Spindle in suspended animation

I have yet again been the victim of my own fragmented thought processes. I find it very difficult to stay on track. I first decided to commit paw to keyboard quite a few months ago, with the implicit promise of spilling some of my most furtive secrets from my past. However, aside from the odd mention of my dearest Rudolph (pause to fan ones self and loosen clothing accordingly) I have not done that. Instead I have been sidetracked by the peculiar goings on at Spindle Towers. I shall make more of a concerted effort to try and remedy this.

There are of course some aspects of my past that I can’t revisit for reasons of national security and not wanting to breach any common laws of decency. Other times can emotionally be difficult for me to return to. I have of course a sensitive poetic disposition that has, over the years, been subject to much turmoil and angst. Oh I have suffered my dear reader, (pauses again to dramatically flourish a neat cotton handkerchief, dabs at long pointy snout, sniffles, then draws in a sharp, brave, steady intake of breath…)

One simply does not know where to begin though. Perhaps I should try and mobilise my thoughts properly? Sit down and think. Possibly even I need peace and quiet to do this which is not always forthcoming in this household. I have already had to abandon my paw tapping twice, once to creep in to the kitchen, in assassin mode, to kidnap a wayward piece of bacon and the second time to receive a quite unnecessary lecture on unwanted ear flappage. My shambolic mistress has kindly requested that I do not shake myself vigorously at 2am when I am repositioning myself for more sumptuous slumber.  Apparently my ears clap together and sound like clackers and wake her up.

I will mobilise myself! A lot of things have been happening lately and I really must get my sweet, fluffy behind in gear. Decision made, I am going to escape to the ablution room, run a nice warm bath where I can stretch out my spindle-some limbs and kick back with a margarita.

Until the next time, I bid you a soapy farewell.




My dear dear reader! I have sat myself down at my expansive writing bureau to tell of exciting news! A little while ago, on a day when the dark beast of boredom was flicking me with his rolled up tea towel, I happened upon an internet notice board thing called Twitter. Well, such was my general disillusionment and malaise that I decided I too would join in and see what would happen.

I have actually had quite a jolly time on there and I have made some similar minded pals who are all a bit of a wheeze. This in itself warrants being called exciting however…however! I have been invited to join what I believe is called The Ruff Riderz, a motorcycle club for those of a furry disposition. Well! Glory be! I have never been invited to such a thing before and I must say that it pleases me greatly. For this endeavour I shall be called Spindlewind. I think this ticks all of the necessary biker boxes. Originally, when I pictured myself, I was thinking along the lines of Ogri, it was the Thor like wings on his helmet that delighted me. Then, I thought to myself, no…a Spindlewind would surely ride sidesaddle, showcasing a shiny leather cap (goggles, obviously) perhaps a silken neckerchief and a leather leotard with tweed trim. Who said rhinestones?

I must admit to you that I used to ride pillion with my dearest Rudi back in the day, oh that seems so long ago now. *Spindle pauses deep in reminiscence, daintily sniffs, then wipes a misty eye with a trembling paw.

Shhh, listen carefully, can you hear that? It is the distant whisper, beguiling and seductive. It is calling me, beckoning me into it dangerous arms. It is the call of the Road Trip. Just Spindlewind and her magnificent speed machine, wending our way through life and the adventures that are hidden down country lanes and occasionally in pre arranged meeting points. I must be careful though, as I have quite an innocent mind, I would not like to conjure myself a scandalous reputation! Or do I? Shall I throw caution to the wind, cast aside my morals and give myself to the enticement of the call of the wild?

Or shall I simply stop drinking sherry at 11am?

The rather marvellous image below is courtesy of the clever people from The Ruff Riderz HQ


Spindle Yogini

It did not take long after the poo flinging incident for me to scuttle back into the affections of my adoring slave. It was whilst I was being showered in slobbery kisses that I began to think about the general restlessness that seems to have struck in the post Christmas period. It has come to my attention that there is an unnerving wave of people wanting to stop eating delicious things, start eating grass, drinking nut milk and leaping about in lycra. Incidentally, how does one milk a macadamia? Does it have hidden tiny teats?

