Rockefella Spindle

It has been a while since Nelson and I stepped out together. I have mentioned that he had recently been away on his jollies, specifically his Macrame for the left pawed course. He had telephoned me on the first evening of attendance with great excitement as he had been progressing splendidly. It was something of a surprise then, that the next day he telephoned me from the local A & E Department in some considerable distress, requesting rescue. 

He had confused his knots, experiencing particular befuddlement with a half hitch knot and somehow ended up knotting the raggedy fur from his bingo wings into it, which he didn’t notice doing at the time. Sadly Nelson uses a rather old fashioned wax based pomade when he performs his morning ablutions, which has a rather unfortunate propensity to melt when heated. The problem was with the vigorousness of his macrame knotting moves. Some commented on it being unusually frenzied for such a sedate craft, although that may be attributed to the 3 espressos he had quaffed earlier. The friction of his ninja knotting warmed the wax up a treat. He only noticed the macrame/bingo wing adherence during the tea break, when he stood up to snaffle a fig roll and his prized work moved with him, gripping on to his flappy arms* for dear life. 

*Hector has argued that they aren’t arms on a hound, they are legs, but I think you will agree that not that many people could do macrame with their feet! 

I was forced to leave my pottery class and ventured out to collect a very subdued Nelson from the hospital, who was now entirely bald on the underside of both front arms/legs…whatever you want to call them. I felt sorry for the poor chap as those of you who have been intrepid enough to read any of my other diary entries, know of his well documented battles with his buttock toupee wig. 

After this unfortunate experience I decided to cheer him up, hence the aforementioned stepping out together. We decided to go to the Velvet Marmoset, as they were advertising a karaoke and cocktail night to raise money for The Disadvantaged Mole Society.

Naturally Sister Josephine was compering the event, so it promised to be a cracker. I managed to finally shoe horn Nelson out of the door at Spindle Towers, dismayed to see him wearing an immensely fluffy white sweater with his sequinned evening slacks. I knew he would be too hot in the sweater but he was awfully embarrassed by his impromptu waxing. I pointed out it could have been much, much worse, and he conceded that it may well have been if he had been sitting on the floor, cross legged.

Arriving at the Marmoset, I left my travelling cape at the cloakroom and we sashayed in to the sumptuous palace of flocked wall paper and glitzy balls. 

I tootled up to the bar and ordered a humungous jug of the Marmosets infamous Bushwacker as only that would have the power to perk him up. An hour later and we were both sufficiently perked and were ready to let off some melodic steam. We had watched some rather good vocal performances so far and we were both keen and highly competitive. Having some difficulties with our motor functions we decided to move forward to the stage as one hazy unit to perform a duet. After a bit of a debate we settled on Cinderella Rockefella also performed by Esther and Abi Ofarim. I am not sure if you are familiar with the lyrics but I am afraid that we got completely carried away and modified them somewhat. It became really rather bawdy. Items of clothing were removed (including the jumper) and Nelson fell backwards off the stage as we chirruped away in abandonment.

The Velvet marmoset is well known for its acceptance of all things, I will remind you of the club’s motto:

Any earthly worries, you will forget

Once safe inside the Marmoset

Give in to it my dears, to all it has

Your unbridled desires, leather clad

Even so we were led away from he microphone before we could begin the twenty second verse. Our ears were met with a tidal wave of applause and cat calls. We were given beer mats (not flattering according to Nelson) to cover our denuded body parts and navigated our way back to the bar for a cheeky late libation. 

Our work here was done – Nelson was beaming from ear to ear, hot and sweaty…but happy. The rest of the evening continued in the expected fashion (*although no flaming hoops this time – See earlier dairy entry ‘Nelson and the Flaming Hoop of Destiny’.

Linking arms we tottered down the street, suddenly overwhelmed with the desire for a kebab. 

