Let them eat cake............

Yesterday we were taken to a local RSPCA dog show. We were bundled into the back of the old Volvo after a wash and brush up. I say wash and brush up, what actually happened is that we were sprayed with some bizarre smelling liquid that came out of a red bottle with a picture of a cartoon dog emblazoned upon it. We were then brushed and told “don’t we look nice.” Lewis smelt like a cross between a dishwashing tablet and a gent’s urinal (you know, them blue cube things). He also scratched continually during the journey making napping difficult. Just as I was nodding off a large paw would strike me repeatedly about 76 times on the back of the head. Shuffling as far as I could from him I curled into a corner of the Volvo boot. Lewis had decided at this point that he would rather sit up and look out of the back window. He seemed to enjoy small children pointing at him from passing cars. Lewis also enjoyed pulling faces at van drivers that came up behind us.

Arriving at the rain sodden field we were hoisted out of the car onto the grass. We marched (I think deliberately) past an open van with cages in the back. Two smug looking Collies gazed out at us from Rosette adorned doors. I actually felt quite embarrassed that the owner’s felt the need to display a myriad of rosettes when it was quite obvious their dogs were simply going to stay in their cells all day. To reinforce our thoughts Lewis and I pissed against their rear tyres. Rosettes………pah.

I am fairly confident that the only reason we were there was that the RSPCA programme suggested that Simon Cowell, ‘had turned up unexpectedly at previous events.’ Yeah right. Elvis Presley drove him there in a space ship. When will you humans learn? Hero worship. The only thing Lewis & I worship is roast chicken in a light ‘jus.’ If he was there I didn’t see him, I feel confident that if he had of been he would have stopped to talk to us. I’ve watched that X-Factor. The animal acts seem to consist of some old bird dancing really badly whilst their Collie dogs shag their leg. All this whilst wearing some sparkly top that was bought at Primark for £3.79. If that’s talent I’m a Dachshund.

Dad kept moaning about ‘having no breakie,’ and made a beeline for the BBQ stand. Lewis and I were keen to follow closely. We rarely get human nosh other than the odd cold pea mixed with the usual dog food. I was sure though that the old man would take pity on us both given the weather and hand down a morsel of ‘banger’ to us both. I could almost taste that local pork sausage cooked ‘en terrace’ with that sweet smoky flavour. Alternatively, a bit or burger, sizzling, yet slightly pink in the middle. I was drooling. Arriving at the stand dad stood motionless and in shock for about 3 hours He said summat about ‘effing veggies,’ and we were unceremoniously dragged away for a ’99.’ There were 979 dogs on that field. All of us being confirmed carnivores. In fact if it has blood in it we’ll it eat. I don’t care if it has a face or not. Chuck it my way and I’ll sort it. Can you imagine wolves tucking into a hunk of Tofu thrown to the starving pack? Have you ever heard of a Husky turning his or hers nose up at a frozen lump of seal blubber and opting for a nice nut crunch instead? Have you bollocks. My brother and me had to make do with some old biscuit dad found stuck to a boiled sweet in his coat pocket. Thanks very much RSPCA, Veggie BBQ stand? You were having a laugh. 

There were some positives though. Dad entered some tombola thing for about 97 quid and won a second hand Teddy that smelt like baby wee. Lewis and I ate it anyway much to the disgust of the small child who handed it over. I suspect that she thought it might have been some night-time bed toy.

We did have a good day despite the set backs meeting all manner of breeds. We met one of them Basset things. Funny looking bugger. It was about 6 inches high and had ears 9 feet long. Who on earth would want one of those?

Home is where the Basset is…..

The front of the house had a small lawn that covered an area of about 5 metres square. I say ‘had,’ as I have recently removed it to replace it with shingle as part of my low maintenance design.  I had not anticipated that removing the lawn would involve digging up enough turf and soil to create a small island. As the lawn slowly diminished Lewis & Monty would move onto whatever patch of grass was left staring at me like I was involved in deliberate and wilful damage simply to spite them. I also learnt during four days hard labour, that the British are also masters of the bleedin’ obvious. Especially shall I say, our more ‘mature’ gentlemen? The sight of someone clearly not accomplished in manual labour was simply too tempting for them to ignore. Accordingly I had a queue of old gits only too keen to offer advice or pass comment. Some of their helpful little gems included:~

“ Why don’t you take the lawn up and put some shingle down.”

“ Hard work digging turf isn’t it?”

“ Are the dogs helping you?”

“ Bet them dogs aren’t much help!”

“ Those dogs your bosses then?”

My how I laughed (through gritted teeth).

Having removed 3700 tons of earth and turf I moved onto the second part of the operation. This meant rolling out and securing on the now exposed earth the ‘black out sheeting.’ This would hopefully stop weeds growing through the shingle. It also provided Lewis and Monty an excellent opportunity to lie down in the most unhelpful places possible. The sheeting comes on a roll rather like wallpaper. Rolling it out the length of the garden I would weight it at one end with a rock. Monty & Lewis would lie at this end. Flatly refusing to move I would release the role end to shove the hounds off. Sadly forgetting to secure the ‘roll end’ meant that as I released it the entire roll shot off towards Monty & Lewis who were then engulfed in the black sheeting. It was like a giant basset Taco. The first time this happened I found it quite funny. 173 repeats of this later…I did not.

The final stage of the operation involved wheel barrowing the shingle from the road at the front of the house where it had been delivered. I had of course used the most careful mathematics to ensure that I had just the right amount of gravel for the space I had to cover. I worked out the necessary depth multiplied by the area squared. Sadly I was 1700 kilos out. Yes, over a metric ton and a half out. The gravel was delivered in huge plastic woven bags each containing 850 kilos of the rock. After I had barrowed the first bag on it looked like a passer by had just chucked a couple of rocks on the garden for a laugh. I did however have some very helpful comments from the passing old gits:~

“Oh not enough gravel then?”

“ You wanna get some more of that gravel.”

“You will need to cover more of that sheeting mate.”

Both the hounds have their own characters. Lewis rarely leaves my side to the point that a visit to the loo involves gooey eyed Lewis resting his head on me whilst sat on the ‘throne.’ Without going into detail, this is very brave of him. Lewis is not interested in the fresh air and would given the choice, much rather be indoors on the settee as a pose to outside in the front or back garden. He is bone idle and literally has to be pushed out of the back door at night for his final pee of the day. Monty conversely, loves the outdoors. He likes nothing more than watching the world go past the front garden. I know he is safe there as neither he or Lewis are capable of climbing the small 4.5 inch high brick wall that separates the garden from the road. Monty has also taken to getting into dark places that he obviously feels safe. Under beds, settees and in large plants in the garden. So much so, that I am thinking of buying him a small kennel.

Having spread the gravel accordingly I was left with three of the large plastic woven bags that the rocks were delivered in. Apparently these are made in bulk in some third world country (child labour doesn’t mean bad quality eh? ~ sorry shouldn’t joke). Monty climbed into one of these bags and flatly refused to come out. Peering out of a gap in the top he would occasionally poke his nose out to sniff at a passing old git. It was like a hermit crab emerging to grab a passing meal. Even biscuits would not coach him out. Lewis was in the mean while inside watching Sky News from the settee.

Having completed the low maintenance gravel garden I now realise that I have created the world’s largest cat litter tray in the world. Every cat within a 57 mile radius now comes to shit on my shingle. I walked Lewis & Monty for about 2 hours the other day. They very helpfully waited till they got home before shitting on the shingle. I am hoping that passers by do not follow suit……

I am also wondering whether basset in a bag will catch on.   