Perspiration does not hold any fears for me, however I am sure there is a more dignified and less high octane way of achieving the state of physical well being that seems to be the ‘thing to do’ in January. My body is a furry temple and although I am in a reasonable state, I suppose no harm could be done by ensuring that I am in tip top spindle condition in body AND mind. Thus I am going to turn my attention away from my lithesome frame and focus on improving my mental wellbeing and overall zen like self – which can mean only one thing…yoga.

The tiny terror has a really spiffy arty friend who is incredibly zen like and once tried to teach her some basic yoga moves. It did not end well. Mind you, this friend also has the unenviable fame of being bitten by a bee. Minding her own business one sunny afternoon, she was savagely set upon by a particularly petulant bee, who proceeded to clamp down on her neck and sink its tiny mandibles into her. I suspect her veins may secretly flow with nectar and wonder if we could harvest this to make mead? *makes note in diary.

Back to the yoga. I am already proficient in the Downward Facing Dog as all good hounds are, and we all like a cheeky lunge in an evening, but I needed to have more of a grasp of the poses. I must say what a joy some of the names of the positions are! A Downward Plank, A Tortoise Pose, A Half Moon (I can do those *smirk). Another thing, there are quite a few different types of yoga to choose from! It is like trying to order a coffee or a gin now, it just isn’t straightforward.

It also was whilst reading up on this that I discovered the very disturbing practise of Doga…humans performing yoga with their dogs…”natural symbiotic relationship that already exist between you and your dog”. Really? I can’t think of anything more alarming than sharing a yoga mat with one of the loons that live with me.

I decided to put the book away when I got to the chapter where I was alarmed to discover what some yogis did with a fresh turmeric root in the name of well being and inner cleansing…well I am NOT doing that! Ever.

I suppose my bendy endeavour must begin where all good endeavours begin…with a suitable outfit! It is not usually my way to exhibit myself in spindle hugging lycra. Sometimes I feel, some parts of the anatomy are not best scrutinised up close, indeed should be kept hidden where they can, and if the situation is called for, the said particles can be unveiled with a fanfare and a shimmy to much applause and wonderment. I had to root through the tall one’s wardrobe to find a collection of abandoned lycra from his cycling days, from which I fashioned a leotard and matching headband and stole some of the shrimps leg warmers. My goodness I look the part!

I waited until I was alone one morning, donned my costume and began. It was whilst attempting my first shoulder stand that my left leg warmer (a tad loose if truth be told) lassoed an unexpected door handle and launched me down the step, where I then zoomed under the dining room table and crashed into the leather waistcoated, suspender clad, dressmaker’s dummy. The fedora was knocked off the dummy’s neck and delivered a glancing blow to my shoulder and skittered to an eventual halt. I am not ashamed to admit this, but during the incident I also did a small wee. I was not sure if I was truly ready to attempt the Tortoise. What did I learn from this? Well, I clearly need more space to arrange my spindly limbs whilst I throw some etherial shapes, but I also feel some pelvic floor exercises might benefit. Or maybe I should just buy some turmeric?

Please note that there was absolutely no desire to do a dry January. My paw becomes hermetically sealed to my sherry glass after 10pm. Have you a custard cream dipped in sherry? Think Cantucci dipped in Vin Santo.



Spindle goes Jousting

I do not want to butter my own parsnips, although obviously if I could, I would, but I must say that I am rather swift and lithesome when in full gallop. It is a sight to behold and will be familiar to any other blessed human creatures who cosset and nurture sight hounds of any description.

It was one of these magnificent displays of hound agility that caused a slight frosting over of my short human slaves devotion to me. To be fair, if she wasn’t so devoid of height then it would not have happened at all. We were strolling casually through the woods together, I trotted along quite happily, sniffing here and there as she scampered along on her little stumpy legs next to me. It was then in the distance that I saw a flash of squirrelly fur and the chase was on!

It was only by a whippet’s whisker that the cursed fur bag evaded me. The grip is going somewhat on my winter brogues you see. Unable to gain proper purchase whilst zooming over a slick of muddy leaves, I slipped just at the crucial part. It was not dignified and truth be told I think I have pulled a muscle in my right side buttock portion. With a huff I turned away from the devilish tree rat who was by now sitting in the branches making rude gestures at me with its paws. The outrage! Anyway, seeing the diminutive terror quite a way behind me now I thought I had better return and see if she had caught anything (she never does, I don’t know why I bother). Such is my devotion to her that I launched myself with full abandonment and great speed at her, keen to fill her in on the details of the chase and to ask if she could pop my brogues in to be re heeled…when…well.

