!  She is due to be whelped at the end of November.  2-year old Ewan is still too little to understand properly, but I can enlighten him as to how annoying siblings can be.  I shall teach him my stealthful tactics, such as head-butting your littermates out of the way so that you get the best teat or the sunniest corner of the whelping-box.  My partner says this is not necessary, as Ewan neither feeds from teats nor lives in a box.  But I'm sure I have SOME tips that he can utilise, heh heh...

I will outline my plans for the holiday in a subsequent entry.  But I shall leave you now with Ewan, dressed up as Tigger:
 Heh heh, that's my boy.

Good night.

Written by ruthnjasper Link to this entry | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 4 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

14:44:08 o'clock BST

I am writing my blog entry early today, in the hope that it may prove balm to my tormented mind.  The flashing, rumbling sky-dog paid a prolonged visit this morning, reducing me to a shadow of my normally buoyant self.  Despite my partner's assurances that it was only a temporary weather condition, I was beside myself with terror.

I attempted to carve myself a niche in which to hide within the putrid compost-heap in my garden, thinking that the sky-dog would never dare to follow me in there, but my partner caught me, fished me out and forced me into renewed cleanliness.  By the time she had finished towelling me down and telling me what she thought of me, the sky-dog had rumbled away.    But fear has wearied me, so I might pretend to be dead when my partner wants to take me out for my exercise later this afternoon.  This is a skill the practice of which I would recommend to anyone.  When I am about to be summoned into something against my will, I instantly assume the position of one in the preliminary stages of rigor mortis.  I reduce my breathing to its shallowest and fail to respond to all stimuli.  I have mastered all aspects of this state, except one.  I cannot resist taking a look to see if my ruse has succeeded, and this is my downfall.  Instead of seeing my partner prostrate with grief at my untimely passing, as soon as I open one eye for a sneaky peek she crows "AHA! I knew it!  Get up, you lazy maggot."  It's no good - I just have to look.  It seems there are some skills even I cannot perfect.

As if all this were not torment enough, my garden has been invaded again.  The hedgepig (see previous entries) has now taken up permanent residence and has been OPENLY lauded by my partner's mother for his efforts in keeping slugs off her prized Hostas (and, for the mucky-minded amongst you, that is NOT a euphemism). 

Sometimes I think I might be the subject of some kind of wildlife-sponsored Hedgerow Outreach Programme.  The latest 'community worker' to be assigned to me was first sited a few days ago and initially proved a bit of a mystery.  We saw him on the bird feeder, helping himself to some goodies.  Though clearly a rodent with brownish fur, he was too small and differently-coloured to be a squirrel, yet too large to be a mouse, and was most definitely on MY property.  I was intrigued.

Just the next day, I encountered the fellow as I took an afternoon tour of my estate.  He was nibbling some succulent blades of my grass and I was upon him before he could flee. "What are you?" I demanded.  He looked up at me, as if not quite understanding. "Are you a rat?"  I calmly placed a restraining paw on his tail, to prevent his escape.
"Not exactly." came the reedy-voiced reply, as his dark eyes wildly searched for an escape route.
"Come on, then." I said. "Don't worry, I'm not going to eat you."  The visitor relaxed a bit, though his eyes never stopped darting about.
"I'm a water-rat."
I nodded, and was about to release him when I was struck by a thought.  My home is not close to the river, and the busy main road lies between my grounds and the fields before the river.  I asked him how he had ended up in my territory.  He shrugged.
"Buzzard." he replied, matter-of-factly. (And regular readers of this blog will know enough of my opinion of these foul raptors to believe that my sympathy was instantly bestowed on the river-dweller). "Caught me and flew off.  I managed to struggle round and bit him hard," (Respect was instantly added to the sympathy), "so he dropped me and I ended up here."
"Blimey." I said.  I told the water-rat that I was not able to return him to his home but, in recognition of his troubles, he was welcome to make himself comfortable in my garden.  I have since found that he has accepted my offer and has tunnelled a small burrow under one of my little ornamental trees.  As I released the fellow's tail and turned to re-enter the house, I felt a certain curiosity about his experience and asked him what it was like - being captured by a buzzard.  There was a brief silence and then he said
"Didn't think much of the in-flight entertainment."
I laughed, despite myself, as he scampered away and I decided he might be a welcome addition to my garden.  Plus which, I've ALREADY seen the New Cat sniffing about outside the gate at the new 'mousey' aroma - so, as bait, he is already proving his worth.  Hehehe.

Good afternoon.

Written by ruthnjasper Link to this entry | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 3 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

23:28:15 o'clock BST

Happy St. George's Day!  Today I celebrate my Englishness and all that makes my country great.  Cricket, cream teas, and plucky Staffordshire Bull Terriers.

