Dark And Stormy Days

Since I last wrote, we’re  expiating the splendid weather that graced my part of the country during April. Instead of April showers we are dealing with May showers and with the only exception of my working in London last week, up here it has been nothing but very dark clouds and rain. I find something immensely appealing though about this state of the sky because my garden is completely out of control in the green department, with tall, tall grasses and the trees resplendent with glossy new leaves against this backdrop of dark grey. You wouldn’t believe how that sets them off!

But, of course, the first time it rains after a few weeks really is the very best time. I love the smell of the soil and the grass and there is little that I find more uplifting than writing early in the evening during the summer, when the rain is lashing down and birds are still singing on the branches. Have you ever noticed that? Birds sing in the rain, they are not at all like us, begrudging the weather and complaining about it. They have little parties out there, they tell one another stories and they don’t care at all that it’s raining. And they don’t even have brollies. We could learn a thing or two from observing birds in the rain. 

And, ah yes, London. I’m currently scheming to return to work there and, all being well, that’s precisely what I will be able to do very shortly. While this is appealing in many ways, I am not that thrilled to leave Victoria during the week (or William, but she is the one needing some special care at present). Yesterday I saw François again and I will most likely have to take her back to ensure that her ear is healing appropriately. The girl is fine but the new tissue within the opening is struggling to seal up properly. I’ve been kicking myself for the past day because I should have taken her back when I first found her with her paw in her ear two days after her operation. She ripped five stitches out then and it all went a bit awkward on the healing side of things, even though she is not bothered by anything. More on this as it evolves.

Victoria and Vet François Guillaume Saulnier-Troff

I think that the web is a very practical, helpful tool. Within milliseconds, you can check out all sort of data and if you’ve had a bad customer service experience, you can go on a forum and warn everybody and his uncle about it. Herein, in a sense, lies my concern dear reader; while people have short memories, the web’s memory isn’t short at all. 

When a few weeks ago I Googled the latest vet I was dealing with, a certain François Saulnier, I was flabbergasted that pages and pages of entries (and especially the most important few at the top) were all about ‘disciplinary hearings’, ‘unprofessional conduct’, ‘full charges’ and, the worst of all for me, ‘dishonest vet’. Dishonest vet? What? My François? Who the hell were these articles talking about? Why were they even there?

I am writing this enormous post for two reasons:

1. These details will benefit any dog owner who is seeking an in-depth account of a benign canine ear tumour from the owner’s perspective; AND
2. If you’re in two minds about taking your pet to this vet having read certain information available online, you may welcome the view-point of a very happy owner. 

Victoria’s Ear Polyp – How It Started

Victoria (background) playing with William

At the very end of March, I noted that Victoria’s left ear (Dalmatian, nine years old, spayed) was producing more and more wax despite my daily cleaning routine. She had always been a little precious about her ears and, up until Christmas 2010, I had never quite managed to clean hers as effectively and as often as William’s. When I noted that my efforts were paying off in the right ear but not the left, I began really to stick my hands and nose down there. I noted a smell that none of the other canine ears was producing and the wax that I was cleaning out of it did not look that waxy either, but rather resembled a discharge and was more liquid in consistency and far darker too. As I was massaging the cleaning fluid into the ear, I also noted an odd, squishy sound, as if a tiny sponge soaked with water were lodged in the ear canal. When I shone a light in it, I saw a white protuberance that completely occluded the canal and was, seemingly, growing out of it. 

Regular readers of this place will know that I am well-versed with many canine illnesses, ailments, accidents and disasters, but I have to tell you that even I got alarmed when I saw this thing (being disastrously hypocondriacal doesn’t help either...). Even though the growth did not look like a carcinoma (or at least not a carcinoma in its advanced stage, when they can be red or black, yikes), but was white and squishy, I was really worried that it could be the beginning of a malignant ear cancer, when the patient may still not show any symptoms. The day after, Victoria saw one of my local vets who confirmed that there was a growth in the ear and who booked her in for a biopsy two days later. 

The result of the biopsy indicated a ceruminous adenoma, which is a benign tumour that, although rare, tends to affect the skin inside feline, rather than canine, ears. Regardless of its rarity, Victoria appeared to have one and as sure as hell that thing had to come out, for it completely blocked off the ear canal and, consequently, its ventilation, potentially leading to infections with all sorts of dire consequences. Because the adenoma isn’t filled with liquid but is made of solid tissue, the biopsy could not reduce its size, neither could the vet move it in order to check the horizontal canal leading to the middle ear.

