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...................................

Comparethebasset.com "SIMPLES"

Much has been said about the day to day life of the Bassets. The ups , downs and tribulations of having two of the most stubborn dogs known to man. My how I've laughed as my wallet got lighter lighter and lighter. My how I laughed as the personal belongings disappeared, the valuables appeared in the garden and things you used to take for granted now had to be hidden away or at least more than 9 inches off the floor. ( My bassets are about 6 feet long but very short !). Then it occurred to me. It occurred to me that there may be people out there considering the purchase of a basset. Considering taking that plunge into the world of hounds, considering that plunge into domestic destruction and lunacy ! I wondered what we'd actually spent since the arrival of the hounds. Well here goes....................

Purchase of two basset hounds ~ £1500.00

Vets bill jabs etc ~ £300.00 vet

Basset vasectomies ~ £300.00 vet

Undisclosed hernia op ~ £150.00 vet

Lewis bitten on leg by foofoo dog ~ £100.00 vet

Monty eating something horrible ~ £50.00 vet

Food ~ £1000.00 (apx)

Leads,bowls etc ~ £100.00 (apx)

To be continued............my calculator has broken!

SPARE RIBS....................

My local Chinese takeaway is on a parade of shops set back from the main road. There is a large pavement area at the front of the building often used by children as a cycle assault course or a footy pitch. Both of these I love as, a) kids are actually outside playing and b) it shows kids still have imagination. There is usually a collection of waifs and strays from the very small to the 'nearly a teenager ' size. All nice kids. Some a little rough around the edges but at least they chat, especially when I have the hounds in tow.

I know from experience that Lewis & Monty have an excellent temperament with everyone big and small and love nothing more than kids hanging off their ears and generally fussing them. Monty occasionally jumps as he has developed an interest in licking the end of people's noses. Lewes either sits on your foot or leans on you ( he's SO agile), thats' about as active as he gets. I often get asked:

Can I stroke them?

To which I normally reply, " yes but watch the light one (Lewis) he will bit yer leg off "

This usually coincides with Lewis either lying on his back or with his fat backside slumped to one side and his tongue hanging out as fifteen kids scratch and pamper him. My comment usually only encourages Lewis to be even more of a wimp. With one exception......

The local Chinese take-way has two delightful small boys who always chat and make observations about the hounds. They are really active and bright lads who clearly have never seen anything like a Basset Hound. Sadly on one occasion last year I was asked by the boys:

" Can we stroke them? "

"Of course" I replied with my usual caveat of (ha-ha, or so I thought); "But watch the light one 'e'll av yer leg off..."

The two youngsters looked like someone had told them their X Box was broken. The colour drained out of their cheeks and both burst into tears. I was at this point joined by Dad who clearly ran out upon hearing his boys distress.

What go on?"

" I m very sorry I was joking that Lewis was vicious, he isn't he is a complete softy.."

" He not bight reg off"

No definitely won't bite reg, er leg off, in fact he couldn't bite the skin off a rice pudding "

Dad ~ " it okay they no have pets not in restaurant, very difficult."

I made my apologies and promised that whenever his boys were ready they could come and pat the dogs. Over the the next few weeks the boys always spoke but were still reluctant to come near the boys. That was until last week.............

I hitched the hounds to a lamp-post outside the shops and as usual a myriad of kiddy winkles began the usual patting and scratching of them. Both responded as usual either slumped to one side or rolled on their backs. The two young Chinese boys began to run toward the hounds laughing as they nearly got to them. Lewis thought this was hilarious, adopting the "I want to play position" he placed his head on the floor with his bum in the air. His tail wagging furiously. The two boys continued their game never quite getting too near to Lewis but still growing in confidence.

What I had not noticed is that Lewis collar had not quite been clicked into place. With one quick burst of excitement he was free and bounding toward the young Chinese boys. The sight of a 5 stone Basset ears and spare skin flailing wildly was clearly too much for the boys who screamed in panic and ran toward the safe haven of their take-way shop. Lewis thought this was the best game of chase ever. Sadly it did not end on the pavement....