It all seems rather amusing now but I slightly misjudged my speed and distance ratio and as I zoomed past her I clipped the little black bag of doggie delights that she was carrying with my head and it sailed majestically (the bag, not my head) out of her hand in a rather well described arc. The first interesting fact gained from this is that it would seem that the craftsmanship of poo bags really is going downhill, as it rather unexpectedly exploded and sent a shower of…well…this is where relations between us cooled somewhat.

It was rather spectacular and the now fully weaponised excreta didn’t behave at all as I thought it might. Think November the 5th without the smell of cordite…or pretty flashes, and with more of a splat than a whiz or a bang…actually I am not a fan of fireworks so this was an improvement.

The second interesting fact which made the little mishap all the more irksome to her was that I had secretly been at the festive rum soaked figs which tends to have, well I don’t wish to be coarse…but it seems to have a loosening effect on me…although the secret I fear is now out – quite literally.

It was a sight that thankfully not many saw. Annoyingly the walk was brought to a premature conclusion. I also learned some new words, some of which I had to look up when we got home. Filthy mouthed wench is all I will say.

I am now writing this whilst I kick back the cares of the day and treat my ear flaps to a spot of Erik Satie. Whilst my mind melts into the beautiful places the music takes me I can hear the distant sound of the short one muttering in the shower. Chortle.

dog blog pic

photo credit to the amazing Sammy Williams.

The Case of the Recalcitrant Sprout

An unnerving calm had descended over Spindle Towers. Several days of merriment, poultry based gluttony and general alcoholic inappropriateness had left in its wake, a vacuum. A void where digestive systems can recover, heartfelt apologies can be made to one and all, and the pilfered flimsies discretely returned to Mrs Peterson from down the road. Who, incidentally remained non plussed at losing the said undergarments, more so the unexpected reappearance of them, the missing washing line and the demise of her prize winter flowering clematis.

I must of course, being quite a conscientious hound, hold my paws up to my part in this. My defence is that I was unaccustomed to the potent nature of advocat. It is after all, liquidised custard creams is it not and therefore its discovery in the back of the cupboard was an opportunity not to be missed. It was this discovery that triggered an unexpected chain of events that spiralled out of control, involving Mrs Peterson’s knickers and a recalcitrant sprout.

It was to be my first Christmas at Spindle Towers as so I was keen to impress with my seasonal planning skills. Christmas morning, a little after tea o’clock and the crows observed me, fresh as a daisy, sporting my freshly pressed Laura Ashley housecoat, neck tufts in curlers ready to make a fabulous impression on the day. I sipped at my tea and eyed the gargantuan pile of vegetables that needed disrobing ready for the forthcoming feast. I sprung into action, vegetable peeler in one paw, liquid custard creams in the other. To further enhance the festive mood I had tuned in the wireless, then, momentarily distressed and sad that it wasn’t the great Terry Wogan*, sighed and retuned to a horribly jolly aural assault on another channel.

*As a side note, my short human had a series of dreams not long after Sir T travelled to the ‘ever after’ and thus believed that he was chanelling himself into her dubious slumbered thoughts, primed with fond messages and the odd instruction to renew memberships etc. She seemed rather touched by this, herself a great fan and told anyone who would listen (her dad) so I did not correct her delusions. Sigh.

So, it was just as Bob Dylan teetered on the precipice of a thundering crescendo of ‘Must be Santa…’ when my vulcan like grip evaded me and the sprout shot through my paws like a buttered torpedo, rocketed out of the kitchen window, straight into the reinforced gusset of Mrs P’s best winter warmers on the washing line next door. The offending sprout, obviously uncertain about its new hammock environment, was then catapulted from the pant based slingshot (taking the entire washing line with it) and careered off into the tendrilled path of her treasured clematis. The clematis, unaccustomed to such an assault, collapsed and then withered in a true Victorian faint. There then ensued a considerable amount of knicker based chaos during which the sprout disentangled itself from the foliage and gently rolled down the lawn, coming to a dignified rest by the bird bath.