While discussing surgery, however, it became apparent that my local vet hospital, although rather stellar in many ways, currently does not have a soft tissue specialist. I remember feeling my stomach back-flip when the vet said this, for she indicated that there was a vet who could do the surgery but wasn’t yet fully qualified to do so. And who wants to do ear surgery with someone who is not yet fully qualified to do so? 

It then immediately occurred to me that the ChesterGates Referral Hospital, where I’ve been with William many times for his epilepsy when it was still the Cranmore MRI ten years previously, had expanded into a superb, snazzy hospital with all types of specialists. I suggested we asked them whether they had someone who could perform this type of surgery and later that day Victoria was booked to be seen by François Saulnier the following week.

Victoria and François 

When I met him I was as tense as a guitar string and, most likely, I may have come across as a monosyllabic idiot who did not really understand what was being said. In reality, I had barely slept since I had seen the growth inside Victoria’s ear as I was gripped by an anxiety I had never known before. While William always had me sitting on pins thanks to his epilepsy, health-wise, Victoria’s nine years had been as uneventful as a weekend in the Welsh countryside. To be talking about a potential total ear canal ablation and of the post-operative pathological report that would follow in order to ascertain what exactly had been going on, brought home the truth that, however obvious, had never quite crossed my mind before: she will not be around for ever. 

Even though I was invited to sit down, I stood like a fidgeting lamppost (if lampposts could fidget, that is) and remained pretty much silent throughout. François proceeded to draw a section of the canine ear and to illustrate the scenarios he could find once operating. 

1. The growth could have been near the top of the vertical ear canal only, therefore requiring a partial ear canal ablation (the vertical one) and a clean up of what was left below.
2. The growth could have been originating from the horizontal ear canal, therefore requiring a total ear canal ablation.

In scenario 2, there was also the possibility that the middle ear, which is the deepest part leading to the hearing apparatus, could be damaged to various degrees. Because the polyp lodged into the ear was blocking it completely, and the right ear was completely clear, it was hard to tell whether Victoria’s hearing had been affected in her left. As far as I could tell, she was behaving normally (and, crucially, she was not scratching her ear or shaking her head at all) and could hear me just fine (except for that ever-present ailment known as Selective Hearing, whereby ‘Come!’ in isolation does not work, but ‘Gravy bone!’ does). 

François then also spoke of possible outcomes as well as complications. The facial nerve could be affected if the polyp was deep inside the canal and had started impinging on it. A partial facial paralysis (affecting the eyelid, for example) or a loopsided look are possible, depending on the extent of the damage. Ear canal surgery that is not performed by experts may also lead to a facial abscess which will then need to be drained. If at all possible, hearing should be preserved, but the priority was to open up, remove the blockage and take it from there. The upshot was that only 1 in 1,000 dogs die under general anaesthesia and that a very healthy and fit, if slightly senior, dog like Victoria should be able to go through with it. 

I didn't really feel like I had a choice, dear reader. I wanted that polyp removed there and then, so I signed all the forms and left her at the hospital with François. 

When I left, although worried sick, I also had an underlying, if vague, good feeling about it all. Unlike William who has been prodded, pricked and poked by vets since he was a puppy, Vic has always lived the yearly shots as some dramatic absurdist pièce de théâtre in which she played the tragic heroine. The day before I left her with François I had a little cry because I thought that she won’t understand what’s happening to her and she will be scared to death and I won’t be there for her. In reality, she immediately seemed at ease with the guy, and quite happily sauntered off with him as I left (this is unheard of). I think that she had caught a whiff of a good vibe much more strongly than I, even though she probably paid no attention to the raft of thank you cards in his office. I did though. 

I sat on pins all day, knowing that the surgery itself would most likely happen in the early afternoon. In fact, François called as he started the procedure to say that the growth was quite big but seemed only lodged in the vertical ear canal. He would therefore most likely proceed to a vertical canal ablation. 