Meat and two veg..........

I have recently acquired a bit of an ‘allotment.’ To cut a long story short, I was offered part of an allotment, as it’s current owner was unable to maintain it. This is a rather British thing. Basically, you are allotted a piece of land by your local Council (usually Parish Council), where you plant vegetables, flowers or effectively whatever you like (within reason!). You then place a small shed on your ‘plot.’ What I have discovered recently is that the shed usually also contains, full cooking and tea making facilities, radio, small TV, magazines (ahem!) and a myriad of other home comforts that enable you to carry out all ‘gardening’ duties required. It is amazing how inventive some of the guys are. One shed has a full patio and covered area, another has a four-foot deep carp pond and all seem to have full seating and table areas. Most of which have been fashioned out of old wooden pallets. A small grass ‘path’ that is no more than about eighteen inches wide separates each allotment. Collectively all the allotments cover an area about half the size of a football pitch. It is also well away from houses and accordingly well away from wives and partners!

I introduced the hounds to the allotment recently. I was initially fearful that the buffoons would flatten some bloke’s prize leaks or mooch over some newly sewn flowerbed. Bizarrely they both stick rigidly to the small grass paths that criss-cross the whole area. Lewis is of course completely baffled by this. He wanders off making right angle turns till he finds himself at the perimeter fence of the allotments. He stares at the fence apparently unable to comprehend that he will have to turn around and manoeuvre himself somehow back to where I am.  Conversely, Monty has of course completely ‘sussed’ this and uses it completely to his advantage. He runs around the perimeters deliberately leading Lewis to dead ends. Lewis sits staring at the fence until he once again realises that he has to turn around. The constant right angle turns at speed is like watching a life size Basset Pac-Man. Thankfully neither tries to eat the other, although Lewis does stop occasionally to lick a dead mouse or fox poo.

Lewis and Monty are of course very friendly ‘happy go lucky’ hounds. In my head this makes up for their complete lack of obedience. People wander in and out of the allotments all day long. Lewis and Monty greet them all usually followed by both hounds exploring each new shed as they are opened. They do of course respond immediately when I call them back to me. They respond immediately by completely ignoring me:~

Me ~ “Oi, you two HERE NOW.”

L ~ “ What did he say?

M ~ “ Summat like, oi, you two, have a mooch in this blokes shed.”

L ~ “ That’s all right then…”

Me ~ “HERE ……NOW”

L ~ “ What’s he shouting now?”

M ~ “ He said. Sit in this blokes shed and look gooey eyed at him, make him think we are regularly underfed and mistreated and we will get a biscuit….”

L  ~ “ No problemo for me……”

The hounds have quickly calculated who has what and react accordingly. Two charming old ladies speak to the hounds but do not stroke or otherwise move toward them. I think they are worried about being physically bowled over by them. They never offer the hounds biscuits or indeed any foodstuff.

The only entrance to the allotments is via a metal gate that closes under its own momentum. It makes a distinctive ‘clang.’ Lewis and Monty treat this like a school dinner bell. Every ‘clang’ may mean food and they will immediately turn wherever they are, to see who has come in.

“ Clang.” The two charming old ladies enter…

Lewis ~ “Who is it Monty?”

Monty ~ “ Its them two old birds who never have biscuits…” 

Lewis ~ “Oh yeah I see them now. Shall we run toward them and scare them?”

Monty ~ “ Nah, can’t be bovvered somebody will be in with biscuits soon.”

That somebody is usually ‘Bob.’ Bob is a wonderful man in his late eighties that looks about 65. He is on his allotment everyday and has been there longer than any other allotment holder. I call him “The Don.” Whatever Bob says goes and I for one will not argue with him! Bob has always had dogs and although does not currently have one , he regularly cares for his daughter’s. Bob also always has pockets full of tasty small dog biscuits. The hounds sense Bob approaching from about 17 miles away. Forget the ‘clang,’ they have a sixth sense for Bob. They also become Crufts obedience champions whenever Bob is about. They sit, lie, turn around three times, make tea and effectively do anything at Bob’s bidding. Flippin’ mutts. 

Lewis ~ “ Monty, its Bob….!”

Monty ~ “ Quick walk over there with me and sit at his feet in perfect unison.”

Lewis ~ “ Shall we do that thing where we take a bow at his feet?

Monty ~ “ Yeah deffo…..works every time.”

Lewis ~ “ What about Dad?”

Monty ~ “ Just do what we normally do….”

Lewis ~  “Ignore him?”

Monty ~ “Yep.”  

I am however, looking forward to fresh vegetables in the Autumn. Lewis and Monty are looking forward to fresh biscuits. I have to go…the Hounds have just finished washing up for Bob….. 

Life in the fast lane.

I am often told that Lewis and Monty are ‘real characters.’ They definitely have minds of their own and like to do their own thing. I try and take them on different walks as they are interested in new scents and are not particularly fussed whether it is the countryside or an ‘urban mooch.’ Invariably they will dictate the direction and any attempt to change that direction results in a Basset sit in. They lie fully prone (usually together) and basically refuse to move. A gentle shove on their rear end with the flat of my foot occasionally prompts a restart, but nine times out of ten I relent and follow meekly their chosen path. Bearing in mind they are four stone each and about 17 feet long, this is the only way I can get home at a reasonable hour.  

I actually like this. I like the fact that they think for themselves and stick stubbornly to their plans. They do their own thing and express themselves in their own way.

I watched a Collie the other day. It continually fetched a tennis ball launched by it’s owner from one of those plastic ball slingers. Running flat out it retrieved the ball returning to it’s master’s feet at exactly the same spot. It would sit looking adorably at her waiting for the next launch. This was roughly at about the same time that Lewis and Monty had mooched off to look at some fox poo, glancing back at me shouting red faced for them to return. Collie’s owner and master was dressed in combat pants (with those big pockets on the thighs), hiking boots, a green fleece and carried a small leather bum bag that probably carried all possible canine related items. Conversely, I was wearing a T shirt that said on the front “ who the F*** is Harry Potter?” (It was the only clean one I could find at the time), shorts and flip-flops. My dog poo collection bags were a variety of old carrier bags that were bulging and flapping from my back pocket and Lewis and Monty’s new collars were emblazoned with skull and crossbones (I loved the irony of this, given how wimpy they both are).

I paused for a moment and thought to myself  ‘what on earth must she think?’ I carried on watching Collie dog. Yes, he or she was impeccably trained. It probably drove it’s owner home, stopping on the way to buy organic eggs for the soufflé it would make for her when they got home. It was a very clever dog. It was also a very BORING dog! I looked at my two completely ignoring me. They were ecstatic they had found the fox poo. Lewis had an extra bonus, he also found an old plastic drinks bottle that he defiantly refused to bring to me.

I thought about all those other breeds that drive cars, fly helicopters and the like. Boring, boring boring. I don’t care that you’re Labrador can swim seventeen miles to retrieve a rubber ball that it delivers to you’re feet after a back flip followed by a triple camel jump, its boring! 

Other boring breeds include:~

Spaniels – yes they can scent a ping pong ball concealed somewhere in a South American rain forest and return to you after finding it’s own way home after a 1500 mile trek. Sadly they are also boring.

Retrievers – their name says it all. Boring.