 

 

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Spindlehound’s DNA exploration…

It all began during a sedate family breakfast. The industrial strength coffee was steaming away in the pot, the bacon was sitting snugly in their bap nests and we were surveying the potential that was Sunday spanning out in front of us. I had just made an especially amusing comment and was wiping away tears of hilarity with my paw when I noticed that both Mater and Pater were staring at me, straight faced. Apparently I  was not as naturally comedic as I had assumed. Quick to defend this outrageous besmirchment I began to wave my paws about whilst regaling the fact that I am in fact a distant relation to P G Wodehouse (3rd hound, twice removed) and therefore my veins were literally (literary) running over with humour cells. 

Before I knew it, a full scale denouncement of my wit began. Words were exchanged. This went on for some time until it was decided that the only way to settle this was to utilise technology and acquire a DNA test to track down the elements that make up me.There was a certain amount of honour on my part and money riding on the results as, naturally we had placed bets. I had predicted genetic smatterings of Evelyn Waugh, Margaret Rutherford and a touch of Mother Teresa. The Tiny Terror put forward a cross between Hinge and Bracket and a fruit bat and I won’t reveal Hector’s guess as I found it rather offensive. I flounced off, bacon sarnie clutched in my indignant paw, to order a test from the inter web machine. 

Whilst we waited for this test to arrive tensions cooled to reasonable levels and we pootled off for a relaxing weekend away with my pal Betty lurcher. Well, what an exciting time we have had! 

It began with a timely visit to a watering hole called The Organ Inn…which predictably caused great merriment and sniggering to the puerile within the group. My imagination exists on a much higher, purer plane so I ignored them. Sitting in the pub garden, we enjoyed beer based refreshments, crisps and an unexpected pickled egg. It was whilst we were sat scoffing our snacks that the plans for the following day were revealed. 

We were going to have a frolic around Heavens Gate. I looked this up on my rolodex organiser device that I keep squirrelled away in my handbag, and discovered that it is overlooking the Longleat Estate. A map was produced with a flourish and spread out onto the table amidst the crumbs, egg debris and beer dribbles. It was then revealed that we were also going geocaching! For the uninitiated (me), it is basically a treasure hunt in the outdoors and this would be my maiden voyage. According to something called Wikipedia…

“Geocaching is an outdoor recreational activity, in which participants use a Global Positioning System receiver or mobile device and other navigational techniques to hide and seek containers, called “geocaches” or “caches”, at specific locations marked by coordinates all over the world”

Betty and I exchanged a pained and long suffering look, we had been secretly planning a spa day the next day, keen to try out the detox wrap, and had some misgivings. We were eventually persuaded with the promise of scooby snacks en route and control of the travelling music choices. 

The next morning we woke up bleary eyed and fluffy brained. I blamed all our ailments on the bottle that Betty and I felt compelled to drink to drown out the drunken squawking from the others. 

The human element of the breakfast party, also remarkably sedate, were fully kitted out in walking gear and had a look of grim determination about them. Betty and I sighed, changed out of our floral house coats and into the outdoor gear that had been left out for us – combat jumpsuits and a utility belt full of custard creams, rescue remedies and bandages. The battle rally of adventure was taken up and off we sallied, channelling our best Captain Beaky…

Along the paths and wooded lanes

forging ahead was Captain James

with his rather hapless crew

of Spindle Hound and Betty Boo

Come on! He cried, 

gimlet eyes a flashing

we are going geocaching!

We eventually emerged some hours later from the woods, tattered, exhausted and wearing most of the foliage in our fur. I must admit it was rather fun, if not tiring. We bravely stumbled our way to a nearby pub which promptly delivered a cooling, restorative pint and a cheeky bowl of roast potatoes. 

All in all it really was a marvellous weekend away and served well to distract us from the impending DNA test. Returning home we discovered that It had arrived!! 

The two buffoons flourished two miniature toilet brushes at me, to be twizzled vigorously inside my cheeks. There began a slight kerfuffle until it was explained to me that mercifully they were to be aimed at my mouth. Several dribbly moments later it was repacked and sent off to some distant land (Denmark) to await the findings.

Three weeks later an email plopped into Hectors inbox with the results. He emitted a high pitched squeal (apparently a gruff, manly bellow) and we leaned forwards as he opened the file.