With profound apologies to Gustave Moreau:

 St. George spays the last dragon in England.

If you are not aware of the noble legend, here is a brief summary:  In the First Century AD, the King's Chief Vet in Charge of Birth-Control (St. Snippus) ordered that all dragons be spayed to eliminate the nuisance they caused.  St. George dogfully volunteered for the task and is depicted above dealing with a typical miscreant.  This naughty fellow had kidnapped a dusky maiden to fulfil his every sordid whim, so brave St. George was able to liberate her as well as sorting out the dragon.

So there you have it - St. George spayed the last dragon in England.  Although, to judge by the appearance of the New Cat and his cronies, one or two might have slipped under the radar.

Good night.

Written by ruthnjasper Link to this entry | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 2 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

22:56:11 o'clock BST

Exactly 96 years ago today, at 2.20am, the R.M.S. Titanic (which sailed from Southampton, close to where I live) disappeared beneath the surface of the North Atlantic, two hours and forty minutes after striking an iceberg.  1,223 people died - 705 survived.  My partner has been a student of Titanic's history ever since the wreck was discovered on September 1, 1985.

So, on this day, we remember the great ship, the lives that were lost and the people who suffered as a result of the tragedy.  This year, as well, I would like to add my bark and pay tribute to those canine passengers who accompanied their partners on the Titanic.

 (my partner actually has a lovely memorial postcard from 1912, but it was packed safely away when the decorators were in and we can't find it, so you'll have to make do with this picture instead).

The Titanic Dogs Roll Call
Gamon de Pycombe, French Bulldog.  Died (but was seen by several witnesses swimming in the water).
Sun-Yat-Sen, Pekingese.  Survived.
Frou-Frou, breed unknown.  Died.
Name unknown, Chow-Chow.  Died.
Name unknown, King Charles Spaniel.  Died.
Name unknown, Airedale.  Died.
Name unknown, Pomeranian.  Survived (while waiting for the lifeboat, Mr. J. Clinch-Smith joked to Miss Hays, the dog’s owner, that the White Star Line should have provided a little life-jacket for the dog.  Mr. Clinch-Smith died).
Kitty, Airedale.  Died.
Name unknown, Airedale.  Died.
Name unknown, Fox Terrier.  Died.
Name unknown, Pomeranian.  Survived.
Name unknown, Newfoundland (or may have been a St. Bernard or Great Dane).  Died.*

And Jenny, the ship's cat - along with her litter of newborn kittens.  Died.

* It is widely believed that this last dog belonged to Miss Ann Isham, one of only four First Class ladies to die when the ship went down.  It was reported in a 1912 newspaper (The Daily Sketch) that she refused to get into a lifeboat without her dog, choosing to stay with him until the end.  Another contemporary 1912 newspaper report, held in the Southampton City Heritage Collection, states the following:
"From our own correspondent, New York, Wednesday.  More than 100 of the Titanic's victims were seen floating on the water by the steamship Bremen, which arrived today from Bremen, when, on April 20, the German liner passed over the spot where the Titanic went down.  Mrs. Johanna Stunke, a first cabin passenger on the Bremen, gave a vivid story of the scene from the liner's rail. 'We had been told by some of the officers that [we were] going to pass within a few miles of the position given by the Titanic when she sank... we all rushed to the starboard rail.  It was a beautiful afternoon... but as we drew nearer we could make out small dots floating around in the sea... We passed within a hundred feet of the wreckage... we distinctly saw a number of bodies so clearly that we could make out what they were wearing, and whether they were men or women...
There was another woman, fully dressed, with her arms tight around the body of a shaggy dog that looked like a St. Bernard.'"

My partner would not have boarded a lifeboat and left me behind, either.

Good night.

Written by ruthnjasper Link to this entry | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 5 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

22:59:00 o'clock BST

Ah, sweet, oft-neglected blog, how much I have to bark to you.  Alas, misfortune seems to be trailing the every move of my partner of late.  I really don't think 2008 is destined to be her year.

Firstly, she had the 'flu.  Then, the ill-timed dalliance with BC, for which I have still not completely forgiven the machinations of fate.  Then there was her emergency dash to hospital, in fear of her life and looking like the Elephant Man, followed by several days on a drip and in inexpressible pain.  Now, she has a severe head cold and sounds like Marge Simpson on dope.  Her head aches, it hurts to cough, she has muscular pain and the regular nose-blowing has occasioned a weakness in her left nostril.  Every morning for the past three days, a blood vessel in the side of her nose has given way and blood has, quite literally, streamed forth in several riverlets.