It all happened in an instant, but this all happened just as Mrs P peered out of her window to greet the morning black birds who were sitting happily on her fat balls. She screamed, a high pitched shriek and ran off to rescue her beloved plant. Who knew what carnage could be caused by a misplaced vegetable? I arrived quickly on scene with emergency gin and a spatula which seemed to help somewhat and eventually everything was disentangled and returned to its natural place in the world.

This seemingly was a sign of how the day would progress however it all seemed to work well in a haphazard way. There have been no great repercussions, Mrs Peterson is now fully encased in some new spangly undercrackers – always a hopeful soul – and she is in the possession of a resuscitated clematis.  The stains from the ricocheting sprout has been cleaned from the paint work, and my dreadful headache is slowly dissipating. Yes, I am a very happy hound. Christmas has indeed been a triumph!

My one regret? I have not been allowed within a two metre radius of the offending green wind inducing spheres of love again…I think you will agree, a tragedy. It is now time to rest my weary paws, but until the next time – and I am very much afraid there will be a next time – pip pip!




The Grim Spindle

‘Tis the season to sit quietly in ones wicker rocking chair and contemplate the fast approaching festive season. It is all going on here at Spindle Towers. I have noticed the loons hastily hiding parcels for me from my splendid relatives up t’North, which I am very excited about. I was especially heartened to see a rather lovely message for us in a card from the short ones father, who, as I may have mentioned before, I am rather fond of. Everyone seems to be making a huge effort for this Christmas thing, perhaps I should too. A Spindle should look her best at this time of tinselled mayhem, so I rooted through the short persons wardrobe and I have found a suitably floral head band to wear. Very spiffy. I look rather adorable with it on and I hope to increase the amount of treats and chest scratches I get. Paws crossed.

The loons have also brought a tree into the house which I thought was jolly decent of them, only to then discover it was in no way to be used as a inside wee tree. Well, I didn’t want to use it anyway, no hound likes the introduction of an unexpected prickle to ones undercarriage when letting ones nature water flow. I would like to throw out the idea here that I do believe the practice of outside toilets and performing outdoor ablutions are something that the human people do not seem to have to do these days…that is all I am saying…

As I consider all of this, I twiddled my paws, pausing momentarily to sip from my gin sling and daintily nibble the edges off my forth custard cream. Brushing the golden crumbs aside I reached for my quill and began to make notes. It was also the season to spread merriment and hilarity with some hound like practical jokes. Or, get some modicum of revenge for all the ridiculous things they have made me wear and do.

Ho Ho Ho.

I had observed the loons reading and chatting about an article about dogs that could sense the impending demise of their beloved human slave. Before I go on I must say that this is obviously a notable and genuinely interesting phenomena, however I felt I could get a certain amount of mileage out of it.

One evening, when we had all settled in the accustomed horizontal snoozing formation (It is very much like a stationary Red Arrows, although no planes, or flying..although sometimes there is a smoggy vapour trail) I began to stare intensely at the tall one, not blinking or deviating in any way. Eventually he looked up from his battered copy of “How to increase your earnings to fund the veterinary care for your shambolic Lurcher” noticed my piercing gaze and asked me what was wrong. No, I did not need to go outside. Yes, I am quite well. Yes, I would quite like a treat but not right at the moment. I carried on and he tried to ignore me, unsuccessfully as I can be awfully persistent. After a few minutes I could see him getting a tad twitchy and then a metaphorical, small, flickering lightbulb snapped on over his silken evening bonnet and he began to shift uncomfortably. He remained quiet for a while, ‘side eyeing’ me now and then. He tentatively brought up the subject with short human who was cocooned in a blanket with a book. The humans discussed the possibility that I was indeed in cahoots with Mr G. Reaper, an apprentice of sorts…oh what larks!! As a side note, I have always greatly admired the Discworld series, and I have always rather fancied work experience with DEATH. I digress. This carried on for a good half hour, after which time I had reduced the chump to a very uncertain ball of angst and panic and he eventually stumped off to bed, presumably in readiness to meet his fate.


