Not having a holiday

Do mothers ever get holidays? I'm not sure.
I'm here in a static caravan on a receding cliff on the Welsh coast with two energetic boys, a blind and somewhat deaf jack russell and a whippet that has serious separation issues and despite everyone else enduring a heat wave all we have on the horizon is rain, rain and more rain.
I'm trying to look on the bright side at least my boys don't care about getting wet so there are plenty of things for us to do most of which would involve them getting wet anyway such as boogie boarding, crossing the river (a favourite past time whenever we venture west which involve lots of broad flat stones and a river that is luckily nevermore than a large stream at best), rock pooling, and sea challenging which involves paddling in the sea in your clothes and challenging the surf to see how long you can stay dry before a rogue wave gets you and you get soaking wet.
The dogs quite like getting wet too, well perhaps not Tattie my whippet, but Tigger adores it and he is rather hairy. Every time the boys venture near the sea he is with them splashing about barking and digging up the sand.
Tattie ping pongs from me sitting well above the water line to them in the surf bravely plunging in then hurtling back to check that I am where she last left me and then shaking all the water off so by the time we return back to the caravan we are all rather wet and sandy.
I do a lot of cleaning in Wales.
Probably more cleaning than I ever do at home.
I also do a lot more ordering about in Wales trying to get the boys to think a bit before they charge about in their wet and muddy gear. I seem to be on a permanent look out lest the place gets wrecked!
But despite that I don't feel I am getting much of a holiday clearing, cleaning, cooking and minding, I do love it. Lying in bed at night listening to the waves crash down on the shore as I did as a child when we stayed here, I wonder if my mum got much of a holiday back then or did she too remember her childhood sojourns in this magical place?
For my boys are the fourth generation to come here for our holidays perhaps they too will bring their children in time and enjoy not having a holiday too...

The Wickedest Whippet: Looking as guilty as a puppy beside a pile of poo...

The Wickedest Whippet: Innocent!

Looking as guilty as a puppy beside a pile of poo. I’d like that to be figuratively of course, but for me the whole situation is as far from Blackadder as I am at present from my children.

They are with their grandparents in Yorkshire and I am down here staring at a pile of poo in my kitchen trying to work out which whippet was wicked. There is no reason on earth why there should be poo on my kitchen floor, the door to the garden is not closed, the dogs have not been beaten for any infringement real or imagined (yet); in fact quite the opposite they have all been free to wander outside, inside and in my Lady’s chamber or at least her office. No one has been ostracised, left out or even picked on so there is no excuse and they all look equally guilty.

I am afraid there is only one thing that can be done each and every one of them bar Tigger, the Jack Russell ( I know it is not him because I know what his poos look like - sorry  it’s a dog owner thing we’re like that) will have to have their noses rubbed in it and then thrust outside not to come in again so that they can reconsider whether it is a good idea to poo inside the house or not.

I do hope they choose the former in future.

Now grabbing a fully grown whippet and rubbing their noses in poo is not something I would recommend on a daily basis. It is much easier when they are puppies and it is all part of their toilet training.

I was successful in collaring Gemma who is now looking at me balefully from under the yew tree in the pouring rain, I was successful in cornering Tattie who is now shivering and looking pathetic; but trying to capture Sassy aka The Evil Black Job or the ultimate Wickedest Whippet, has been - how shall we say - a bit of a challenge.

The first two were over and done with in short shrift but as soon as I turned in HER direction she immediately saw my intent and thought: Not On Your Nelly and was gone like greased lightning, jumping over the stair gate in the small TV room which is meant to keep the canine pack curtailed, and bolting up the stairs. I, of course, followed. She charged along the corridor and into the big spare room. I thought I had her but as I reached forward to take her collar she leapt on the bed outmanoeuvring me and bolted out the door and disappeared. I searched high and low.

She would not be found.

She would not come downstairs when I called.

She was not going to be conned with rattle of Gravy Bones in her bowl nor by me pretending to go out for a walk.

She resolutely did not want to be anywhere near me just in case. And I wouldn’t blame her.

So for two hours I had to leave the poo in the middle of my kitchen as I tried in vain to get hold of the little cuss her. It has been a battle of wills.

And I only succeeded because of the postman.

None of my dogs like the Postie and will all charge to the nearest window to bark their derision whenever he comes to deliver. I caught her and now she too is outside in the rain sulking.

I don’t know who is the real guilty party but I do have my suspicions…

Pictures without Words: Tigger

Tigger

Schadenfreude terrier style...

Don't you believe that butter wouldn't melt in his mouth!

Never, ever think you've got your terrier taped, even if he is 11 years old. And never, ever even think that perhaps your terrier is better behaved than anyone else's.
Today, minding my own business or not as the case maybe, I perused the blogosphere and came across The Miracle courtesy of Asbo Jack, Exmoor Jane's wonderful JRT doing exactly what JRTs are supoposed to do - surprise you, lull you into a false sense of security and then do exactly what it is they've been wanting to do all day - pick a fight with somone larger than they are. Classic small dog syndrome. I laughed safe in the knowlegde that that sort of thing doesn't happen to me anymore on the basis that the JRT ( Jack Russel Terrier) in our house is permanently grounded and only taken on walks or runs when there is little chance of him meeting anyone at all let alone another dog. This can be facilitated by either walking said dog in the middle of the night or else at 5am in the morning.
Back to today and my slighly, dare I say it superior feeling about my JRT Tigger. No that sort of thing would never happen to me...but pride does come before fall and I have fallen hard. Just as I was writing my witty little comment ( I can dream people, I can dream and I can also expand the truth a little too) I heard a cacophony of barking, the postman had arrived. Every day we go through the same ritual. Post van drives up drive, Tigger goes bonkers and looks a little like Krull as he squashes his head against the kitchen window trying to bite the poor postman. We all laugh and indulge his little whims safe in the knowledge that he cannot get out. Sometimes I have noted the postman teases the dog a bit by deliberatley slowing his pace and waving the post about - bad move. Tigger has a long and ferocious memory even if he cannot see all that well anymore.
Everything should have been all right, the postman should have slotted post through the door into the wire cage and returned to the van, got in and driven away.
BUT...
But today, Bog Boy decided he'd help Mummy who was workign upstairs. He opened the door...
Ohmygodheopenedthedoor!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Tigger got out! I only saw it from the corner of my eye as my office window overlooks the back door. There was a horrendous barking and growling. The whippets took up the challenge and shot downstairs too woofing, I shot after them, didn't bother to put on shoes. There was shouting asnd growling and what seemed to my ears like somthing being dragged over the gravel - Oh please God! NO!! Not the Postman!!!
I bolted out the door slamming it shut on three demented whippets who then bounced up and down barking more ferociously than ever trying to get a better look out the glass panels on the back door.
It was a horrible sight, schadenfreude always is, with the Postman ineffectually batting at the terrier who kept leaping up at him trying to get a better purchase on the his shorts. I saw the dog make contact and the postman whizz him round all four feet off the ground. As he turned I lunged at the dog, grabbing him and in the process nearly pulling the poor Postman's shorts off. I have never had to apologise more profusley and so fast. Mortification was NOT the word. I HATE Jack Russels, I really do!
Needless to say Tigger went back into the house well satisfied with the day's work while Bog Boy round eyed handed me today's post. "Can we do that again tomorrow?"