This takes me nicely onto the latest fad. ‘Marrying’ two breeds to become a wholly new breed, a la:-

Labradoodle, Cairnoodle etc. These are often referred to as ‘Mixed breed’ or ‘Hybrid breeds.’ The correct terminology is in fact MONGREL! Mongrels are NOT boring. They are great dogs full of character and no two look the same. By giving your MONGREL a made up name you have immediately fallen into the boring trap. 

I think we have generally entered a period of world boredom. We actively discourage anything that might be out of the ordinary or different and positively encourage the safe and indifferent. I was forced to watch some of Wimbledon recently. The bits with that Scottish/British bloke (has he decided yet?) played tennis. Murray I think his name is. He is so boring he couldn’t even think of things to say by himself. He basically cut and paste comments made by others from Twitter (yawn), which he glued on his PE bag. Crikey, he is MAD eh?  A regular loony….AND… for two or three days he didn’t even shave. He is the Retriever of the sports world.

In 2010 they made a jockey a ‘Sports’ personality of the year. Horse racing is not a sport. It is just really small blokes hanging onto a horse for as long as they can. All this whilst really fat blokes bet money on which nag will come first. How on earth as a nation did we make one of these really small people a ‘personality?’ He is not. He and the entire ‘sport’ is boring. All jockeys are really small and really boring. They are like Shih Tzus. Small and boring.

We do not like people who are different and outspoken. They might upset the boredom applecart. Lewis Hamilton has won 52 Grand Prix. He drives at about a million miles an hour and he and the other drivers are milliseconds from death at every race. Lewis overtakes everyone and in 2008 he was a world champion. He does an Ali G impression and we as a nation decide he is a nasty man. He is not. He is a character who occasionally says daft things. So what. My Lewis is named after him. 

Lewis is a character and may just be a Basset Hound. He does his own thing but we love him! 

Outward bound......

During a recent moment of madness I decided to spend three hours walking in February with the Hounds. Couple of issues here. I walk the hounds for a least an hour everyday. They also go out for 15 minutes every morning for a short walk. In our house we refer to this as going for a "piss n' sniff." You cannot really describe it as a 'walk' as, a) we have to drag the hounds off the settee to go out and b) they spend the entire 15 minutes looking for reasons why they should not complete the 200 yard yomp. These include feigning illness and or a limp to simply lying down on the pavement hoping someone will call the RSPCA. 

Undeterred I decided to go the whole hog and packed a rucksack with a flask, water and a couple of biscuits for the hounds. Waterproof leggings, coat, hat and gloves completed the natty ensemble. Driving to a particularly secluded area of the South Downs I released the hounds into the wilderness. Well, the car park initially. It was wet, it was foggy and it was bloody freezing.  They looked at me like I had just told them they were going without biscuits for a week. Lewis tried unsuccessfully to join a family in their marvellously clean and posh Audi, Monty walked back to our car and began pawing the rear doors. I could see they were keen. After apologising to Mr Audi for Lewis leaving dirty paw marks on his small child secured safely on the back seat of the Audi, I ushered both hounds toward the unknown. taking confidently to a well worn path we all set off into the unknown. The fog got thicker, the rain got heavier. I stopped for a coffee from the flask.The hounds got a couple of dog biscuits and we were all happy.

Having the hounds off the lead makes for a much happier and adventurous walk.I don;t have to worry about 17 year olds with Staffies called 'Rambo' (see earlier episode) and or gormless pet owners who have no control at all over their mutts. It also allows the hounds a degree of freedom on which route we take. This usually involves them following anything that looks like a well trodden route and would not result in them receiving dirty paws and or nasty thistles. Wandering off into the wilderness I realised after about an hour that I may not actually be on a footpath. What my hounds were actually following was a cattle path. The local herd wandered down to the water hole via the straightest route usually followed meekly by the rest of the herd. On this occasion followed meekly by two Bassets and me. I knew this for two reasons. Firstly it was quite clear this 'path' led to a fence without 'styles,' secondly as the mist cleared 73 cows were staring at us. I knew that there was some statistic in the UK that said X amount of people were killed by cows every year. It was the staring that got me. The staring and the sweat coming off them, oh and the coughing. That coughing,it sounded like the old drunk in your local. My dad is a retired Policeman. In his early detective days they targeted a local arsonist setting fire to barns. Surrounding a local barn following a tip off ( undoubtedlty disguised as hay bales or trees) they were drawn to someone coughing in the vicinity of the building. A charge was mounted and a dozen suit wearing detectives pounced on the suspect. Or should I say suspects. All 27 of them. All Fresian cows.
This lot looked at the hounds. There was also a leader...oh yes the big brown one. He was the leader. He (or in fact she) looked at the hounds.
" We must sniff them."
"Yes master we must sniff them."
73 cows approach us on mass. Me and the two Bassets leg it. I tried to remember when you are chased by a bear whether to run or stop and make yourself really big. I know ..these aren't bears. Sadly it was the only thing I could remember from Discovery Channel. I decided that you should run. The Bassets had other ideas. yes we would run, then walk then stop then look at the pursuing cows. Exhausted we reached a barbed wire fence where I hauled nine stone of Basset over and onto safe ground. Hauling myself over I collapsed panting onto the wet grass. My bovine posse stopped pausing briefly to drop a few pats and wander off.

Lewis was by now completely knackered. His head was dropped and he adopted his slow plod that I knew meant he was beat. I allowed them to follow what was clearly a public path back to civilisation. Some while later I realised that my twenty five quid (each) extend-able dog leads were still lying in the wet grass where I had made good my escape. I looked at Lewis & Monty. There was simply no way that I could make them walk back to get them. They were on their chin straps.

This did however present some problems. They were not exactly Crufts obedience champions. If I called them to me they would probably ignore me and mooch off to eat some horse poo they had found. If I came across Staffie brigade and or other nasty canine, they would just be eaten. Finally they have absolutely NO road sense and would walk out in front of the first car they saw. What would Ray Mears do?

Armed with my machete ( well I say machete I actually mean small pen knife), I found a length of bailing plastic wrapped around an old fence post. Hacking it off  I fashioned a 'double dog lead' which I duly attached to the hounds. We emerged in the car park. All soaked, all muddy. I had cow pat on my jacket and the hounds were actually emitting steam. They were tied to what was effectively bright orange string and were tied together. I could see people snatching their kids up and locking car doors. We  walked on tarmac routes for the next week.........

PS. If anyone finds my dog leads .....!         

The Hunt

Believe it or not Bassets were bred for hunting. Allegedly, several centuries ago they would hunt ground game, whilst their larger, faster cousins would hunt deer and the like. I have often wondered at which point in the breeds genetic make up did they lose any and all trace of being actually able to 'hunt.' The closest my two have got to this is finding a hedgehog in the back garden. It snuffled and grunted resulting in my two running off and watching it from the safety of the kitchen. A ginger tom cat has also taken up residence in the garden. It is so scared of my two that it sits at the base of a tree about 16 inches from the kitchen back door. It farts, scratches it's arse and generally ignores the Bassets. They wag their tails and generally watch it...again from the safety of the kitchen.