The boys headed into their safe haven where dad was serving two number 42's and a boiled rice to a regular. His sons who were now screaming (in Chinese) dived under the counter, pursued by Lewis who still thought this was the best game of chase ever. Not content with finding their safe haven the boys separated. One heading upstairs, one toward the kitchen where Mum was now standing holding a large wok in a menacing fashion ( can you hold a wok in a menacing fashion ?), anyhow the separation disorientated Lewis who now had to weigh up his options ( Which kid do I go and play with ?) I now had a rather bewildered Monty on an extension lead that was wrapped around the postbox and was trapped in the take~away door. A regular ordering his take~away whilst two small children were pursued into the take~away by a five stone Basset Hound.The cook was threatening him with a wok and Lewis was completely undeterred thought he was playing catch with the added bonus of a stir fry afterwards. two small boys were screaming in Chinese and I made repeated (and pathetic) attempts to apologise. To make matters worse Lewis refused flatly to budge as he still thought this game was so funny. Sheepishly I invited myself into the take~away and living area at the rear that Lewis had now made his home. I had to cadge a prawn cracker to get him out ( talk about rubbing salt in the wound ! )

Anyhow dad eventually saw the funny side although I think his good lady may have had culinary ideas for Lewis had he have overstayed his welcome any longer.

Lewis you will never know how close you got !!!.......................

Under the knife.

I had, for some time, known that it would be better for the Hounds to have, how should I put this......ahem, their gonads off. ( Okay I could have said the snip, the 'special operation' or however delicately you want to put it. This does not change however the simple fact that my boys were going to have the old goolies off). I knew that the older the dogs got, the greater potential for complications. This did not detract in any way from the feelings of guilt that were overwhelming me. The hound's penkers were maturing to such a degree that it was obvious both boys were exceptionally proud of their respective packages. They had developed the knack of walking in complete unison, this had the result of both their parcels swinging at exactly the same time and direction. Synchronised bollocks if you like. I became obsessed. I canvassed a variety of friends and experts ( well actually my mate Pete ). Will they bark in high pitched barks when they are off ? ( Pete was particularly impressed with that one. )

This of course had to be discussed in direct correlation with the disadvantages that two sets of basset balls brings to the table. They were producing so much testosterone at the time that anything and everything was both attractive and 'definitely up for it.' Up for it' victims included each other, me, other dogs ( and indeed animals) and a host of inanimate objects that clearly were highly attractive to these young Basset studs. Inanimate objects included a pair of my jeans on the bedroom floor, a bag of dog food and a TV remote. Lewis had also begun to cyber bonk as I described it. This involved Lewis ( for no apparent reason) effectively shagging fresh air. He was also able to do this at anytime or location. He was particularly adept at cyber bonking whilst on the end of a lead and walking through built up areas. It was like taking a slinky toy for walk (remember those?) aside from the fact that it was also completely bloody embarrassing. His impeccable timing usually coincided with us walking past a group of young men wearing hooded tops. You know the type, about 14 years old, can of Stella in one hand, whilst texting their pregnant girlfriends with the other, this all whilst listening to a song about " slapping my bitch up with a blah blah" playing from the loudspeaker part of their mobile handset. Now usually I have the ability to deal with these young me in a way that is totally compatible with their Human Rights ( see"Love Thy Neighbour" Chapter of Blog), this may not fit in with the European Convention on Human Rights but I firmly believe my interpretation is about right. Placing a foul mouthed illiterate moron inside a wheelie bin is hardly going to scar him for life is it? On this occasion however my sheer embarrassment over whelmed and reduced my "wheelie bin hoodie hide and seek" prowess. The net result being that I had to bite my lip:

Hoodies " ere mate yer dog needs a wank"

Hoodies " ere mate yer Dachshund's a poof innee ? "

Me " He's a basset actually" ( see earlier chapters).

Hoodies "ere mate yer wanna get him a bird dunnya ?"