I sat licking my crumb filled paws, congratulating myself on a superb bit of master manipulation, when I had a feeling I was now being stared at. The short human had looked up from her book and gave me a look that meant in no uncertain terms she knew exactly what I had been doing, and it was nothing to be proud of. I tried the downcast fluttery eye thing but she was strong, oh she was strong! After a long and protracted silent conversation between us, carried out through the medium of mime (her) and ear semaphore (me) I sighed dramatically oozed out off my chair and trotted in to the bedroom to reassure him that he was a gloriously healthy specimen and that I was very sorry indeed. I did toy with the idea of making a grand entrance wearing a hooded cloak and wielding a scythe as I trotted through to him, alas, my cloak is at the dry cleaners.

Normal service has now resumed in the household, however after much discussion with my pals we have decided to launch an appeal to ensure every hound, large and small, has the opportunity to evacuate their…’waste disposal units’ inside, where it is warm, dry and with no distracting cats or unexpected squirrels nearby.

NB Apparently the head band is infact a garter, I am non the wiser after this explanation but it seemed to produce great hilarity. Humans really are peculiar creatures.


A Lovelorn Spindle

*The short hound slave narrates to help set the scene…

Picture it…a crisp winter morning. Bright, stark sunshine pours in through the window, its warming fingers caressing the curve of the carelessly discarded sling backs – please note these belong to the tall human as it is a perfect compliment to his silken tartan smoking jacket and utility fez. Friday night is, if I can remind you all ‘Fez and sling back Night’ (participation is not optional).

The worrying scene in front of us is this. A tall, spindly hound like figure sits elegantly, sidesaddle, on her leather breakfast throne, antimacassars perfectly aligned. Sitting in front of her is a floral tea service providing piping hot Earl Grey, poached eggs on a generously buttered muffin, with a side of marmite. A single custard cream idles by this magnificent breakfast array, patiently waiting to be hoovered up.

The hound pauses thoughtfully, mid chew and gazes out of the window. Bottomless brown eyes full of wonder and hope, sun glinting off polished whiskers. What is it to produce such an effect? It is a most unusual event for the Spindle to cease chomping, especially when there is a custard cream in the offing for breakfast pudding. As she would say, ‘Mastication for the Nation, or indeed, “A custard cream shall haunt my dreams”.

If we lift gently and then peer cautiously into her velvety ear flaps we can see the picture show of her thoughts running smoothly. It is very much like watching an old black and white film, and it seems to be a strange collection of images that I feel would be best left in her small peanut head, for reasons of decency and quite honestly I am not sure how to spell some of the things I can see. This unsettling behaviour has not been noted since she descended upon us like an accident prone furry tornado of flatulent chaos.

Spindle in suspended animation is a thing to behold. Suddenly her reverie breaks, the lights snap back on, although you could argue there was still no one at home. With a huge and ponderous sigh, Spindle pushes away the custard cream with her paw, slides off her breakfast throne and retreats to her duvet cave with an indifference which is quite alarming. The only sound that can be heard from the depths of her comfort nest is the clatter and whiz of her Imperial typewriter…which can mean only one thing…Spindle is obeying the call of poetry.


One day I caught a glimpse of you

A resplendent sight in the morning dew

I watched you scamper through the trees

Your agile physique, your knobblesome knees


So I cast aside my custard cream

To contemplate my torrid dreams

Paws raised to the heavens, a silent request

To invite you into my thermal vest


My mind is cluttered with thoughts of you

The siren call of which, I really must pursue

Just a whiff of you makes me tingle and tremble

And my thoughts cease to be, truly disassembled


We could slinkily entwine in the cool night air

All the moments I yearn for us to share

Trembling paws, emotions recklessly splayed

My innocent thoughts have monumentally strayed…

Oh what to do…


It would appear that Spindle has had her heart stolen…the question is by whom…or what?

More so…what good can come of this? Is her heart destined to be broken? Can the human slaves afford the cost of all the comforting ice cream and gin needed AND simultaneously endure the constant aural assault of Adele? We shall leave Spindle reclining with a cool, damp flannel over her pointy forehead. We shall creep out of the room so we don’t disturb her…