They are not the most adventurous of hounds either. No matter where we walk they stick rigidly to the path. When I say path, I mean generally any route that does not involve deviating from the driest or flattest part of the walk.  I regularly walk on a large stretch of grassland. I unleash the hounds knowing they can run freely with the wind in their ears. What actually happens is that they sniff each other's arses and mooch along a faded path trodden by cattle the year before on the way home to their barn. On more than one occasion I have run past them  shouting 'come on get me boys' a la a convict escaping the bloodhounds in some deep southern state of the USA.  The  result ?.....nothing, not a flicker, not even a distant faded memory locked somewhere in their DNA of 'hunting.'

 I'll swear that they do however look at me thinking,  " wanker."  

I am  wondering whether Monty has unlocked an old hound instinct. During a recent tour of the deep southern grasslands (sort of), Monty sensed movement in the longer grass. The movement was the 978 rabbits that were about (as usual) three feet from him. Ordinarily they scarper until their rabbit recognition kicks in.......

"Shit.... dogs.... burrow it lads..."

" Nah, sorry lads leave it..only them bleedin' Bassets..pair of wankers."

Only things were about to change. Monty glanced over at the Watership Down Crew. His ears picked up and his hackles prickled. I'll swear he licked his lips. Monty then lunged toward The Bunny Boys. Missing them all entirely of course. That wasn't the point. He had progressed from Basset wanker to hunter(nearly). Be afraid Bunny Boys be very afraid. Lewes had been very helpful during all of this. He had managed to break the crust on a recently 'laid' cow pat, he was by now eagerly tucking into the soft centre of his cow shit brulee. I could forgive him this, I had a hound that 'hunted.' A killer, a tool for keeping the larder filled when times were hard. I imagined racks of game dangling from my garage and me leaning on a thumb stick with the 'kills' in the background.  I was practically a gamekeeper.

Then (as usual) I wondered about laws that the Politburo had introduced prior to The Dunc  and Cleggy Show. There would undoubtedly  be a Council official dug in somewhere waiting to jump out and issue me with a fixed penalty notice for 'rabbit worrying' and other serious criminal offences such as not wearing a high vis vest whilst in possession of a sense of humour. Given my association with law enforcement ( lets leave it at that for the time being, I could probably be arrested under another Politburo law for even saying that), I remembered that they had  " a new "law abart 'unting wiv dogs guvenor."

It goes like this:-

Hunting Act 2004

Hunting wild mammals with dogs

"A person commits an offence if he hunts a wild mammal with a dog, unless his hunting is exempt."

I got bored reading about the exemptions, but basically you are exempt if 

a)you can pretend you weren't hunting for animals, b) the Police are too busy giving out ASBO's to pensioners to attend, or c) you have loads of money and influence.

The Oxford English Dictionary defines 'hunt' as ~ 

 "pursue and kill (a wild animal) for sport or food." 

I was in the clear. He had pursued, but definitely not killed. I would have to put me 'ands up' to the rabbit worrying and high vis offences. With luck I would be out in 16 years. I read on however, yes this fine bit of legislation comes with it's own 'power of search.' ( yes I do I have a girlfriend and no, there was nowt on telly):-

"If the constable reasonably believes that evidence of the offence is likely to be found on or in a vehicle, animal or other thing of which the suspect appears to be in possession or control, the constable may stop and search the vehicle, animal or other thing."

That was it... 

"Lewes, Monty up against the gorse bush. You are being searched for evidence of rabbits."

"Police state..."

"Just empty your pockets and less of it..."

"Fascist"

"Look I am just doing my job, please lift up your ears.."

" I want a lawyer"

"You'll be lucky to get a biscuit, never mind lawyer... "

Suffice to say I found nothing and had to let them go on their way. I am off out to buy a high vis vest. I intend to have the words "INNOCENT BYSTANDER" emblazoned on the back in reflective letters. Well...every other buggers got one, why shouldn't I have one ??? PS. watch out you pesky pensioners....

( Dedicated  to Pete. One of the few left with a sense of humour, now sadly gone. RIP mate)

Light fingered.....

First and foremost I must apologise to all my loyal readers. All three of you. The new government austerity measures have had considerable impact on the work of law enforcement. We now have a budget of 87 pence a year and are unlikely to investigate anything unless, a) you leave a DNA sample, photo of yourself and current id at the scene of the crime, or b) you have parked your car 4.5mm over the edge of a retired senior officers drive ( check news for Lancashire Police). Suffice to say that nobody ‘over parks’ on my manor.

I have however, had both my Bassetts sworn as Deputies which is good news for our local neighbourhood. They now have more powers than PCSO’s and you may actually see them given that they get a least two walks a day. This brings me nicely onto discipline or more importantly, lack of it.

I read a magazine that came through the door the other day concerning dog ‘helpers.’ These fantastic animals help their human partners with a variety of day to day issues that able bodied people take for granted. One chap confined to a wheelchair, had a dog that even passed his credit card to shopkeepers as he wasn’t able to reach up. If you relied on Bassetts for this kind of assistance ( or in particular my Bassetts) you would either starve to death or would be constantly reordering bank cards which had been chewed beyond repair. On the whole their behaviour has improved drastically but they are still prone to complete and utter stubbornness. Lewis in particular whilst out on walks, has taken to seeing someone on the horizon usually about 2.7 miles away. He decides that for whatever reason he has taken a shine to a group or an individual and lies down facing them until they reach us. At this point he sits on the foot of his ’target’ insistent that they stay with him until he has been scratched and patted sufficiently. Lewis has also become fixated with gloves. When I say gloves I mean ALL gloves including mittens big and small. He has an amazing ability to find lost gloves every time we are out. He will then parade his catch proudly in front of Monty taunting Monty’s lack of hunting skills. Sadly Lewis’s glove hunting skill has progressed slightly. He appears to have grown weary of muddy encrusted gloves that were dropped by their owners in the late 1800’s. He has developed a taste for small highly coloured woollen gloves still warm from the owner’s digits. My first experience of this was on a walk along the seafront footpath. Awash with kiddies and their families all wrapped up against the chilly Autumn wind Lewis eyed his target. A tiny little giblet of about two and a half years old. Her pink fluffy mittens with a teddy bear stitched to the back were too much for Lewis to bare.

“Mummy doggy” said the Tot.

“Mmmm glove” thought Lewis.

It was a work of art, it was a Bassett Ninja, it was like slow motion. Passing Lewis slowly the Tot’s arm swung perfectly in line with Lewis, Lewis delicately nibbled the fluffy teddy bear until he had an effective hold. He would never take skin and he is extremely gentle, he had however worked out that the momentum of the Tot would be enough to remove and allow him to claim his prize. I looked down at Lewis holding his ’Kill.’ A pink fluffy glove complete with Teddy, mmm………………

“LEWIS” I screamed.

“Doggy” The Tot giggled.

“OH NO” I realised……..

Sadly given the propensity for children to lose gloves, the Tot’s parents had run a string from Lewis’s ‘catch’ all around her coat to the other pink fluffy glove still keeping her other hand warm. Lewis was not letting go….the Tot was not stopping………the string was stretching…….. .

I suppose they had reached the optimum stretch point and something had to give. It wasn’t going to be Lewis. The Tot flopped onto her bottom still giggling. Lewis now panicked releasing his catch which twanged like a yoyo back to it’s owner. Undamaged but now very wet having been slobbered within an inch of it’s life by Lewis, it also ‘twanged’ a globule of best Bassett slobber directly onto the forehead of the Tot. It hung perilously and momentarily before sliding gently onto the Tot’s best pink “Next” coat. Just for good measure Lewis decided he liked to the “cut of the Tot’s dad’s jib” and sat on his foot. Thankfully Lewis ( assisted by Monty), redeemed himself by being his usual affable self and the Tot fell in love with him. I may have to disguise Lewis as a Labrador or something before he gets an ASBO.

