In case you were wondering (I know you weren’t really but like the current England cricket team, it’s a good opener) what a person a bit (well, quite a lot really) like me gets up to in these grey times of sub-zero centigrade, the answer would be sunning myself on a beach in the Canary Islands. Except that’s not strictly speaking true. And when I say not strictly speaking I mean it’s not true at all, rather than I am sunning myself on a beach just not a beach in the Canary Islands. There are no beaches and what sun exists in my world is accompanied by a chill wind.
But what I am doing in these grey and sub-zero times (glad you asked, thanks) is quite a lot of dog-walking. I have just officially announced my official retirement from that work thing; it has been a kind of slow, gradual slide into the status of ‘retired’ since I just gave up doing work in January this year, but haven’t actually felt able to declare myself as ‘retired’ until now. So this has all felt like the last 12 months have been more of an extended holiday, which is nice.
So yes, dog-walking. Or is it dogwalking? Anyway. I’ll spare you the minutiae of the daily routine except to say that I’m walking the big dogs three times a day and the little fluffy buggers are getting one walk each per day. Apart from the very occasional occasions when I’m feeling brave and take all four out at the same time. But that messes up the counting and also puts enormous strain on me because walking four spaniels (three on a lead and one free-range) around the village is not a pursuit for the faint-hearted.
Over the last 12 months my knowledge of the names of our fellow villagers has increased by approximately 0%, whilst my knowledge of the names of the dogs that belong to our fellow villagers has increased by several thousand %. I don’t know why but it has. Perhaps I just connect with the dogs and not the people?
Our two bigger dogs (Robyn will be four years old in a few weeks and Chewie will forever be a big brown puppy in my eyes) get on well with almost every dog in the parish. Except for the two Cock-a-poos (I think they’re called and I think that’s how you spell it) which they hate with a vengeance and which hate our two back with the same vengeance. Chewie would quite like to punch the Cock-a-poos in the throat (or perform the doggy equivalent) whilst Robyn would run away from anyone provided they haven’t stolen her tennis ball.
Neither of the two baby spanners (they’re six months old now!) have met any of the other village dogs yet. I’m happy with this. But yes, dog-walking (dogwalking?), that’s my primary focus these days. And planning, of course (because I am, after all, a planner).
I’m currently putting the North Wales Cruising Club events for 2023 into the household calendar so that I can see which ones match up with school holidays when I might be relieved of doggy duties for a day, or a couple of days, or a week, or possibly even a fortnight.
Unfortunately the 2023 Jester Challenge falls outside the school holidays which means the singlehanded trip to Baltimore will just have to happen without me. But there are a few other events that I’m looking at in a hopeful way. Just need to negotiate things with the management, obviously.
Back to the spanners.
As previously said, the babies are now six months old and stone me they’ve grown. I mean grown! They’re also developing their characters. Pugsley, despite being the runt of the litter is by far the more adventurous of the pair. Mavis is quite timid by comparison. Her barkometer is on a hair trigger (the same kind of hair trigger that Chewie’s waggleometer is on) but when someone comes to the door she’ll jump up on me in a ‘save me, daddy’ kind of way whilst barking ferociously in the general direction of the door. Pugsley, however, wants to be out there and has made several successful escape attempts through the narrowest of gaps which have necessitated a chase around the street of anxious yet comedy moments as I’ve tried to recapture the little darling whilst clad in just a pair of crocks, a t-shirt and a bathrobe. Me so clad, not him, obviously.
I was talking to the lady who runs the village pet shop (we have four dogs and four cats therefore this small village having its own pet shop is fully justified by this household alone) and she said how much she loved the spaniel-tilting-head-to-one-side thing that they (spaniels) do. She’s biased though. She has two spaniels of her own and I know that two is half the official and quite proper number of spaniels that she should have, but her opinion carries some weight. And she’s right. It’s a lovely little thing that they do. I’d love to know how they learn it because I don’t think anyone in this house tilts their head in the same manner. Except the two older spaniels, obviously.
Anyway.
One forgets how difficult it is to toilet train puppies. Time passes, memories become dim and soften the harshness of what really happened in the past. But toilet training two puppies at the same time makes things really difficult. Twice as difficult. Twice as many ‘accidents’. Ho hum.
“Dog walking” surely?
I don’t know now. Every time I look at it in all formats it looks wrong.
If it wasn’t for walking the dog, I’d be old and fat, instead of just… old.
And yes, likewise, we know the names of all the dogs round here, but only a few of the owners names.
There’s a house we walk past several times a week, lived in by an amateur radio operator. We’ve exchanged friendly words several times. He’s invited me in to look at his radio shack (even though it’s in a spare bedroom). He’s the only non-dog owner we speak to. I’m not sure what any of this means.