For three hours I heard no updates and I must confess that at that point I thought she was dead. I was imagining François sitting in the office with the fabulous Mr Skerritt, shaking his head and saying, ‘I did all I could’, with Geoff replying, ‘Yes, I know son. These things happen, I’ll call her’. I was this close to cracking when I called at something past 5 pm and spoke to reception. When the lady told me that Vic was fine and recovering well, but Francois could not yet call me because he had an emergency and was still in theatre, I almost put the phone down on her, so that I could have a good cry. Instead I blabbed something like ‘Oh she is alive then’ adding a little bit of hysterical laughter for good measure and rang off. Then I cried. 

Vic back home straight after surgery

I heard from him at 7.30 pm. He seemed slightly tired but upbeat, telling me that Vic was awake and fine, she was, in fact, looking at him with a bit of a wag going on. The polyp was indeed as extensive as we had expected it, but only just reached the curve where the vertical canal leads into the horizontal one. So he had removed the vertical canal and preserved the hearing function. Her bandages would be removed the morning after and she would likely be able to come home that evening. Again I hardly spoke (I was, in fact, struggling to breathe), threw in a couple of minor hysterical laughs, and that was that.

Post-Operative Developments

The following morning François called at 9 sharp to let me know that the bandages were off, that it all presented itself as it should, with a bit of side swelling, but nothing too drastic. He would monitor Vic through the day to ensure that no complications arose but I could go and pick her up that evening. Dear reader, I was thrilled out of my wits and surprised myself thinking, what a nice guy! A vet who calls you back when he says he will is a rare thing, trust me on this.

When I turned up in the evening, I was horrendously late (and I am a Virgo and I drive a Jag and I am never late) but François waited for an age so that he could give me more information about the operation. He did so by drawing once again the section of the ear canal and indicating exactly what he had done and where the new opening would be. He seemed really pleased to have been able to have preserved the hearing, as was I. But when Victoria arrived, and this will be of interest to those of you whose dogs may need the same procedure, she looked... well... terrible. She seemed to have turned into skin and bones overnight, her head was obviously half-shaven (well, at least she is a Dal, imagine how weird a half-shaven Afghan Hound must look) and I could tell that she had barely slept. Her ear presented itself well-cleaned if only ‘a bit odd’, as I said at the time, for the section underneath the pinna (=the ear flap) looked a bit swollen and, for lack of a better word, weird. 

Of course, I was the problem; I had never seen a post-operative ear canal ablation and could not compare it to anything I knew. François explained that the swelling was normal, and was already reducing itself. I could see the ends of the stitches which were in place in order to facilitate the inner healing but especially to ensure that the new tissue would not close the canal completely, as that’s the tendency of these wounds. I continued to ask moronic question after moronic question (‘Are you sure she is ok like this?’ being a prime example), but Francois didn’t seem to notice the idiocy and answered each and every one and then some. I left with the provision to return after ten days for the removal of the stitches but I was welcome to call if I was worried or had any questions. 

Unsurprisingly, Vic slept like a stone that night and most of the following day. She was eating but wasn’t excessively interested in food. She wasn’t bothered by the satellite dish she was wearing around her head and pretty much kept herself to herself. William barely took notice she was back (for all intent and purposes they may be boyfriend and girlfriend but he rather cannot stand her). 

Vic's ear two days after surgery, starting to look not that great

The (minor) problems started the following morning after the feeds, when she was obviously feeling more normal and bouncy and wanted to take good care of her wound. When I took a thirty-second detour in the porch to fill the water bowl, I returned to the cone burst open and her left hind paw stuck in her ear. I sorted her out but noted some liquid seeping out of the wound and down her neck. The stitches appeared in place but I was unsure and could not really see inside for fear of pulling something off, so I called François who told me to keep an eye on her without worrying too much. Of course I was welcome to take her back for a quick check, but in order to do so he would have to sedate her and he would prefer to do that only when the stitches were due to come out. So I cleaned the area as best as I could and tried to ensure as much as possible that she would not open the collar. But it wasn’t just about that:  I caught her throwing her head around in her bed and crushing her ear to the side of the collar on a few occasions. In other words dear reader... if there’s a will to scratch, there’s a way too, whether your dog is wearing a satellite or not.

Vic enjoying some time in the garden barely one week after surgery

Days passed rather uneventfully on the way to Easter, with Vic behaving more and more as normal. I would occasionally remove the buster collar so that we could sit in the garden together and she never once tried to scratch her ear while the collar was off. In fact, I think she rather liked the return of her full field of vision and the breeze gently flapping her ears.

