Two years ago to the day we were reeling from the loss of little Poppy, barely three months after we’d lost Beanie & Biggles. In all the ways that really matter, things are much, much better now :)

Over the years my index fingers have become surprisingly powerful. I’m not talking about physical strength here; I’m talking about their ability to bend various furry and hairy critters to my will – a power ably demonstrated on the return leg of our main dog walk one day last week.

We were just a few minutes from home when we came upon an escaped black bullock. His head was around my chest height, and while he hadn’t bulked up to any great degree as yet, he wasn’t exactly a feather-weight either. As soon as he spotted us, he approached us slowly but with purpose. I considered turning around and taking a circuitous route back home, but that would have added a good 90 minutes to our walk, and I wasn’t wild about that idea. Instead, I made steady eye contact and pointed my index finger of authority (IFOA) right at him. It worked! He backed up and we walked straight past him. Daisy was kind of curious about him and kept looking, but Monkey just kept his head down and my legs firmly between him and this black-clad agent of Monkeycide.

A few seconds later the bull was behind us and things were looking good, so of course it was at this moment that Monkey felt compelled to halt our progress for a quick stress-relieving pee. Honestly it would have been much better if he’d waited until we were further away, and when I looked back I could see that the young bull was gaining confidence and attitude. He made a couple of charging motions towards us, each time slamming on the brakes after a short distance, but clearly trying to build up courage for something more serious. I gave him the IFOA again and reinforced it with a loud “Oi!”. Again it worked, but not wishing to push our luck I tugged Monkey into motion; soon the bull had given up on us and we were home free.

In the past I’ve used the same power-finger technique to subdue aggressive farm collies, stroppy geese and even monkeys.. well a particular Beagle boy called Monkey anyway.. but despite all this success, there is still one creature that remains immune to the IFOA: Daisy.

In fact she’s not just immune it, she’s downright disrespectful. If I point my finger at her to ward off a food raid while I’m having a TV snack, she’ll often lick my finger and then continue to make advances towards my nosh. About the only thing that really gives her pause is her harness; bring that into the room and she tries to hide her head. She’s two years old now but still seems to believe that if she can’t see her harness, it can’t see her and she won’t have to put it on. Statistically this strategy is not a winner, but it doesn’t stop her trying.

More photos:

OK, I’m not sure about this, but I think I might be just a little late with today’s walk…

I do want the walk Dad, but maybe we can skip the harness?

The daffs are out in force in our garden..

And most of them are still standing..

..despite all the wrestling and chasing that goes on!

Speaking of chasing..

..if you can’t always outpace your opponent you can still sometimes outsmart them!

More sunny days like this please!!

Spring has arrived. It’s the time of year when a Monkey boy’s thoughts to turn to performing inappropriate hip movements with luxury purple sofa blankies, but this spring has brought forth an additional behavior – one that is apparently common amongst fully intact boys, but which I had never seen or heard of before: teeth chattering. When Daisy squats for a pee on a walk, I dig through my pockets to reward her with a treat (yes, that habit is still ongoing) and Monkey moves in and gives the pee residue his undivided attention, sniffing it, licking it and where possible, lapping it up. Once I’ve treated Daisy I am obliged also to offer a treat to Monkey (due to the longstanding “if one puppy gets” rule) and it’s then that I observe it: chattering teeth, staccato breathing and a slightly crazed look in his eyes.

It’s exactly the same look he gets when aroused by the aforementioned purple sofa blankie. It evokes in me memories of  Hannibal Lector talking about fava beans, or maybe the particularly bitey Cenobites from the Hellraiser movies. It’s something I never saw at all with Biggles (who of course had “the op”), and never saw previously with The Monkster, though to be fair I might still be unaware of it if it weren’t for Daisy’s pee-pee biccie ritual. Regardless, it is apparently a common randy boy thing and confirms what I always say about Monkey: he is in many ways the sweetest, most innocent little soul I’ve ever known, but he’s also a raging pervert.

Yes Monkey is undeniably a perv, yet it’s still Daisy who does most of the humping

Sadly, I must report that we’ve been having sleepless nights over The Monkster of late. It’s all because I did the most heartless, cruel thing a supposedly caring humie can do to a Beagle boy: I put his existing crate bed in the wash, and slipped another new one in its place. I don’t feel the least bit guilty about this, but all the crashing and banging as he goes through yet another round of bed making does keep us awake. I mean I put it in there, it’s a perfect fit, it lies flat and it’s gloriously soft and furry; all he has to do is lie down it and nod off, but he doesn’t because it’s different and he has to exercise those bed-making “skills” of his.

I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve folded the sofa blankie to produce a thick, soft topper only to watch him spend five minutes kicking it out of shape and pulling it with his mouth until what’s left is lumpy mess. And then what happens? He tries to lie down it, realizes he’s screwed it up and makes a quick exit to the rug or the other sofa, which will soon be perfect – after just a few small bed-making tweaks. We called him Monkey. We should have called him Dufus.

More recent pics…

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