75% greyhound

12.5% whippet

12.5% border collie

I will relay to you some of my favourite words from this comprehensive report…gentle, intelligent, quiet, dignified…it was here that the humans fell about laughing…then we got to lazy…

Deciding that it was pointless to challenge this last point as it may have had some truth to it, I left them to it, now slumped over the laptop, helpless with laughter. 

In conclusion, I feel that anyone familiar with sighthounds/greyhounds etc will know that we all possess exemplary characteristics and are also exceptionally blessed with the gift of comedy.

Pip pip my friend, until next time.

 

Spindle and the Aubergine

I like to think I have an enquiring mind…well…I have a mind and that is a start.

This evening you find me laying in a heap of discarded, wilting, spindlesome limbs. The weather has surpassed itself in terms of heat today. The atmosphere here is hot, humid with an additional helping of squelch. Hector has taken to wearing shorts and his velvety limbs stuck to the chair when he got up in a hurry. He shedded several layers of skin in the hurried dismount and he muttered some deplorable words. It could have been much, much worse I suppose if he had taken to naked lounging…

I have been laying quite low recently, the reason is that I have been taking part in an enormous, solo, very grown up sulk. The sulk lasted a good few days before I was annoyingly coaxed out of it by a bewitching sausage offering. I was fully anticipating that I would be able to resist the lure of this meaty baton, alas the heart and stomach were weak. My protest was following an incident here at Spindle Towers.

I can confirm it involved one of maters magnificent aubergines that she had lovingly cultivated in the greenhouse. She swears by her methods of extra curricula growth enhancement (in vegetable matters only) which consists of reading selected poetry to them in the style of Patrick Moore during an episode of A Sky at Night, and occasionally playing them songs by Jake Thackeray, accompanied by her on an ocarina. 

It evidently works as we have been witness so far to two enormous purple dirigibles, carried into the house with great pomp and ceremony. After she had an impromptu photo session, she laid them on the kitchen side and exited the room to send the photos to her friend. 

I peered up at them, houndly curiosity piqued. Well, I have never seen anything quite so plumptious and magnificent in my life!  I myself have not met one of these before, and so my natural instinct was to introduce myself. Keen to get a closer look, I batted one off the side and it bounced and rolled to my open paws. The next thing I discovered is that aubergines, with their famed lustrous lacquer, are near impossible to grasp in a canine paw. Problem solved, my jaws are famed in several continents for their grabbing abilities. After some impromptu vegetable air hockey across the floor, I managed to corner it and bite down in abandonment. 

What I don’t understand is how such a beautiful object can taste so bitter and not at all…well…shiny? It was very reminiscent of the time I accidentally consumed a candle shaped like a cactus. No harm was done thankfully, but the after effects were likened to a Lalique styled, stained glass bowel evacuation. Stunning.

Deciding the vegetable was not worth further examination, I gently nudged it with my pointy nose into one of Hectors shoes, where it lay forlornly on its side. I had completely forgotten about this trifling matter, until much later when it was dinner time and I found myself in the company of the humans in the kitchen. 

A conversation was had regarding the aforementioned vegetable, some comments were made…some of which were distinctly unfavourable.  My mistake was attempting to fudge the truth about what had happened. I must admit I normally am upfront about any perceived misdemeanours, but if you could have seen the glint in the Tiny Terrors beady eyes at the time of the trial/meeting/kitchen court  *shudders at the thought. 

My supposed ‘fraudulent’ defence regarding the circumstance of the final resting place of the aubergine – that it had rolled of its own accord off the counter, and made a violent lurch towards my alarmed (and thus open) jaws. I had no choice but to defend myself. 

I was eventually charged with five counts of acting in a toadacious manner, with no thought for others or the consequences of my pilfering. This is entirely untrue, I had thought about it briefly, but the seduction of its purple radiance outweighed any fall out.

It obviously didn’t take too long for me to remind them of their undying, total devotion to me, helped along by my huge brown eyes, mournful whimpering and gentle paw prodding. 

Farewell, for now my friend, keep calm and cool.