Winking at me but not too pleased by her satallite dish

Meanwhile, François had called me again to let me know that the pathology report had confirmed that the growth was a benign ceruminous adenoma, as indicated by the biopsy, and that there was no (cellular) indication that anything more sinister had been afoot. I was growing slightly concerned by the pus-like, sticky discharge that was oozing from her ear though, hence we decided to book Vic in for the removal of the stitches a couple of days later. All was well in Steph’s World until I decided to do some online snooping to see how good this fantastic vet was. 

That’s when I landed on Google and found little other than upsetting reports. I just could not believe that what was deemed, in an attention-grabbing headline (it worked, for it surely grabbed my attention), a ‘dishonest vet’ was the lovely guy whom ‘everyone loves’, as one of his colleagues had said to me while I was in the waiting room the week before. There’s no need for me to resume past events; you can find out about it as easily as I did. Suffice to say, I was so flabbergasted, my heart plummeting to my ankles, that I decided there and then that, while it is human nature to report on dishonesty, betrayal, un-professionalism and more, I would make a point to counter-balance what I read about this vet with my own account of a very successful turn of events where he consistently acted not simply professionally, but humanely too. 

I’ll never forget the vet who told me, ‘Come on, get hold of yourself’ many years ago when I was crying about William whose continuous epileptic seizures and lack of control and non-stop overnight pacing were running me into the ground. Now that’s not what I call a professional, let alone humane, conduct. François, by contrast, has never been even remotely short, or too hassled to deal, with me, even after a 13-hour day spent in the operating theatre. So much for dishonest and unprofessional, dear reader.

What would I have done had I actually come across those reports before taking Vic to him? I wouldn’t have taken her, plain and simple. Doubt is a powerful agent and one that can stealthily destroy the most unshakable convictions, let alone our expectations of someone we've yet to meet. If you’re reading this because you’ve Googled him and you’re not quite sure, please reconsider. The guy is kind, unassuming, helpful and has plentiful experience to do a good job on your pet too if you've been referred to him. By the way, you may not find this information readily among those headlines, as most of the articles required a login, but the charge was then dismissed.

When Vic went back to have the stitches removed, it emerged that five out of the eight had already been ripped out but that, despite this, the tissue was healing just fine, even though a stricture had created itself. This means that the little outer hole (the new way in to the ear canal), was smaller and tigheter than it should have been as the tissue grows and tries to constrict itself around the wound. François therefore removed what remained of the old stitches and put another four in, this time length-wise so that the canal would be kept as open as possible during the healing process. After this procedure, which required some sedation, the seeping out of the ear ceased within two days and the area remained slightly scabby, but otherwise clean, with the ear at large soft as normal. The week after, the stitches were removed (two left... there’s just not keeping a bad dog down, is there), and the ear cleaned again, but François suggested that the collar should stay on for another week in order to minimise rubbing and scratching. The outer corner of cartilage near the ear canal was red, although it did not seem particularly sore, and I was now to apply Vaseline to the area three times a day for the following week. Before the time elapsed though, the cone was off, the ear clean and Vic was not interested in scratching at all.

The last meeting took place in order to have a final once-over. François had suggested that I may want to go to my local vet for this, but I was not so inclined. I do not think that a vet who does not have an in-depth knowledge and experience of ear canal ablations, whether partial or total, is in the position best to spot something even remotely awry when the new opening wasn’t even visible underneath the short hairs. 

A nice neat new little hole just above my index finger is what remains

So I went back, and I’m glad I did, because, not only did he clip the hairs around the opening so that I could see exactly where the new entrance to the ear is (believe me, not as obvious as it sounds!), but he also showed me how to clean the ear with a cotton bud. This had been a concern of mine since the beginning, as I had figured out that removing the vertical ear canal would have meant being much closer to the bulla when inserting, however carefully, the tip of the cleaning agent bottle or a q-tip. I needn’t have worried dear reader; cleaning is much easier this way and flushing is more simple now that I’m already half-way there. I should continue to clean the left ear daily for ten days and should also clip the hairs around the opening once a month to facilitate ventilation. Victoria is as good as new and is currently snoring softly in her bed.