Thankfully that was a law that the ‘Politburo’ did not introduce before their departure. It was only a matter of time before our pets were bar coded and forced to carry an ID complete with a DNA profile and their respective appropriate training level. The DNA profile would have allowed a newly formed Government Poo Quango to swab pee stained lamp posts and throw the dogs owners in prison for 17 years. There would be exceptions to this of course, you would be exempt if you received Job seekers allowance, bred Staffies in your back garden and or were involved in crime. You would then be given all possible financial assistance to buy the ID (which you would not of course ~ choosing instead to spend it on a new tattoo) and partake in Politburo funded training courses ( which again you would not because it would of course, “be a breach of your human rights.”)

Monty has missed out a bit this chapter so I promise that he will feature heavily VERY soon.

Sorry about yet another change in design. I realised, despite all my best efforts, I am hopeless at anything resembling art..........

We all love a party...........

September the 12th 2010 saw the hounds reach their second birthday. We could all barely contain our excitement. This excitement is obviously reflected in the photograph opposite. This snap was taken during the height of activities.

Pass the parcel did however dwindle very quickly after the hounds decided that the content wasn't worth the effort of tearing off the paper.

Musical chairs was also a bit of a wash out as they decided they could both occupy the same seat very happily ( a la photo). It must have been the hounds waking up at the crack of dawn (08.5o am) that caused the sheer exhaustion at the end of their party.

So they are now two years old. Isn't that supposed to mean 14 in 'dog years' whatever that is supposed to mean. 'In dog years.' Quite how this is worked out I'll never know. It was obviously invented by some dog obsessed 'Doggy person' wearing a fleece with a picture of a tigers head on it ( see earlier Blogs). Anyhow I think its a load of old cobblers. My family have had several dogs all living to 14~15 years. This equates to 98~105 years old. One 'adopted' old collie we had lived to the ripe old aged of 18 years (126 years).

Do mutts really enjoy this longevity ? I doubt it. I am sure that smarty pants with a degree in "social science or human resources" or some equally worthless academic qualification will put me right, but there you go. All the police are being made redundant aren't they ? I am therefore sure that there will be no PC Pc to chase me for upsetting Tarquin who has just qualified from Doncaster Polytechnic as an " H R assistant assistant to the temporary manager." I have decided to write to the PM whilst on this subject. Sack all HR staff, save millions. They can all be replaced with the " Google Button ."

Simply type in "Employment Law ~ what I need to know."

HEY PRESTO ! All HR staff dispensed with.

As usual I digress. My two lumps should now ( according to Tarquin) be 14 years old. Okay they are never going to play an X Box or study for a GCSE but if they are now 'teenagers' shouldn't they be doing the teenage thing? I don't mean smoking or drinking Stella. No I was thinking more about seeking a bit of independence, a desire to go out and or demonstrating some degree of intelligence ?

I am sure that my two are suffering the "terrible twos" associated usually with human off spring. They appear to have partially digressed into some puppy like state. Monty in particular appears to developing a whole new personality. During a recent trip 'up north' to my folks we shared a marvellous Sunday roast of slow cooked beef. Given that the hounds are about 6 inches high ( albeit twelve feet long), they struggle to get up to anything higher than a coffee table. We sat talking in the living room whilst I contemplated a couple more slices of tender beef ( and perhaps another Yorkshire?). Lewis was asleep and Monty was 'mooching.' My Dad wandered out to the kitchen:~

" Kirks ( my Dad has always called Mam this), where's the beef."

"Its in the kitchen."

"Where"

"Where it always is , on then chopping board on the bench."

"Its not"

"What do you meant its not?"

" Its not where you said"

" It is.."

"Its not...."

and so on........

It was at this point I noticed Monty licking constantly. He was also belching continuously. Lewis wandered over to him and began continually licking and sniffing Monty's face.

To be continued...............

Born to kill

They are never going to protect you from attackers, they are never going to protect you from a pack of marauding wild animals and if someone breaks into your house you can rely on your Bassets to help the burglars load your high value goods onto their getaway vehicle.

There are many ways of protecting yourself if you do find yourself in the MOST unlikely position of being under attack by a Basset. You could stand on a chair ( it will never reach you), walk away ( it won't be able to catch you) or alternatively just wait a few seconds. I guarantee he or she will just fall asleep or forget what it was supposed to be doing in the first place.

I hope you get the picture...Bassets and malice simply do not go together. My two buffoons haven't a bad bone in their exceptionally large bodies. Lewis in particular is simply a gentle giant. We live near a park and more often than not a stray football finds it's way into the garden, usually followed by a sprightly 'youth' in his best Chelsea FC shirt ;

Youth " Ere mate did me footie come in your garden.'

Me " I'm sorry, I don't speak 'unemployed,' could you say that again?"

Youth " Me footie, your garden....?"

Invariably I find it inside the greenhouse having penetrated another pane of glass. Lewis and Monty assisting in the search, I say assisting. They actually just wander about following said 'youth' demanding a 'fuss.'

Lewis has been terrified by a number of violent incidents including, a moth in the kitchen. A leaf falling from a house plant. Stairs and his greatest fear......... gates.

Lewis will take a five mile detour if he thinks he can avoid a gate. I have no idea how this began, all I can think is that his body is SO long ( about seven feet), his nose passes the gap about 5 minutes before his backside follows along behind. I think he is worried he will become trapped.

I hope you have the picture......they are gentle ,stubborn dogs who have little in the way of malice. Lewis in particular is always keen to make friends although his love is rarely reciprocal. Which brings me to the moral of the story. I always place the hounds on leads on the approach of other mutts. I am usually met by the "oh they are all right, they just make a lot of noise, they are friendly really." Undeterred I usually look at the other mutt(s), tail upright and not wagging ? Hackles up ? Staring eyes with rigid body ? YOUR DOG IS NOT BLEEDIN' FRIENDLY !!

My most recent event included a pack of Golden Retrievers (all off the lead).

Owner " they are jolly friendly ~ just make a lot of noise, what, haha"

Me " Hmmm"

Lewis " can I play with you?"

Retriever no.4 ~ " no piss off ..in fact no have this..."

One split ear, cut face later my Lewis is really whimpering.

Owner " Jolly sorry old bean never done that before...."

I think I may start approaching suspect owners, punch them on the hooter and say " Sorry I've never done that before......................."

Sorry for delay in writing....more to follow soon.

DELIVERANCE

Bassets smell. Sorry all you Basset owners but they do, its a fact of life. You can bath them, perfume them, spray your cheapest aftershave on them but they will still pong. It must have something to do with all the folds of skin. You can spray them down with your garden high pressure hose but half an hour later you will still find some old biscuit and or your mobile telephone hidden in one of their many rolls. I remember watching some 'Fat Club' programme on TV . A lady from the USA was so fat that she was the size of Bournemouth. Apparently it was something to do with her metabolism. Yes, it was so faulty that she had to eat 973 pizzas a day washed down with a reservoir of Diet Coke ( like the 'diet' made a difference). Any how she developed an infection which involved her home being dismantled so that the 17 cranes and NASA could lift her onto a flat bed truck. Metabolism my arse, she just liked eating. Eating everything she could see. When they eventually arrived at hospital a careful examination revealed that a TV remote had become embedded under a roll of fat. Now I am sure that would stayed there had it not have been for the two batteries corroding and leaking out onto her Ned Kelly.