Spindle’s revenge…

In the evenings I like to draw the velvet curtains on the world, kick back and relax with a pint of stout and a bag of pork scratchings. I then allow myself to get a bit ‘meta’ with my contemplations of life.  I am after all a reflective creature whose heart thuds with unspoken emotions and passions. I like to capture these moments, quill in paw, poets beret skimming my lug holes, and coax out these feelings into the shapes of words. Sometimes I can enter a trance like state, and the words just seem to pour out of my paws like mucus out of a germ ridden, squelchy toddler.

I had spent a considerable period of time in this glorious state this evening, when my spiritual connection to the heavens was interrupted by a clattersome sound outside. It was very like a tree splintering and I perceived a comedy whirr of short legs ‘air cycling’. I eyeballed the retreating aforementioned heavens with regret and trotted out to see what the commotion was this time. 

It was of course the Tiny Terror. She has been dedicating her dusk time activities to lurking around trees and waving her bat detector about. She is completely enthralled by bats, believing she has some sort of an uncanny and spiritual connection to them. This evening she had been balancing on the outside table on one leg (her leg, not the table) when she was strafed by an unexpected Pipistrelle. I discovered her, in a tangled heap on the grass, with twigs in her hair and the bat detector at her feet. She seemed unharmed, dazed yes, but nothing out of the ordinary so we retreated back inside Spindle Towers and she toddled off to update her bat book and have a cup of restorative tea. 

After this excitement, I reclined in my executive leather bean bag, and pondered how one’s mood can change so very dramatically in a relatively short space of time. From trance to twigs. I shall give you another example. This morning, I was called out into the kitchen by the diminutive, bat obsessed one. Grinning inanely, she declared she had an unexpected treat and presented to me something that I had only ever seen in my wildest dreams – a grated cheese ball! Thanking her kindly, I scarfed it down. To my great disappointment, on it’s second revolution around my eager chops, I discovered it was encasing a flea and tick tablet. It was too late by the time I had realised. I stared at her reproachfully, the trust we had built up fatally damaged. I turned as gracefully as I could in the circumstances and went back to bed to sulk. To conclude, a moment of pure joy, skirting suspicion, then abandonment on the platform of disappointment and treachery. 

Unhappy with this deceit, I tackled her about it later. Apparently it was my own fault as I wouldn’t eat the gigantic rolo of doom on its own, or even when it was hidden in my food. My dinner is a bit of a sore subject at the moment anyway. Whenever I have my meals presented to me, I like to gingerly pick up a chunksome morsel of my food, scuttle off and hide it somewhere…just in case.  Sadly I am also a bit absent minded so I often forget where I have secreted these meaty/fishy chunks of delight. Inevitably, one of the bipeds at Spindle Towers will find it, perhaps under a cushion, or nestled wetly in a slipper. It is like a salmon infused game of battleships, that I always seem to win. It is not a good thing to have a salmon encased foot, the argument goes. When tackled about this, I point out that it is sound practice for when I get older when I might unwittingly deposit other sorts of semi formed dollops around the house.

As we are on the subject of irksome behaviour, I have another complaint. I do not like to be watched as I perform natures necessities. This is of course a private moment of deep concentration and precise muscle palpating. We have a silent agreement that when I squat and begin the evacuation protocol, whoever is accompanying me will turn away from me to give me a little privacy. Not an unreasonable request I feel. They just about manage to do this, but they just can’t stop themselves reliving the moment later on. I have to endure the indignity of the subsequent ‘pick up’ which then follows with accurate descriptions of shape, quantity, consistency and finally, whiff factor. 

I have decided to retaliate with a campaign of terror, to illustrate how our behaviour can effect each other in a negative manner. My plan begins with a bathing related scenario. At the exact moment my diminutive mistress disrobes for her morning shower, I shall let out a loud snigger, then a hearty guffaw, not at all muffled by my paw. I have read that it is not a good thing for a women of middling years to hear, even by a different species. I will then insinuate my pointy nose past the shower curtain, and scrutinise every nook and cranny, fully armed with pre laminated score cards. Subtle, yet effective I feel. 

Until next time my friend, I shall say farewell.