Me " Sigh (thanks Lewis)"

I had made my mind up. That was it, they were coming off. I made a bee line for the Vets and arranged for a pre op inspection of the "two veg" ( well actually , more accurately four veg). Herr GermanVet (see earlier chapters) had the boys on his bench one at a time. Lots of "hmmms, expelling of air and ohs" you know the type, like when you take your car into the garage because you can hear a rattling sound. 2.23 minutes later, both 'inspected' and I have bought the usually array of pointless dog related bollocks taking my bill up to a very reasonable £78.43p ( how do Vets make a living ? they must really struggle). Anyhow the date is set and both hounds are prepped. I've got a pickling jar at the ready ( well they gave my Grandma her gallstone's back, you never know) and the boys have had counselling. Well sort of, I gave them a dog biscuit.

Three days later and I'm back at the vets. Lewis and Monty had their overnight bags and both had clean underwear. I filled in my parent consent forms and met the Vet surgeon. No not Herr GermanVet but a very nice young Aussie Lady Vet.

"G'day mate should be over in no time we'll ring you if there are any problems." The down to earth friendly voice of Aussie Lady Vet reassured me all would be well. I left thirty three mobile numbers ALL my work numbers six e-mail accounts and a satellite mobile number. I had never left me hounds in the hands of strangers and was now like a man possessed. The dogs were completely stressed too. Well actually, not quite. Monty had found his way out the back of the vets and was effectively just having a mooch. Lewis had found the Vet's nurse who was rubbing his chest and ears in a "don't worry it will be fine" type way. Lewis was playing his best doey eyed soft mutt look and was clearly solely interested in having his lardy arse patted and rubbed.

It never ceased to amaze me on all visits to the vets how terrified most pets seemed of the place. I have a friend who's dog cowers in the back of the car if they even drive past it. My two conversly, can't wait to get in there. I have taken them shopping in the town centre and have been literally dragged there by them both. Lewis has to be dragged out and I end up having ridiculous conversations with a hound in the High Street.

" we have to go now its closing."

" we can come back tomorrow"

" the vet has to see another dog now"

Why on earth to we have these conversations ? !

An hour after leaving me hounds a dreaded call arrived. Nice Aussie Lady Vet telephoned.

" Good job they came in when they did, I started with Monty and discovered a hernia, he has probably had it since a puppy but I have now fixed it along with his snip. He will be groggy though as what should have been a 12 minute op became a 45 minute op......."

My heart sank. You become sick with worry although at least now he was 'fixed.' Lewis op passed without episode and I had me hounds back about 4 hours later. The Vet had said that Monty was awake and about (incredibly) within minutes. She said that Lewis had been a complete wimp.

They had attached a small heart rate monitor to them during the op. This required a small patch of fur being shaved from a front leg. Lewis had apparently turned his head and "offered" his leg like he was on his last legs even before he had received the anaesthetic. He then refused to move after the op and was adopting the " I am dying , you have killed me " theatrical attitude. they both however, accepted biscuits upon leaving although Lewis turned toward the nurse as if to say " I am too weak to eat this...."

Sadly I did not get any pickled Basset bollocks or even a Basset scrotum (would have made a great purse for small change and WHAT a talking point), but both boys are now 100% and their bonking has stopped.

Now what can the Vet do for stubborness ??? !!!!

The Hound Factor Part Duex

Firstly I must apologise to Basset Diary loyal fans. All four of them.... A combination of work and other issues have prevented me from getting near the computer (or Metal Mickey ~ as my Dad calls anything with a plug socket attached to it " dumb founded elec~trickery I don't understand it. " ) My Dad is to I.T. what Pol Pot was to Human Resources.

I digress where was I ? Hounds its all about the hounds!

You may recall that I had entered the 'buffoons' into a local dog show. Caught up in the hysteria of it all I began coiffuring the mutts to a frenzy. (Well I pulled the goo from Lewis' right eye and applied the corner of a wet hanky to Monty's snooty hooter. )

You may recall that Quentin (aka 'Our Man in Havana') had established the names of me hounds and abruptly moved on. Undeterred I eyed the competition. This was going to be a walkover...