In a nutshell the folds hide all manner of nasties. The hounds are no different, I know that I have mentioned their body odours previously but we grow accustomed to the smells, the habits and the myriad of bodily functions.

In April this year my sister said that we simply MUST bring "The Boyz" up North as my niece 'Han' was desperate to see them. My sister lives in a big house. A big posh house. A big posh house that is so posh you have to go through security checks to get onto the private land. I love visiting sis but the thought of appearing with the hounds brought a whole host of fears ! I called ahead:~

Me " so uh..are you sure about bringing the hounds up ?"

Sis " Of course Han really wants to see them. She has told all her friends."

Me " You know they can uh ..be a bit.. you know..."

Sis " what smelly?"

Me "Well yeah."

My Mam and Dad were at Sis's house and were offering support in the background. They had received the hounds during an earlier visit.

Mam " They weren't that bad.."

Me " Weren ' t they ?"

Dad ( in true Northern honesty) " Aye they bloody were. They bloody stink..."

Me " Sis if you are sure....."

Sis " I am, just bring them up and don't worry."

I "didn't worry' so much that I washed every item of bedding I could find. I sand blasted their dog bed and threw both hounds in the bath with a litre of "doggy bubbles." They smelt like a couple of poofs. We rolled up North in the trusty old T reg Volvo. Entering the 'gated'estate I realised that my car was worth considerably less than the garden mowers I was passing. Travelling the mile or so journey into the estate I could see children being hauled inside by worried parents.

" Quick ..inside Tarquin..........Gypsies.."

Car alarms bleeped as the 'anti thief alarms' were activated, Neighbourhood watch wardens had already downloaded pictures of the old Volvo to their personal contacts at New Scotland Yard. I thought to myself, " shit I'm glad I least washed it." Even the mutts shrunk down in the back. I was waiting to be stopped and asked at any point " for my papers."

Passing the Porsches, BMW X5's, Mercedes and huge 4WD cars I realised that we were THE CLAMPETS. I should have worn denim dungarees and a baseball cap. Even the hounds began to howl on queue . The twitching curtains must have thought the blood hounds had arrived to search for a missing hub cap (from an X5). Han rushed out to the car and I threw open the stink hatch. The Boyz flopped onto the driveway followed by a a cloud of fur and dust, shaking and slobbering they darted into the house with a small tornado of hairs curling behind them. Han was beside herself with excitement and was keen to display hounds to her friends. Han brought her closet friends and suggested that we " go down the woods" with The hounds. Tamsin, Amelia, Charlotte and Chardonnay duly arrived. No older than 7 (going on 25) they lined up for our trek into the bushland. I ensured that I had the requisite authorities from parents and we set off. Han , clearly the toughie and pack leader had to have both the hounds who led as if searching (for the hub cap). Twenty three feet later Charlotte was concerned that her £150.00 Ugg Boots were going to get dirty. Amelia announced she had a nut allergy.

Me " Well we will have to try and avoid dirty bits...........Amelia don't eat any acorns."

Tamsin " Are there snakes."

Me " Yes loads"

Tamsin (opening her IPhone from the leather wallet) " I m ringing Mummy.."

Me " I'm only joking Tamsin...sorry."

The Boyz were blissfully oblivious to all the excitement. Lewis had found a garden backing onto woodland that was home to dozens of chickens. He was transfixed. All Han's best efforts couldn't move the great lump. He was hypnotised by hens. Even Lord Monty usually bored by everything sat glued. I wondered what was going on in their world:~

Lewis " What are they?

Monty " Dunno, I think they could be parrots."

L " Parrots ?"

M " Yep I think so."

L " How do you know so much?"

M " Discovery Animal Planet."

L " Can we play with them?"

M " Nah...deadly"

L " What teeth you mean?"

M " Nah.. dope...deadly poisonous."

L " Really?"

M " Yep, see that red thing on their head"

L " yeah"

M " Full of deadly venom."

L " Glad your here."

M " Shall we drag the kids into some mud ? "

L " Sounds good to me."

Han had handed to mantle of hound leader over to Charlotte dragging her Ugg boots neatly into a pile of black slimy and extremely dirty mud. Tamsin stopped abruptly.

Tam " Kevin I have broken my ankle."

Me " No you haven't Tamsin, you will be fine.."

Tam " please carry me.."

Me " ok for a little while."

37 and a half inches later.

Tam " it's fixed now"

Me " Okay that's good lets go on....."

The trek continued...my short walk involved lifting Tamsin. Carrying two Bassets over a stream ( and back), carrying several small children over a stream ( and back). Looking after nut allergies, Ugg boots and broken ankles. The hounds behaved impeccably. During our trek they posed as Huskies, search hounds, wolves ( tough one for them!) and on several occasions St. Bernhard's. We all made it back safely and even the Ugg Boots survived.

Hounds never did find that X5 hub cap !!

Hot dog.

Well I am going to go off the beaten track a little bit. I've talked about my early experiences of Hounds and my distinct lack of access to them ! All that was to change when in 2003 I emigrated to Australia (details are another story).

Arriving in South East Queensland I had a myriad of changes to contend with, not least the wildlife ! I had an extremely diverse and challenging change of career which saw me working in a warehouse preparing furniture (most of which had been imported via Asia) for the Australian market. Aside from unloading furniture from shipping containers, we also had to occasionally unload hitch hikers that had boarded the container with the goods. These included cats ( all of which died on the journey), lizards, (who also died) and on one occasion Scorpions who were VERY much alive. This incident involved the pale faced Pommy standing on a chair whilst two very Aussie colleagues attempted to catch said scorpions in the Pommy's sandwich box. Apparently they were "worth a thousand bucks each," (to collectors). To the Pommy I couldn't care if they would give me a million bucks for them. They had been locked in the drawer of a hall stand and they were REALLY hungry and REALLY pissed off. The Australian wildlife officer was duly summoned and a really salty sea dog type chap arrived. He looked like a cross between David Bellamy and Jeff Capes. He looked me up and down (still standing on chair) and without me uttering a word said "G'day Pommy."

Thinking he would arrive with gas, explosive darts and the like I stood back to watch the expert at work. A chap from the warehouse had cornered one of said Scorpions under Pommies finest Tupperware box. Ignoring the cucumber sandwiches "Scorpy" as it's captor had christened him, was now headbutting and repeatedly stinging inside of box.

"This is it." I thought.

" I wonder if he will gas it and take it away in a specially sealed box for examination"

"Or even maybe I might get my picture taken with it"

"POMMY SAVES QUEENSLAND" I imagined in the headlines.

What he actually did was lift the lid and squash it with the heel of his boot.

He then threw remnants into the bin. Pommy gets down from chair in an "I'll make it look like I was testing this chair type way..."

Aussie Wildlife man " Ahhh dinkum, Malaysian Scorpion seen a lot of them."

Me " So not poisonous then?"

"Nah just make yah feel a bit crook, one got me years ago."

"Oh just like a sting then?"

" yeah sorta, I couldn't move, see , drink, eat or anything for a fortnight"

Me " Oh just a BIT poisonous then."

I closed the lid on the bin.