I have been interested to study this process and note that my partner's blood is somewhat lighter than mine.  I'm not sure why this should be - perhaps mine is more pure.  Anyway, I have been nobly doing my Florence Nightingdog bit, and administering what aid I can to my poor beleagured partner, but I admit that I grow weary of such constant misfortune.  As if all this wasn't enough, I have now been informed that we canot afford a holiday this year.  Bah!  And I was hoping for a fortnight on Dartmoor this summer.  We ARE going to Wales for a week next month - a repeat of last year's family getaway - but we are members of the party rather than taking it as a holiday of our choice.  Ho well.  At least I am in good health.

The saga of my diseased ear is thankfully drawing to a close.  But before I get on to this - what in the name of sweet puppy Cerberus is going on with the weather?  Today was a glorious Spring day - the most recent Friday saw thunderstorms (boo!) and hailstones the size of little peas - and this is me last Sunday, writing my name in the snow...
  Joined-up writing, though, hee hee...

So, back to the ear.  A further draining by the vet was required the day after the initial session, and was just as traumatic.  Surgery was pronounced to be necessary.  This prognostication was most troubling, and not merely for financial reasons.  My partner did not wish to expose me to an operation and all the matters of shaving and anaesthetic that accompanies it.  I wasn't too keen either.  As it was then the weekend, I was closely watched for two days and my partner noted that my little "mermaid's purse" was slower to refill itself than formerly.  At work the following day, my partner decided to surprise me with a little self-medication.  She sterilised a pin and took me to the yard.  I lay down compliantly and gritted my fangs while she pierced the sac and expressed its load of hot, foul pus.  I shrieked and shrieked, but the relief was inexpressible.  Almost straight away, the hot, angry throbbing in my ear faded away and the flap has now regained its normal coolness.  With paw on wood, I am happy to bark that the infection did not return following this third trauma and all continues well.  Phew!  I was given a consolatory cuddle and a special biscuit on re-entering the office.  Almost as soon as I re-entered the room, I was met by an excited Ewan (canine colleague of limited intelligence, as opposed to engaging nephew of partner).
"Jasper!"  he yipped, "Did you HEAR that screaming just now?!  It was AMAZING!"
"Yes, it was me." I replied, wiggling my ear at him.
"Oh, wow, really?!" he continued, "Brilliant!  But did you hear it?"
I sighed, as he proceeded to explain how he thought it was the triple-nosed Beast of the Woods, whose fangs had fangs of their own and who could kill with a single drop of its drool....  I lay down at my partner's feet and pretended to snore.  "Oh right." said Ewan, who promptly lay down and fell into a genuine doze.

Honestly, sometimes Ewan is SO stupid that I just want to take him outside and beat him into a ragged, sodden pulp, but he is just impossible to hate.  He has not a shred of malice in him, and I daresay he cannot help whatever is lacking in his head.  I'll admit that I was somewhat relieved to see him as, before my partner's hospital episode, I genuinely thought I might have caused Ewan some permanent damage.

I should explain that Ewan and I are encouraged to chase the evil squirrels that regularly plunder the bird-table in the workyard.  As soon as one is spotted, Ewan and I are ushered quietly to the door and ready ourselves, like athletes in the starting blocks (we have to do this as the squirrels have learned the sound of the door-lock release. Little blighters).  The door is then opened, and Ewan and I hurl ourselves at the receding backsides of the squirrels, yelling our foul battle-cries.  Or rather, I do.  Ewan dashes out towards the squirrels with me, but breaks off whenever he sees his football and tries to chase that.  I have not yet succeeded in capturing one of the tree-rats.  They invariably scamper up the wood-store to freedom and then stand in the trees jabbering incomprehensibly and waving their armfuls of plundered booty at me.  Curse them.

After one of these excursions, Ewan ambled back from his football to join me as I padded towards the office door.
"I love chasing squirrels." he said, happily, "It's fun."  I grunted in reply, slightly put out by my latest near-miss.  After a few moment's silence, he piped up again. "Jasper,"
"Yes?"
"What is a squirrel?"  I looked at him for a moment.  I was feeling a bit cheeky.
"It's a bird."
"Oh, right.  Brilliant!"  He nodded, sagely, while I just stared at him.  Then "Jasper?"
"Ye-es?"
"What is a bird?"  I grinned.
"It's a squirrel." I replied.  Smiling, and genuinely thinking this might have amused Ewan as well, I gained the door which was opened for me.  I stopped and turned, only to see Ewan standing still, his face contorted almost in pain as he tried to comprehend my explanations.  His lips moved, forming silent words, and when he starting walking towards the door again, with eyes glazed over, he tripped over his own front paws and fell on his face.
I asked him if he was alright, but he remained incapable of speech for the rest of the afternoon.  I felt terribly guilty and made a mental note not to be smart with him again.  So you can understand my relief at not having permanently broken him.

Good night.

Written by ruthnjasper Link to this entry | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 3 comments: Show Recent | Add your own