 

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Spindle and the Land Rover

Hector has had an itch. A considerable itch for some considerable time. It would seem that he has thrown caution to the wild winds of wily Winchester and has had a damn good scratch. He has accidentally purchased a series 3 Land Rover. Even without seeing it basking in the spring sunshine (or heavy clouded, grey gloom) you would know that it was here by the coat hanger grin that Hector has been seen lolloping around with. This apparent ‘accident’ is the result of months of research, obsessing over various websites, forums and magazines. He even started to bring some of these magazines to bed to peruse, at which point the Tiny Terror harrumphed pointedly and made rather a vulgar comment. Knowing when she had been beaten she retrieved her battered copy of Trapeze for the Ambitious Arthritics from under the pillow, and settled down in matrimonial magazine harmony.  

One morning, as I munched my morning eggy bread, Hector burst into the living room with an unaccustomed spring in his step. He was going to take Leroy out for a trundle and wondered if we would like to accompany him. The Tiny Terror declined an exploratory ride – most out of character – and instead I raised an eggy paw and enquired if I could accompany him. His little beardy face lit up like a Christmas tree and offered me his arm, which I gracefully took, and off we sallied. 

I had to have a leg and a wing up into Leroy (he was named by his previous owner so don’t judge us – well, not for that anyway) and there I sat in a haze of oily fug. You may wonder how I know what this smells like and I am afraid I am not at liberty to discuss this until the 30 year rule expires and the file can be safely accessed. I sat as gracefully as a hound could under such agricultural circumstances and off we lurched. Hector didn’t so much drive it as wrestle with it. I was thankful that he did not own dentures or any other body part that was not permanently attached, five minutes in Leroy and they would be whirling about the inside like a feather pillow had been stuffed in a blender.

I can honestly say I have never experienced anything quite like it. 

I primly clung on to my handbag with one hand as we careered around a wide corner. It was like a ponderous aircraft carrier on roller skates. There was nothing to hang on to so I clamped my other hand onto my travelling bonnet, closed my eyes and tried to remember who had all my legal papers incase the very worst happened. The makers had forgotten to attach sun visors, so we were reduced to using the traditional make do and mend method of me hiding behind my bag and Hector, who shut his beady eyes very tightly. The other thing I noticed is that the steering wheel is enormous and turning it was as unpredictable as reeling in a garden hose, unwieldy and prone to a backlash at any moment. 

Then there was the gear changes – all four or them. Watching him blindly stab about a vast abyss, trying to locate the correct one, indeed any one, was a sight to behold. I shall now move on to Leroy and fluids. He seems to have a prodigious thirst that would put grandad Tom to shame, and I say this with great respect and admiration. The interesting thing is, that he (Leroy, not Grandad Tom) seems to scent mark his territory once he was parked. Not a lot, just a small dribble of oil to ensure that any other Land Rovers knew not to park in his spot. 

I have assembled the facts of the riding experience for you. Taking into account all of these little foibles, I will now refer you to the expression on Hectors fizzog…a great big beaming grin. Apparently all of these things were all part of the charms and experience of Land Rover ownership.

After we had returned home, I slithered out of the passenger seat, smoothed down my frock and straightened my bonnet, which had gone awry.

Well…wasn’t that fun! Time for a lay down now I think, until next time my dear friend, toodle pip! 

 

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Spindle catches up…

Gather round you beauties and angle your shell like ears towards me. I have another tale to tell. 

*Pause whilst the fig rolls are opened and Spindlehound settles herself into her tweed recliner*

You have probably not noticed that I have been somewhat lacking in my diary entries for a short while. Have I been hobnobbing with the great and good? Have I been indulging in acts of derring do? No is the answer to these questions. I have been responding to the pitiful wailing from Mater, also known as the Tiny Terror. I have had to don my nurses hat and pinafore once again to help fight the flames of the relentless wretchedness that Arthritis can spread in its wake. In the past few weeks I have had to endure sights and sounds that should never be seen or heard. The language has been deplorable at times, and is illegal in some southern states of the Isle of Wight.  Things took a turn for the better when her pain medication was increased considerably and I could get a moments peace, as she tottered outside, humming gently to the blackbirds in the garden. We can laugh about this now it has eased. I know she is better as she has just hurled a rolled up sock in my direction as she gave me the ‘side eye’ of doom. 