Pommy bashing is a national sport, although for the best part of it is very good humoured and I gave as good as I got. Excluding " place the Huntsman spider on the Pommy's shoulder game," (they are as big as a dinner plate), "go swimming with the Pommy in the river MOST inhabited by poisonous fish game" and other such hilarious antics. My how we laughed.........

Amongst our may discussions I had however discussed my love of Basset Hounds and how I hadn't been able to have one for one reason or another. One such discussion was with my work mate Neena....

Neena was effectively my boss in the warehouse. Neena also played rugby for the Aussie national ladies team. Neena had very large arm muscles and I am sure could have beaten me up with her arms and legs tied behind her back. Neena and her 'lady friends' once took the Pommy fishing. Having consumed ALL the alcohol on our boat Neena and her friends decided to get more. Three of them then dived overboard swam 200 metres to the shore and swam back with a 'slab' ( 24 cans) of beer on their shoulders. Imagine trying to pee in front of six pissed Aussie rugby playing girls? I couldn't even find it , let alone pee from it. Do you remember ever having that dream as a kid? The one where you have to go to school in your underpants? It was like that but for real. I had mentioned to Neena my love of Hounds and she said that her sister had a Basset that they could no longer care for, several additions to their family had meant that this hound had been living on the house patio and garden for a year or more. I agreed almost at once that I wanted him.

The following day a V8 Holden screeched to a halt outside our workplace and the passenger door flew open. Out jumped the dirtiest largest Basset I had ever seen. He charged toward me the ears flailing. I dropped to my knees to greet him at which point he bounded onto my chest pushing me onto the hot concrete surface of the warehouse floor. He stunk....not a little bit, oh no. He REALLY stunk, he smelt like a cross between road kill that had been in the sun for a week and sewerage. Worse still he was now licking me, licking me with a mouth that had clearly been feasting on kangaroo poo and dead things. You could have bottled his breath and used it in chemical warfare. The tips of his ears were encrusted in food and god knows what else, they had gone stiff in the sun. His classic Basset ears were like blinds that you weight at the bottom so they hang correctly. He was a lemon and white Basset ( I think) and he was now MY Basset.

Me " He stinks a bit Neena"

N " Yeah he needs a bath."

Me " He needs sandblasting.."

Me " I haven't even asked yets...whats his name?

N " Yeah thats kinda of a funny thing"

Me " Okay what is he called?"

N "............Eugene"

Me " EUGENE"

Me " EUGENE"

Me "EUGENE...good grief, how, why, when who...."

That was it. Pommy had a Basset, a filthy dirty Basset, a Basset that someone had decided to call Eugene. He had a rather chequered history that I was only to learn sometime later. Eugene had been acquired by a rather unscrupulous pet shop (somewhere in Queensland !) as a puppy. He was now about five years old. As a puppy the pet shop owner had agreed a price for said pup before he apparently discovered the true worth of a hound. He reneged on his original offer trebling the price. Now some rather large 'ladies' ( I have no idea who ! ) decided that this was not playing fair. After distracting said unscrupulous owner Eugene began life smuggled inside a coat and out of the shop. Eugene was a hot dog in every sense of the word.....

I was also to learn that Eugene was a) not house trained, b) knew no commands whatsoever c) Loved howling and d) had an irrational fear of brooms and mops ( will become clearer later).

My first problem was getting over his name. I found that shouting " Oo ooh Eugene here boy" attracted some rather curious looks from your average Aussie bloke.

" OO OOH EUGENE here boy"

Aussie bloke " whats your dog called Pommy ?

Me(whispering) " eugene"

AB " Pardon?"

Me "EUGENE"

AB " Oh right...."

Aussie Bloke would then look at me like I was some limp wrist ed Quentin Crisp character and back away from me slowly. I gradually manufactured his name to "Huge," he seemed to answer to this. He also had not had the snip and was a very big boy in the trouser department. They would ask why he was called "Huge" until they saw him from behind . " fair dink um mate, he is that !"

Eugene had several other skills that I was also to learn. the climate meant that when we were out Eugene would mooch around the large garden. He would mooch until he felt like a walk. He would then burrow under the fence and bugger off to wherever he felt. I would arrive home on several occasions with Eugene sitting outside the front door looking at me like "Where have you been I want to get BACK in the garden."

At the bottom of the garden there was a gentleman who liked a beer. He liked beer so much he would have one for breakfast lunch and dinner. Eugene loved him. I think this had something to do with this gentleman howling. The more beer he had the more he would howl. He would howl because this resulted in Eugene howling. My how all the other neighbours laughed.........

Sweeping the yard one day I noticed Eugene would hide away when I had a broom. Whether he had been hit with one or whether it was just something he did not like I will never know, but it was the only time I ever heard him growl. Calling in at a local hardware story one day I tied his lead to a very heavy 'sandwich' board type advertising board that was made of metal. He lay in the warm sun and was happy to be patted by passers by. Standing in the queue in front of me a chap had bought a mop. He and his son had seen Eugene and were chatting about him. I said that he was "very friendly" and the little boy could stroke him . Dad and the little boy walked toward Eugene.

Eugene's ears lifted and he sat up. I realised then that the chap was heading toward him with a mop. I held out my outstretched arm in a pointless effort to stop him. I mouthed "nooooo." Eugene now stood up. He looked at the chap with the mop like he was being approached by some evil dog 'napper. He turned to his right and ran, and ran and ran. Sadly he was still connected to the sandwich board which flailed behind him side to side like a ball and chain. He ran the length of the High Street with pedestrians leaping his lead like hurdlers. The 'ball' narrowly missing a variety of very large and shiny cars parked on the roadside. Coming to a stop near a very busy supermarket I calmed him down, disconnected him from the board and began the rather sheepish walk back to the hardware store with the (now) very battered advertising board. Eugene looked at me like he did not know what all the fuss was about. A variety of pedestrians were dusting themselves off having dived into shop doorways and raised flower beds to avoid the ensuing mayhem. I shopped elsewhere for a little while !

Returning to UK Eugene would have been too old to travel and would have hated UK climate (don't we all) so he stayed with good people. He was my first 'Hound' and certainly not my last....

Basset beginnings.

The Kray Twins.

Where on earth did it begin ? How on earth did I end up with such a love for Bassets ?

My family have always had dogs. We had Spaniels and black Labs all of which ( to varying degrees of success), were trained as gun dogs. In the case of Jenny (Spaniel) and Meg (black Lab) the success was at field trial champion level. They were both dogs of incredible intelligence and both lived to a ripe old age. I was brought up very much in touch with the country and worked on a farm part time during my last school years. Dogs were of course, loved in my family but were seen as working dogs who to a greater degree and were very independent and enjoyed their own company as much as human contact.

As a lad I lived in the North east of England ( no, not a 'Geordie,' I was a Wearsider also known as a "Maccum." I think this originated in the shipyards where an old saying was that Wearsiders " Maccum and Geordies Taccum," which I think was in reference to shipbuilding on the Tyne and the Wear rivers).

My parents had a long garden surrounded by other gardens one of which had relatively high hedges which meant you could not see into a number of the other gardens. I can only have been 11 or 12 when I recall one morning 'playing out in the garden.'

