Tuesday, August 24, 2010

Death threats on the Downs

Today the wind nearly blew Frank off it as we strode along one of the many paths over Wilmington's tallest chalk dead body outline.

He was all cautious on the way up. But with already scented path guiding us back, plus perhaps the promise of a packet of something naughty at the Ox, he got all self assured. Maybe the steep decline helped, but he kept on trotting ahead, back legs faster than front.
And then, all of a bluster, whoosh, and sideways he went, over the lip of the path and down the grass slop a little.

He can tell when I'm laughing at him... plenty of practice I guess.
Just like wind tells us when he's happy, or relaxed. Or awake.

He looked back and spoke loudly to himself. Sod off. If you weren't so fat you'd be down that hill and they'd need some more chalk.

He's getting heavier, but not much.
We've found some food he likes, so at least he's eating a bit now. At least the vet hasn't got in touch with social services like she planned after our last visit.

You shouldn't be able to see its ribs, or this back bone which is sticking out, or these hind leg bits. Feed him a bit. And maybe let him walk on his own some, she finished, as Jess gathered him up to leave.

But he's loved too much. Sometimes we forget about the food.

Back in the Ox Frank farted appreciation for some cheese and onion crisps. People bent down to stroke him, glancing up at us wondering if we couldn't just have held it in. He never gets the blame.

So, yeah, maybe I did laugh a little.

Saturday, August 21, 2010

Frank the first

We first met frank when he was four weeks.
He looked like this.

When we look back now we think it's hilarious.

Thursday, August 19, 2010

Leading question

Under no circumstances should Frank be allowed off the lead, ever.

If a puppy has ever more repeatedly been told it's loved, I will eat our Cath Kidston dog basket.
And we mean it. He will just have to stay close to us, lead length, forever.
Sorry and all that, lad.

Only his mate Rossco is, already.

So maybe I'll try it today, I thought.
Fuck it.

Shit me, Frank thought.
Er, hang on a minute. Where are you going and why doesn't my neck hurt? Wait up.
That's sheep shit, that is. I'm going to eat it. There, see?, I've eaten it.
No neck pain. Odd.
I'm gonna trot now. I'm trotting. I'm bounding. I'm bloody bounding. I'm going to turn it on on, here I go. Here I go. I'm only bloody running. Earrrrs, back!

What's that? A whistle. That'll be Dad, that will. Better turn around. Better go back. Back, back, I'm coming!, might just bend down here a sec for a bit more dung, and there, I'm back. Watcha!
He does seem pleased.
Must be the poo eating.
I'll do that more then.

Monday, August 16, 2010

Petiquette and losing the sofa

Frank the whippet arrived a month ago.

He moved in with Jess and I suddenly. One day he wasn't there, the next he was.

The next, a line I am pretty sure I'm pinching from another Whippet owner Terry Darlington, he had my slippers on.

Right now he's sleeping in the best spot on the sofa with my girl. There's no getting on there.

I’ve also noted a whiff of routine about the development, so I decided to start blogging again.

Things I've learned since Frank arrived:

1, I'm not ready to have children

2, Petiquette isn't in any of the books I've read.

What do you say while your dog is sniffing another's arse, to the other person holding a lead? In particular, since the dogs decide the length of the encounter, how do you end the conversation swiftly and cleanly, at literally any moment?

'Bye' seems too short, too flippant given the intimacy you've both witnessed; in a way, shared.

So far, 'Have a good day,' is all I've got.

It's not enough. I'm not pretending it is.

Also, Frank is pretty.

There's no point denying it.

Eventually he'll look scrawny and lopsided like all whippets, but right now, at 12 weeks, he's a delightfully subtle light browny grey colour with white markings on his legs and bum. He's got blue eyes and tilts his head at all the right moments. So people tell him, relentlessly, in the park, before he sniffs their dog or them. And, I'm sorry, but I've got in the habit of saying 'Thank you.'

I know this can't be right. It sounds wrong as I say it - which is probably a sign.

But what's the alternative?

'But you're too kind, sir. For your dog is the infinitely more beautiful.. My what a looker.' (?)

Anyway, today I also started reading a book about looking after your dog, perhaps belatedly.

Skipping the chapters on choosing your breed and pet, which we’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed about, I’m on to ‘the first few weeks’.

I’m, er, dog-earing the pages Jess should read too. Which is a lot.

Tonight I’m going to put him to bed the way I should have done since we had him. That is to say, not carry him across the room and poke him through the crate door before rapidly shutting it, pulling down the cover and running out of the room before he starts yowling.

Odd how I thought this could be the right way.

But tonight Frank will be ‘led to the crate with a toy or treat, and settled down quietly with stroking…’ etc until he doses off.

Cesar Millan makes it sound so simple.