There were a lot of owners at the show that looked like they spent a lot of time with their dogs. A lot of time with their dogs and not quite as long in the shower. I am not being cruel, this is merely an observation. (There appears to a be a bizarre obsession with Australian Bush hats, jeans and Doc Martin boots amongst die hard 'Doggy People') These were beautifully married with T-shirts and or fleeces depicting; a) A North American Wolf scene, with a number of the wolves apparently howling at the moon , b) A tigers head encompassing the entire item of clothing or c) I (heart) (specific breed of dog ). Alternatively there were also a number of T-shirts emblazoned with the names of local ladies rugby teams .

To my right a lady (wearing wolf scene ) held three on a variety of leads. I barely noticed two of them as the third distracted my attention. There was probably Whippet in him, probably a bit of Terrier and there may be even have been a smidgen of Lab. There was definitely a dog that was wearing a nappy ( I kid you not) and I think moved by remote control. I think ( bless him) that this mutt had passed away some time ago and " I heart robo dog- T Shirt - lady-owner" had him stuffed and had a small electric motor inserted in him. He stood rigid. Rigid apart from the occasional shake and or spasm.

Piece of piss I thought. I looked to my left.

Lady ( with Tiger Fleece and moustache) holding 5 (yes 5) whippets. All on leads that were the width of my boot lace. All moving in complete unison. All completely scared of everything. In fact they were scared of being scared. They shook and whimpered and the mere thought of any contact, human canine or otherwise . Miss Tiger Fleece commanded and demanded their undivided attention. It was synchronised dog shaking at it's very best.

A myriad of other breeders and owners continued around the arena.I was confident, I was actually quietly confident. Three judges stepped into the square, Quentin (as discussed) a lady called Steve and a lady in a Wolf Scene T Shirt. Need I say more.

My two had actually at this point, realised this was something different. They began to look like the pedigree hounds that they are. Lewis sat fluffing his chest out like some rampant pigeon cooing for a mate. Monty stood fully erect posturing his wonky tail and disguising it's bendy gait.

" My god.. we are going to win boys, we really are going to win...."

My mind drifted. Front page in local rag

MONTY & LEWIS WIN AGAIN

At work:

"Heard about your dogs Kev...fantastic"

Telly:

" So how do you feel about being on the Jonathon Ross show boys?"

Radio:

" Lewis & Monty meet Terry"

This was just the beginning. Forget work. My two were going to be selling everything from dog food to hoovers. Max Clifford was moments from his latest clients. I was moments from leaving work and living on a beach. My my drifted , the minds of Lewis & Monty drifted.

Monty dreamed about lush green vegetation, the cool freshness of grass tickling his soft under belly. He dreamed of playful rabbits teasing and running from him, of gilt edged dog bowls containing Michelin 'starred' dog food. He dreamed of foreign travel, politics and world peace. He dreamed that one day he would be King of all Bassets.

Lewis also dreamed. He dreamed about licking dirty plates in the dishwasher.

The judges neared, Steve, Quentin and Wolf scene T Shirt lady approached. They held rosettes, oh yes rosettes. Lewis & Monty licked their lips, they could almost taste the ribbons that had been specially hand made in China by children (forgive me).

Wolf Scene Howling At The Wind T Shirt Lady:

" And the winner is.........."

Pause

Pause

Pause

" ..................( robot in nappy dog) ....."

Me " Oh my god."

Monty " Oh my god."

Lewis " Has anyone loaded the dishwasher yet ?"

Robo dog wheels over in his nappy (cunningly concealing the motor no doubt) and has rosette attached to his aerial..

Me " Okay boys lets go for second"

Monty " Yeah its gotta be second Dad"

Lewis " Can I have a biscuit?"

Quentin:

" And second place goes to............"

Me

" Bollocks. A flock of scared whippets."

We didn't wait around for runner up. I think they were going to give it to a dead seagull that had been washed up on the beach, but had dried in the sun in the "sort of a shape of a dog."

Bitter ? You bet. Me prize pedigree hounds had been soundly thrashed by a remote control carcass wearing a nappy and a collection of bones on leads. Work was going to be a nightmare. I had foolishly disclosed to friend ( via text on the day) of my intentions to enter the competition. He wouldn't remember though........

He wouldn't remember so much that he and colleagues had cleared space on the office wall for the rosettes....

Workmate

" Wheres' the rosettes then mate?"