( If there are children of a similar age reading this blog I will explain this bizarre concept of "playing out in the garden" to you.) :~

Nintendos, Wii s, W-Boxes etc had not been invented. We did have a colour telly but it only had 4 channels, not nine hundred and seventy three and sixty seven sports channels that included footage of live snail racing in Mongolia. The youngest person in the house was the 'remote control' and the only red button was the on /off switch. ( " Kevin put BBc1 on," "Kevin turn the sound down," "Kevin adjust the colour" etc, etc). When you got up, if you were not at school you "went out in the garden." Or park, or footie pitch or in my case, often "down the woods." I never wore "high vis" jacket nor did I submit a risk assessment to me Mam and Dad. I did once tell Mam that I had borrowed her old washing line ( after the event) 'cos me and me mate Andy B were going abseiling down our local woods. We both survived to tell the tale and we both went onto even greater deeds of daring without the need for a safety net. What is it with those bloody "high vis" jackets these days ? EVERY bugger has one, even for the most inane and clearly NOT dangerous jobs. I recently saw a cleaner polishing store door handles wearing one. I was thinking of having my own High Vis jacket made up with the words "INNOCENT BYSTANDER" placed in luminous writing on the back. As usual I digress, so lets get back to the garden.

On this particular day I heard a booming "WOOF!" Followed by a gruesome "OW OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO" which was I was convinced MUST be the Hound of the Baskervilles. Undeterred I replied a howl of my own:~

"Owoooooooooooooooooooooo"

"Woof.......owoooooooooooooo" came the reply.

This went on for ten minutes or so. I convinced myself this MUST be some kind of MASSIVE Bloodhound, or Foxhound or something that could track a fugitive over 223 miles, then bite his arm off when it reached him. Either that or they had tamed a Wolf who was desperate to return to the wild. I had a fantastic tree in the corner of the garden that offered a panoramic view of all the gardens, this was made even more exciting by it's ability to sway in the wind. I used to convince myself it was the mast of a Royal Navy warship and I climbing to the Crows Nest. On this occasion I had to see the nature of this terrible 'beast' that was only being held back by the thick jungle foliage ( well okay, me Mam's neighbour's privet hedge). I imagined it drooling, probably toying with the skeleton of a wilder beast that it had torn limb from limb and gnawed to the bone. They probably threw it the odd whale bone to chew on, the whole garden must look like some prehistoric graveyard,scattered with bones and offal that rotted in the sun. I struggled to the top of the 'mast' and turned toward the beast. I was armed to the teeth ( Mil bro catapult with two rounds of ammunition (marbles) and penknife (complete with attachment that got Boy Scouts out of horses hooves). I was almost in Special Forces.

I winced straining to see into the wild pit. At first I saw the tip of the tail then it's back. "Oh its lying down." I thought.

"WOOF!"

It emerged into the centre of the 'pit.' There were no bones or carcases. There was an old football and a big stick and no it wasn't lying down . It was about six inches high. It had ears about nine feet long and his body was about 12 feet long. The 'beast' looked up at me and wagged his tail. Not side to side but round and round like a propeller.

"WOOF!"

He fetched his football and looked up at me in the forlorn hope that somehow I could reach him and play tug of war with his burst footie. "WOOF!" He was the funniest, daftest thing I had ever seen. I spent the next hour exchanging "WOOFS" with him encouraging him to howl. He was potty, he was the oddest looking bugger I had ever seen, but I had made my mind up that at some point in my life I WOULD have one. Somehow I could never see one retrieving a pheasant or sitting at heel so I knew that the chances of having a "Field Trial Champion Basset" were very slim ! I did however hold that thought and would continue to do so for some time............

In 2003 I met "Eugene" the Basset. He became MY basset. At that time I lived in Australia.......... To be continued.......

Man Cold

Okay I confess. I had intended to write a lengthy diatribe about how much the boys had cost, how much had been spent on beds, medicines, furniture and various items that have been eaten by The Kray Twins ( foreign visitors to the blog I should Google this...). I was then going to compare that with inanimate objects that I could have purchased. this would have included fast cars, fishing boats and probably a really expensive watch and or several trips to the F1 (Grand Prix) at one or more overseas venues. I would have made great play on the comparisons and also laughed about advertising "Free Bassets" to anyone that wanted one (or two).

All that changed last week.The boys sleep together in the hallway at night. There are many reasons for this although primarily the reasons are: a) leave them in the living room and they will eat ,chew or otherwise mangle anything at hand or left out and b) if they can get into the bedroom two Bassets on top of you in bed is like sleeping with Shetland Ponies. Shetland Ponies that snore, fart, smell like stale cheesy biscuits and insist on sleeping like a star fish.

Anyhow, I normally emerge from the bedroom to be greeted by the hounds in their own personal way. Lewis will stand on my feet and generally shove me toward the kitchen and the doggy biscuit bowl. Monty will pick the most exposed naked part of your body and place a gigantic basset paw against it and drag it slowly to the floor. This is also usually associated with a nudge toward the biscuit bowl and or a pull of your dressing gown ( on on one occasion what he thought was the dressing gown chord ~ I was starkers , if you know what I mean ! )

However this recent morning Lewis emerged from his pit as usual nudging me toward the kitchen and biscuits. Monty laid still..... I have two sons that are now grown up. I remember them as little 'uns standing in their bedrooms just watching to make sure they were breathing, Hoping secretly that they would wake up so I could cuddle them .....good grief am I going soft ??! Monty was still, no greeting and barely a flicker from him. I coerced him from his bed into the garden but showed no interest in me or Lewis. He snubbed biscuits and began vomiting around the kitchen. He snubbed biscuits and he looked generally washed out. I shall spare you the details but number twos were pretty grim too and looked like there was blood in them. Monty went from being the smart bubbly basset to the quiet and obviously ill basset. Lewis was extremely sympathetic. So sympathetic that he ate Monty's morning biccy and managed to completely ignore him.

It was at this point that you begin to have those pointless yet wholly necessary conversations with dogs ( or whatever animal):~

Me - Are you alright Monty?

Monty - No I feel like shit but I can't speak cos I'm a dog.

Me - Have you eaten something nasty?

Monty - Yes, I ate some particularly mouldy cat shit I found under the bin. I can't tell you this so I'm going to look at you like it's your fault for not washing out my food bowl for the last 6 months.....

Me - Oh god I hope it wasn't your food or bowls or anything.

Monty - It wasn't. It was the cat shit but I'm going to continue looking at you like it's your fault.

Me - I'm going to throw out ALL their bowls and buy new micro biotic bowls.

Monty - you would be better off throwing out the neighbours cat, but can I have a nice new red bowl....?

Me - God i hope its not salmonella or anything like that ...

Monty - Its not, the cat is called Tiddles..

Me - I hope Lewis doesn't get it too....

Monty - he won't cos I ate all the cat shit before he got there. I may have a word with him to see if he can get a new bowl as well though....

Me - He looks dehydrated and I think that is blood in his poo.....

Monty - I dunno what Dee in a hydrangered is but the blood may actually be as a result of licking out the old beetroot jar I found next to the cat shit...

Me - Would you like to go and see the nice doggy doctor Monty Wonty....

Monty - Let me think this through. Would I like a thermometer up my arse and be generally poked about on the promise of a Bonio that has been in a jar in his surgery since 1983 ? .....uh no I'd rather lick my brothers ears out. However I must keep up the pretence that it is not my fault and force Dad to carry me to the Vets.....

Several hours and £51.25p later Monty had received a jab and the promise that he will be fine in a couple of days. The new micro biotic dog bowls are in the post and the neighbours cat has mysteriously disappeared...........

Monty is fine now. He had picked up some horrible 'bug' and was not a well hound. You cannot put any price on the health of your loved ones...................................