If you stumbled on here because you were looking for further information about François Saulnier-Troff, I hope you found this account helpful and, hopefully, a little bit reassuring. The guy’s great, he has even given me his email address. What vet or, God forbid, GP does that? Lucky is that pet which is in his care.

Eight Today

Victoria is eight today and can’t wait to get hold of that slice of cake baked for this very special occasion. I hope you had a good one birthday girl!

Massacre In A Bedroom

Serves me right. Last night I thought that William and Victoria would have also enjoyed a bit of the Massacre and so gave them a minute spoon of it. I don’t know whether it was the pomegranate or the cream or the combo that didn’t agree with William but whatever it was, the poor darling spent a few hours looking extremely miserable until he spat out water until 2 am.

This morning, the first two hours of the day were spent in a bed-stripping-floor-washing exercise which eventually saw the little guy reclaiming his spot at midday. He is in very good spirits if only a little long-faced by the lack of sleep and I must confess that I, too, could do with a nap. See why I always say that those who want kids should always, always, always try out pets first?

Old Pics

Since I got my first digital camera in 2004, I only ever printed forty of my pics. Meanwhile, iPhoto is housing 9023 shots. Yet on my bedside table there is one small stack of Polaroids that I took in 2003, when Victoria arrived. I came across these a few weeks back and now I often look at them because they enjoy the Pola-Charm, of course, but also because I had forgotten how much of a baby Victoria looked then, compared to now. In truth, I had also forgotten how pissed off William appeared. He was an only dog and was enjoying it. I would like to say that he eventually wiped that annoyed, introspective look off his face but...

Spot The Problem

Notice anything that should not be on the bed?

Things They Don't Tell You About Dalmatians

If you are the owner of a Dalmatian, you will be well-used to hearing passing comments aimed at undermining your dog and, indirectly for having chosen such a vain canine specimen, yourself. For a start the Dal is supposed to be stupid, although nobody will ever say to your face that your dog is a retard. That only happens behind your back. Euphemisms are used, so that your Dal will be ‘not very bright’, perhaps ‘daft’, also ‘not blessed with intelligence’, or maybe ‘a little bit slow’, very often ‘particularly goofy’, sometimes ‘not really there’, naturally ‘difficult to train’ and finally ‘with a bit of a small brain’. I am sure you can add your own variations to the stupid theme; over 10+ years of Dal ownership, I’ve heard them all.


Dals in their natural habitat

Despite their supposed intellectual deficiencies, my Dals understand the following commands: sit, stand, lie down, come, go, paw. Pretty standard non-deficient dog fare there. They also understand: find!, find Richie!, let’s go for a gravy bone, where is Richie?, inside, outside, dinner, breakfast, stop, off, back, leave, what do you think you are doing!, to your bed, let's go, come ooooooon, pee, pooh, pizza, fucking hell William!. Can your dog also stand on two legs and understand the difference between inside and outside when given as a command? No? Oh.

My Dals (William especially) are so in tune with us people that they will come to the bed in the morning as soon as they hear an ‘awaken’ sound, such as a stretch, a yawn or a deep sigh. William is an absolute master champion at this. He does it at night too; if anyone is awake, chances are that William will come over and have a sniff, especially if he is considering a trip to the toilet. Catching you when you are awake makes it infinitely easier.

But that’s not all, because my Dals are also mind readers. Whenever I consider moving off the bed and surreptitiously reach the kitchen, they will be right on my back. They don’t do this if I go anywhere else, I must be thinking KITCHEN. A subtle change in my heartbeat at the thought of food followed by slight over-salivation sets them off. Your dog can’t read your mind as well? That’s odd, maybe your next one.


Alien Dal

Of course other things they don’t tell you about Dals is that they could be right in the middle of a bark-off and then sound asleep, complete with dreaming and yapping to themselves, within fifteen minutes. Victoria is a big dreamer, William is a big snorer.

The Dal rarely sulks and never holds grudges. It will always want to be right in the middle of the action, even when it looks like it’s gone away to its bed. Don’t trust a sleeping Dal; unless it is snoring, it is wide awake while keeping his eyes closed, ready to leap out of bed and rush across the house taking ornaments, tables and chairs with it whenever your thoughts of food, fridge, drink, lead or garden waft in the direction of the invisible canine satellite dish pulsating on its head.