I shall recap some of the highlights of the past few months.

February 20th 

Oh what fresh tortuous hell is this? I wailed a mournful lament, loud enough to be heard in the outer reaches of space. What a terrible thing to happen to a hound! I am normally a very happy go lucky sort of gal, but a Spindlehound has her limits, and this time it had been surpassed by a good furlong. What could have caused this disharmony and darkening of my spirits?

It is something that is entirely of my own doing, which makes it worse as I can’t blame anyone. Not even Nelson, who is away from spindle Towers today, on his macrame for the left pawed course.

The tangled fronds of wool were coiled around me, forlorn and limp. It would seem that whilst snoozing, I entered the state of RPM (rapid paw movement) and had inadvertently unravelled my most treasured muff. I do not normally wear it in my night time nest, but this evening had been especially chilly and I hate having cold paws whilst I hold my kindle.

Many have commented that my knitted muff is something of a triumph. It is capacious enough for my front paws to comfortably snuggle inside, alongside my lucky conker, a pipette (unused) and my emergency custard creams. I have tried to get all four paws in the muff in one go, which works a treat if I manage to wriggle into the ‘disgarded bagpipe’ yoga pose, but it does cause some discomfiture if I forget and leap up without removing my trotters from it first. I have suffered mild concussion in the past, behaving with such exuberant folly when my breakfast was announced. You might be surprised at some of the items that have been covertly housed in my muff in the past. 

I once caught Nelson gingerly prodding at it with one of my knitting needles, trying to throw some light (quite literally) on to the fabled contents. On this occasion he was caught in the act and was suitably chastised with a cautionary tale involving an overly curious crustacean and a roll of gaffer tape. 

February 24th

Following on from the yarn related subject of my marvellous muff, I am delighted to tell you that an admirer of mine has made me some leg warmers. They are brightly coloured, striped and I must say they really does bring out the shapeliness of my limbs. 

The Tiny Terror is also a huge fan of leg warmers. As I strutted around in them, leaping and tumbling in an uncanny channelling of Nadia Comăneci, she started to jabber away about some televisual offering called Fame that she had eagerly watched as a child. In it, she explained, was an assembled throng of talented moppets that danced, sang  and hurled themselves over car bonnets in all manner of day glo lycra outfits. Their lower limbs were similarly enclosed in knitted sausage casings, much like mine. She confessed to me that she herself used to leap off her bed, in erratic star jumps whilst warbling the theme song to her long suffering sister. This explains alot.

March 9th

Nelson and I have reached a ponderous romantic understanding. The understanding is that we are indeed stepping out together officially, but we are doing so in a gentle and at times glacial pace. 

This is absolutely fine with me, and I know he is comfortable as he no longer frets about his buttock toupee, and is content to chassé his sparse behind in front of me with relaxed abandonment. This is equivalent to when humans couplings become comfortable enough with each other that they can wilfully expel great gusts of wind in front of each other, without censure or reproach. I myself have no such hang up about this. Ask anyone at Spindle Towers and they will confirm this.

March 24th

Today is a very special day. Hector is celebrating a very special birthday! No, the Queen doesn’t need to be informed (yet). They had a spiffy night out in the Black Boy last night with family and friends. You may have noticed me using ‘they’ and not ‘us’. I was asked, but knowing the disgraceful state that they would get in to I would much rather stay at home and watch some Scandinavian dramas on the television box. I was right. they oozed out of the taxi and burst forth into the house, each with a soppy grin and an uncontrollable urge for snacks. There followed a crisp and cheese frenzy. They are now all having a quiet morning (including my great pal grandad Tom, who was as ever, the ring leader last night)

Back to Today

I shall now leave you in peace and tranquility as it is time for my evening perambulations (squirrel patrol). Until next time, may the sunshine of Spring warm your upturned cheeks.

Pip pip!