Me

"Oh they uh didn't sort of give them out to save the enviroment sort of thing"

Workmate

"They lost didn't they ?"

Me

"No way"

Workmate

"They didn't get ANY rosette did they?"

Me

"YES..........I mean no"

Monty remains embarassed. Lewis got to lick the contents of the dishwasher.

NEXT TIME:

"Under the knife"

The Hound Factor...

My hounds are just that. Hounds. I want them to get dirty and sniff and do all the things that dogs do. I don't like dogs being shampooed and coiffured, nor do I enjoy the sight of dogs having their coats trimmed and cut into bizarre shapes that we as humans some how assume they should be. I never envisaged even visiting a dog show let alone entering one. That was however, until a local charitable dog trust opened a show a stones throw from Hound Manor. Armed with me mutts we trotted off the half mile or so keen if nothing else to allow the Mont & Lewis time to associate with other growlers. I didn't wash , brush or otherwise tamper with them. Lewis very helpfully licked Monty's arse and Monty reciprocated by licking out the inside of Lewis's ears..nice. Unless you were down wind of them, they both also smelt remarkably normal.

Entering the park I was astonished at the array of mutts that befell us. Even The Hounds took a sharp intake. What struck me was the sudden feeling of unashamed snobbery that took over me. Swanning around the field I suddenly found myself 'mincing.' Mincing in a 'hold the lead up high look at my pedigree dogs type mincing way.' I started pulling loose hairs from their coats and rubbing gunge from their droopy eyes. I started wishing for eye contact from other owners in the hope that I could give the answer " Oh yes they are pedigrees you know. They are both Kennel Club registered (etc etc). "

Sadly the first few questions involved:~

Are they Beagles mate ?"

"No they are Basset Hounds."

"Are they sausage dogs mate?"

"No they are Basset Hounds"

"Are they Blood Hounds mate"

"Sigh, no they are Basset Hounds"

" Are they Dachshunds mate?"

" No they are bloody Basset Hounds.."

"When do they get taller?"

"They don't THEY ARE BASSET HOUNDS"

The show itself centred on a ring area (which was actually a square) roped off around the perimeter. Contestants and their mutts paid the requisite fee and entered the ring under an awning. Owners and pooch then walked around the outskirts of the ring parading Trixie Bell , Rover and Fido a la the great Crufts. It was a beautifully warm Summers day and the grass underfoot had browned exposing dry soil underneath. Dozens of families sat outside the ring separated from mutts simply by a single chord line. Suffice to say you could actually touch the contestants. Lewis & Monty were mesmerised by the whole showbiz thing. They actually sat quietly watching the mutts strut their stuff. This was canine X Factor.

Then I heard it " ladies & gentleman please get your dogs ready for the next round which is the group category, if you have two dogs or more please pay and enter."

I looked down at the Hounds. Not even a murmur. Shall I? Whats the worst that could happen? 1 minute later I found myself in the ring. 2.37 seconds later Monty & Lewis realised people were looking at them. As more entered the parade slowed and I found myself standing next to a lovely family. Three young girls from about 3 years to 7 years patted an played with Monty & Lewis. I also noticed a judge closing on me. It was exactly at this time that Lewis decided he would have the largest erection he had ever had. Now Lewis is the John Holmes of the dog world. Not to put to finer point on it he is a very big boy in the trouser department. This is exacerbated by the fact that his winkle is about an inch off the floor. For whatever reason Lewis was very happy about something. The jumbo Frankfurter flopped onto the brown ground collecting all manner of grass and soil deposits. Lewis smiled manically , was it the little poodle opposite ?

I noticed the three young girls were now pointing and shouting " mummy, mummy that doggys thingys is out." Mum was blushing ( Dad was was envious)...

She tried to distract them " Look girls a lovely poodle"

Me in my head " Of Christ don't tell him that "

Lewis " Pwooaar "

Me trying to diffuse situation " Why don't you play with Montys ears girls, look they are all floppy"

Monty turns to see the girls but notices his brother still 'standing proud.' Monty then begins to lick said stiffy in an apparent gesture of support to Lewis over his love for the poodle. Managing to separate them and pulling them sharply Lewis slowly began to deflate. "Thank God Lewis please calm down the judge is coming.."