Dals activating satellite food tracking system


Dal activating stronger satellite food tracking system


On paper, the Dal needs many miles worth of walks per week; in reality, you could end up with a Dal (or two) that barely acknowledges your departure at the front door, especially if it is wet and miserable, or warm and humid, or nippy and frosty, or anything in between. The Dal likes to rest, even when all it does is resting.


Busy Dal, only seemingly decapitated

The Dal likes to eat. A lot. Pizza and bread are favourite things, although radiator caps, stones, golf balls, hats, gloves, books and bedding are known to satisfy the appetite under the right circumstances. If you want a slim Dal, feed it very little and ensure that fridge and cupboards are shut at all times. If you want a miniature cow, feed the Dal often and lots.


Blinded Dal

The Dal is fitted with an internal biological clock that goes off every day of the year at breakfast, dinner and pee time. The Dal can be left alone around these times, but be prepared to deal with extreme situations upon your return, most notably full-venom requests spitted at you while jumping on the spot until you snap to the job. You won’t be able to talk nor think when this is happening, but that’s the price you have to pay for having left the house at the wrong sort of time.

Finally I should suggest that, if you want a companion that is reliable, constant and does what is told each and every time no exceptions, get yourself a BMW.

If you want your breakfast in bed, the slippers brought to you at the door and the paper fresh from the printers in the mornings like they show you in the movies, get yourself a butler. The added bonus to that is intact news and no dribble.


Laughing Dals

Peculiar

It’s a fact of life that pets are a bit like little people; their quirkiness, behaviours and peculiarities mean that each single owner can associate specific qualities to family members long after their departure for Rainbow Bridge. I remember visiting someone in San Francisco years ago; her eyes filled with tears as she pointed at the faded picture of one of her dogs still stuck to the fridge door. I am telling you, that dog had departed before I was born, but his specific memory, and the melancholy associated with it, was pungent still.



My dog William is one of those particular characters, and I mean this with a capital PARTICULAR. I have never known an animal as chilled out as William. William lives in his own world, a world of which I only see glimpses sometimes, for he mostly keeps himself to himself. What I say and how I say it doesn’t matter to William one iota. When he goes out in the garden while it rains, he does his stuff as quickly as possible so that he can rush back inside to towel-dry himself against the soft sides of my duvet.

And, mind you, this happens regardless the towel-drying I give him on the back step and regardless the blast of hair-drying that I go through the trouble to administer once he is inside. Crucially, whether I say anything to him or not, and more often than not I do, and at full vocal blast to boot, William doesn’t care. He shuffles along to his bed until he thinks I am not looking and then returns with a vengeance, damp sides pressed hard against the fabric, swishing back and forth like a snake slithering someplace.

Sometimes he seems to take notice; that’s when he walks away, stops wagging his tail and looks up at me with a frown corrugating his one black eyebrow. On a few occasions I have seen a thought bubble condensing above his head, the words: ‘What was that?’ spelt out in glossy gravy bones.

Treating my bed as a bathrobe isn’t his only peculiarity, as he also likes to mess about as a general rule. Most mornings I go to the office (Starbucks) where I work for three hours straight, at which stage I up sticks and come home for lunch. Upon my return, I am greeted by sleepy eyes and wagging tails, as I reward well-behaved dogs with a treat or two. There’s nothing like returning to an immaculate home that makes you appreciate dogs that don’t like to exercise when it’s cold and/or wet and/or autumn and/or winter and/or humid and/or warm and/or hot. When I am not in they sleep. Victoria gets up to check the post; I can tell by a light scattering of spiky white hairs on the dark wooden floor in a straight line, bed-to-front door. William doesn’t move at all.

After that treat or two, I take them to the toilet. Victoria does all she needs in one go, including having a drink on the way back, while William starts off with a wee. I close the back door and return inside. By the time I’ve sat down at the computer to resume work, he is by my side, emitting low-volume sounds not unlike those of a creaking door. This continues until I say: ‘Drink?’. Ok, so he didn’t dare disturbing Victoria while she was at the bowl and I understand that he may feel safer on his own. After all, he almost lost an ear once. I go back and let him out again.

Back in the study I can hear him lapping away. By the time I’ve blocked all noise I see him passing by, oscillating right and left like a watermelon on legs. He has, once again, drank the bowl dry. At this point he places a paw on my leg, with another squeaking request. He has realised he now needs to poo. So I go back, re-open the door and take him to the garden where, on lead, else he will eat all the pears, he performs.