My spiffy legwarmers                          Tiny Terror, Betty hound and myself

Spindle and the Shaftesbury Six

This morning I had to face the indignity of being coaxed out into the rain for my morning constitutional. I was not that keen. The tiny terror was keen however as she had books to make and things to do, so she took me out for a reluctant drag around the village. In her defence, she did croak out an encouraging ditty to facilitate the onslaught of the evacuation process. Sadly the tuneless din she made only served to constrict and tighten any resolve I had to keep my treasured offerings. Eventually we made it home, where I am now curled up on my chair. The reason for this tiredness? Well! We have just had an exceptionally spiffy weekend away with some dear friends of ours. We assembled in a pub (naturally) and as I sipped my Cinzano I surveyed the raggle taggle ensemble for the weekend. Naturally Hector and the Tiny Terror were there in all of their haphazard glory. There were also the dynamic twin combination of Mistress Beth and Bee, both raven hair moppets, rumoured to circumnavigate a dance floor in a way that leaves many temporarily speechless. They were accompanied by their respective spouses, grandmaster DJ Alan and the intriguing Haynes manual enthusiast Nick. The female participants were all chattering at the same time, waving their arms about to punctuate the discussion. More sedate and considered contemplation was emanating from the gentlemen of the group, who were all comparing their membership cards for Beard Topiary Today.

A provisional plan was set for the weekend, which we gleefully abandoned immediately as that was the sort of willy nilly mood we were all in. After visiting a sub zero emporium of precious antique articles, we sallied forth to check in to the pub within which we were going to be residing. They had the good taste to accept hounds, and I can also report they had a glorious fire, where you could extend all limbs upwards to the ceiling whilst you warmed your particles. As I watched the ladies do this, I contented myself to sit cross legged with a small glass of sherry.

Having briefly touched upon the subject of dance floors, it was declared in a burst of verbal excess that my lithesome limbs would lend themselves very well to a bit of retro shape throwing.  Having enjoyed several sherry and Dubonnet chasers by this point, I was encouraged to show them what I could do when I put my mind to it. When in doubt, you should always return to what you know, so I threw off my sling backs and launched myself into some stylish voguing. It was all going well until I misplaced a paw and careered off the table into the arms of the surprised chap behind the bar, who was busily polishing the glasses. He began to hear a violin begin to croon somewhere in the room, but before things progressed any further (there were unnecessarily lewd catcalls from the onlooking rabble) I had to explain about the true keeper of the key of my heart, Nelson. It was taken in good grace but I detected a droop of dejection. 

It was whilst we were basking in front of the bar that evening after a sumptuous feast, that a very interesting discussion developed about the indignity within which a hound has to do one’s tiddles in public. Yes, I can raise a leg daintily as I do so, but this does not detract from the fact that one’s delicate fairy is exposed in public. A moment which humans generally prefer to do in a private isolation. Also, an unexpected draft whilst siphoning can be very off-putting indeed. Alan’s suggestion was that a specially engineered poo tent that could be erected around me.  As we were a group of enquiring minds we took the idea of this and ran with it. Perhaps different sizes for different breeds, a range of appropriate designs and then we went into full theoretical production. We were determined that we would not out source, and that each one of us would display our own particular talents. There would be a plethora of tents. Would the plural would be poo-tenti? This then rapidly descended into the ridiculous as it tends to with this lot so I won’t discuss any further details, although I will profess to having some interest in Nicks idea for a nozzle that gently puffed out warm air to dry ones portions when finished.  

The following morning we gathered for sustenance, and they all had on their special quiet morning voices. A gaggle of cooked breakfasts appeared as several members of the group condemned themselves to the God of sausages and descended into a nommy pork coma. I am delighted to say that I was one of the lucky sausage samplers. 

The rest of the day was spent in the company of some new friends, they were both joyfully creative, especially gifted with thoughts and the appropriate words. I felt a little humbled when I thought of my own meagre diary offerings. They were very hospitable and provided cake and tea.

All in all it was a rampaging success, and I am hopeful for another one, perhaps Nelson would be permitted to attend…

So as the silken sheets of slumber gently envelope me, I wish you well, my dearest pal.

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