I looked down at both of them. Now as I said we are not dog proud, we love our hounds but we let them be dogs. This all changes when you are about to be judged. Lewis has beautiful light brown spots around his muzzle. In the bright sunlight I noticed a dozen or more of these beautiful spots were in fact red. I then recalled tripping over the floppy mutt two or three evenings ago whilst carrying a glass of finest Shiraz. I was able to hang onto the glass but sadly not the mouthful that deposited red spots onto Lewis's muzzle. At the time we all laughed it off, I was now about to be judged.

Would he think I'm an alcy?

Would he think Lewis is an alcy?

Oh my god please don't call the RSPCA ( or 'AA' for that matter).

I now noticed that Monty had managed to drag his ear through a poo very helpfully left by another contestant (sabotage?) the judge was closing...

I had a Basset covered in red wine stains boasting a semi hard on covered in grass. He had red wine stains on his head and his brother had poo smeared on one ear. Monty had also very helpfully decided to over emphasise a birth defect he had ( Monty's tail occasionally bends in the middle, if he is walking it remains upright and erect but occasionally it droops) and was now parading with a tail held at a 90 degree angle. They looked like they had been sleeping in a pet shop doorway for a month.

The judge was a very nice chap. Stripey shirt , double cuffs and white trousers topped off with a Panam hat. " Our man in Havana " type look.

Judge " Wonderful Bassets, what are their names ?

Me " Lewis & Monty"

Judge " How old are they ?

Me " About 10 months and they...........but, but,....."

That was it. Our man in Havanna moved on.

"What happened to lifting their bum up, checking the teeth and all that Crufty type things they do ? " I thought to myself

TO BE CONTINUED..............

Middle of the book photos...

Action shots...

Hounds in action..........

Rescue hounds look for lost hiker...........

 

Author under Basset attack..........................

Be afraid.....

Holiday hounds.

April brought about whole a whole new scenario. We usually travel to India, where for two weeks we are involved in a number of physical activities. My personal favourites include:~  Walking to the beach. Drinking on the beach. Sleeping on the beach. Eating on the beach. Reading on the beach. Fishing on the beach. I am Olympic standard at all. Once I even walked to another beach hut some 25 feet away. 

My luggage on the way out on the last trip weighed 6 and ¾ ounces ( I must try and get some lighter flip flops) and consisted of ; shorts (one) khaki, shirt (one) white cheap/nasty and flip-flops (pair) yellow ~73p in 1981. I also (of course) have my male toiletries. Soap (one) bar Tesco Value, toothbrush (one) Spider-Man handle. I used the plastic bags they give out for liquids as my hand luggage bag.     

Since the Monty & Lewis Show had moved in I had resigned myself to the fact that I would be holidaying in the back garden. Any beach activities would be restricted to sweeping up the bags of builder’s Sharp sand that Lewis had very kindly ripped open and distributed about the garden. The hounds new beach volleyball court was coming along nicely. 

Imagine then, my reaction when a friend (Sean) said the immortal words, “ Why don’t you just go on holiday, I’ll have the dogs……………..” 

I remember this and shall do  for years to come. As Sean mouthed the words my entire world was drawn to his features. Everything slowed to the slowest slow-mo shot imaginable. I could see every syllable and vowel being announced. It was as if the slow-mo shot was deliberately over emphasising the shape and texture of every word. …. “  I   w   i   l  l     h   a   v   e     t   h   e     d  o  g   s …” 

My heart pounded. Standing in our back garden I turned, (also in slow motion) to Monty and Lewis. At the very end of the sentence both hounds stopped eating the very expensive garden flowers planted 23 seconds earlier.  Lewis, with tomato plant and Monty, with banana tree turned to face me. The dust from their self appointed volleyball court was settling around their heads and rose in the warm air and sunlight. Monty smiled a demonic smile. Lewis spat out the tomato plant. He sensed a whole new awakening. A new garden, a new lawn, new furniture and new challenges. Monty crouched and considered the possibilities. Be afraid Sean…oh yes, be afraid……      

Sean was sober, Sean had not taken any form of narcotic. He was fairly normal and yet he’d still said it. Part of me was afraid to ask the next question. This was the part that felt that out of politeness I had to ask it, but if I was an honest person, would admit to being afraid of asking it.