Back in the study I say: ‘Enough now, go and play with Victoria!’. My word is now gospel. I hear him trotting away and soon after the bark-off begins, as Victoria has taken over his bed and he doesn’t want to lay down next to her. This goes on and on and on until I can bear it; eventually I make it to the bedroom, shuffle Victoria to the opposite side of his bed (William won’t take the right side, he only takes the left) and eventually he throws himself in growling, I am not sure at who. Could be her, as she is always in the way, but it could be me too because why the fuck did it take so long to come and assist?

William is the reason why certain people, especially those who have never had dogs, make me smile when they dismiss their behaviours this way and that. You just don’t realise how much of a character animals can have (and how much of a character they can be), until you meet one with a personality bigger than your own. That’s when you become forever enslaved to your heart and that’s why your eyes go liquid even thirty years after they have departed.

Pretty Girl

View From The Sofa

There is never a moment of privacy in this place. And I mean, never.

One For The Girls

Today was the best day ever. I drove to Tatton Park with Victoria after we dropped Rick off at work and the weather was fabulous and the sky was super-blue and the water was crystal-clear and the leaves were turning, it was cold, peaceful, beautiful, argh, I am running out of sugary-sweet things to say. Magnificent I am telling you. We had a five-mile walk, enjoyed the sights, the deer and having the whole park pretty much to ourselves. I had never seen it so quiet but then we always love to go at the weekend, so it’s obvious that there was nobody around today. We then returned to William with a chewing cigar and he forgave us for the private girlie time. Anyway I later took him for a spin to the garden centre to meet another friend so he really doesn’t have anything to complain about if you ask me. What dog wouldn’t love to look at plants and paving stones and flowers and gravel I am asking? Isn’t that what dogs do? Shop at garden centres?

I'll Snap His Neck When He Is Not Looking

This pretty much sums up their relationship...

Snoopy-Doo

When I look at William, I am always reminded of Snoopy, even though Snoopy isn’t spotted and William doesn’t keep a typewriter in his bed. It’s the flat single brow he has and the black ears, together with his ability to be always camera-ready, that remind me of lovely Snoopy. Victoria’s pics are very much hit-and-miss, one day looking fine, the next scrawny and stick-thin. William does not have one bad shot to his name and smiles for the camera even in his sleep.

Ten

When my dog William was born, ten years ago today, I was doing my finals, had just met my future husband, was fatter than I am now (unbelievable and yet so true) and didn't really have a care in the world. Happy birthday William, you're the best of the best and a constant reminder of the girl I was then. Good times.

Very Busy Bootie

The guys and I may enjoy the warm days in the garden provided they don't last for anything longer than a week. This morning it was sensibly cooler and we all felt better for it, especially the Very Busy Bootie.

And Shit Too Happens

I never thought of my household as an accident-prone one, the way in which families with little children or really stupid people can be (those that warm baked beans in the oven in sealed cans for example). But now I am starting to wonder whether I should reconsider and should add some form of insurance cover for my idiocy.

Over the past six weeks I’ve fallen over and cut my knee open; I’ve slipped while taking a shower and have fallen over and backwards outside of the bath onto the slate floor and not only is it miraculous that I didn’t rip the shower curtain off its rail and the rail off the ceiling but that I didn’t end up on a wheelchair paralysed from the neck down. Only a week ago my trustworthy blender opened at the bottom as I was whizzing hot soup, landing my left hand in boiling green slime (it was pea soup) and subsequently iced water until I stopped crying.

I would have thought that enough for the time being, except it is so true that you just never know when shit is going to hit you, neither are you gonna know the direction it’s going to come from, the speed it will hit you at, nor how much the flying shit will cost you. And so one second you’re celebrating a writing success by knocking down Pimm's,



and the next you’ve got a cone on your head, a bootie on your foot and £ 150 less in the bank.

Pensive

Dal Doing Yoga

Birthday Girl

Effective today, my girl Victoria is officially senior. I'd say she is holding up rather well, don't you think? I can only hope to look this good when I too am a senior.

Doggy Day Spa

It's time to spruce up house et al for the holidays. Today it was doggy day spa day and it resulted in Victoria looking a bit like a worse-for-wear Slovakian peasant.