“ Are you sure Sean ? “ Pause, long gulp, oh dear have I sowed the seed of doubt in his head type thoughts. 

Sean  “ Absolutely sure. Just go.”

As the travel date got nearer my fear became greater. I conducted a home visit at Sean’s. Not to assess suitability, oh no. This was an intelligence gathering operation of a covert nature. I needed to know how much his furniture, carpets, garden and ornaments were worth. How much my holiday plus damages would cost me. Sean thought I was briefing him about the hounds. Oh no, nothing as simple as that. 

Me “ Really nice carpet Sean I would love one of those, where did you get it?”

Sean “ I can’t remember it was ages ago.”

(Mental note. Cheap carpet…….check.)

Me “ So uh Sean, uh mate. Do all your internal doors close and stay closed, just wondering uh how much heat loss you suffer..?

Sean “ Yeah they all stay closed, the house is pretty good on heating actually.” 

Me “ That’s good mate”

(Mental note. B*****ds won’t be able to escape.)

Me “ Lovely garden Sean. So uh , got much in yet.”

Sean “ Yeah loads. I’ve got potatoes in all kinds of stuff. I really enjoy my garden”

(Mental note. Sean’s garden is f****d. )

Me “ So uh, go out much lately Sean”

Sean “ You know me, fairly hectic social life”

(Mental note. Sean’s house is f****d.) 

India Day got nearer. The pangs of guilt began to set in. I found myself not saying the words India or holiday in front of them. We referred to it as the ‘other work place.’ Sean was referred to as Special Uncle Sean and boy were they were going to have a good time !!

They knew. Oh yes they knew. I’ll swear Monty developed a limp. Lewis pretended he was agro phobic and refused to get in the car. Both decided that the official Basset wake up time was between 4am and 4.30am. Both decided that if you didn’t wake up too they would piss where they liked. They both decided that they only understood a little known Hebrew dialect from the 3 rd Century. Neither knew any form of the English language.

Commands were now a new form of sport.

Me “ Boys sit”

Hounds “ Wadda he say? Dunno lets piss in the kitchen”

Me “ Boys stay”

Hounds “ Lets run away and hide in that lady’s garden” 

Me “Boys NO.”

Hounds “ Great, lets eat this fox shit and roll in that fish carcase.”  

They both developed a new body odour, this despite my best efforts and extensive preening. They clearly had made a pact to smell like a mouldy kipper wrapped in a tramps undies. These two made corpses smell good.

I loaded the car. This included two Bassets. Two leopard  skin faux leather beds. Each the size of Bournemouth. Four dog bowls, thousands of kilos of food, leads, dog cleaning shampoo, ear wipes, eye wipes, poo bags, treats , chews ,blankets and pillows ( yes bloody pillows). We looked like we had just sailed in from Sangate.  

“Hello Mr Sean you very kind man.”

The hounds emerged from the car. Lewis mooched around the back and promptly dug up Sean’s potatoes. Monty (in a two pronged attack) went into the living room and helped himself onto Sean’s settee. Lewis had finished his starter. He moved onto a coconut. Sean did not have any coconuts in his garden. He no longer had any potatoes. Monty dropped a number two on the lawn. Not just any number two, oh no. He loosened one up to the texture and colour of a lentil broth. The only way that was going in a poo bag was through a straw. Sean went pale. I ran out and drove off. I switched my mobile off until the day before we returned.

The return

Sean is still our friend . He tells me that the garden will grow back. The door and various parts ’just need a lick of paint.’ The carpet is ’shampooable’ and the lino will polish. The car can be valeted and most of the mud will wash off. The neighbours will eventually talk to Sean again and the Postie may come back.  

Sean is considering our request for next years holiday !

(To Sean - thanks mate for enduring Houndsville ! To all who helped Sean our thanks and a special thanks to lunch time walkers. The Boyz miss yah Sean !)