Bringing up Boys: the truth about the facts of life (a practical tale...)

Waiting For The Great Event

We've had puppies. Lots of lovely whippet puppies and it has been a tad chaotic; especially last Friday when at a quarter to eight in the morning I took my leave of a very pregnant whippet just before rushing off on the school run.

Seeing her staring at the moon and making whimpering noises, I soon realised that there was no way on earth I would be able to take the boys in to school - everything seemed so very imminent plus the fact that the wickedest whippet aka Sassy had grabbed my hand by this time and trying to get to school with heaving pregnant dog  clamped to my right hand while I drove the car wasn't going to be easy to explain to the local constabulary if I had an accident.

I made a call

The Boys could stay at home and learn first-hand all about the wonderful way Mother Nature worked.

Educational.

Exciting.

And it was Friday and I wouldn't have to drive anywhere - perfect!

There was a holiday atmosphere and the boys gleefully divested themselves of school uniform and prepared to hunker down in front of the telly.

"Oi! You Lot! No way are you watching telly all day! This is NOT a holiday. Tidy up and wait down here until I tell you that you can come upstairs to watch THE most amazing thing on earth!"

It was said brightly in an effort to get the boys on board with the day's educational programme but already I could see my youngest growing mutinous - he's never been that into our animals; I mean it took him nearly five years before he deigned to remember the names of the cats.

I will admit I hadn't really thought through the whole letting-the-boys-see-the-mother-nature-at-work thing properly and perhaps I should have been a tad more circumspect; after all nature is red in tooth and claw!

However, it all started out fine.

Both boys came up to see Sassy and sat quietly on my bed watching as I tried to explain what was going on. Luckily at this stage not much.

Sassy strained and whimpered and the boys could see she wasn't all that happy.

"Is she alright Mum?" said my eldest.

"She's Ok sweetheart, just a bit uncomfortable at the moment."

The dog started to pant heavily.

"Mum are you sure?"

"Really darling it's fine. It’s natural to pant like that. It helps ease the pain of the contractions which are pushing the puppies out."

The dog strained on time.

"Oh it looks like she's doing a poo"

"Yes you could say that..." I replied, thinking back to giving birth to him and flinching at the memories. Thank god I thought that I had had a caesarean - his head was enormous!

After watching for several more minutes he chirped up: "Do ALL girls have to do this?"

"Yes sweetie, they do." said I, being VERY worldly wise. "It's a thing all females have to go through in order to have babies, we are all the same. Arn't you lucky it won't ever happen to you."

I know, I probably laid it on a bit thick but that's what comes of living as the only girl in a household of boys.

Both boys were very quiet as they digested this thought.

"It's BOOORING," announced my youngest.

This IT generation have no patience so rather than force him to hang about any longer and become seriously annoying I let him off the hook. Boys will be boys I thought and just don't get it. My eldest took the opportunity to scarper as well and for a couple of hours it was just me and her communing in that most elemental way that all females do on the matter of life and producing it.

Finally at 11.45 it was the moment jus - the first puppy arrived and it was at exactly that moment that my eldest returned to the scene in time to watch in horror as my beautiful whippet atet up the placenta...

"Ewwww Gross! Is that what you had to do as well!!!!!!!..."

The wickedest whippet and the beginning of the longest night....

Sassy aka The EBJ looking unusually winsome and angelic...

It's been a massive secret but even I could no longer fool my husband into thinking the dog was just fat - she is very definitely preggers.

Up until a week ago you'd have been hard pressed to notice but now she just looks like an overweight  sausage dog on stilts. Gone is the slender waist, the sylph like form and in its place a roly poly pudding of a dog.
Whippets, when the are heavily pregnant, do not look like whippets and for a large part of the time don't act like whippets either apart from the nicking all and any edible morsel, and sometimes in edible morsels, they can find.
Mostly she's been asleep, or eating just occasionally in the middle of the night she's been nesting.
How do I know she does this in the middle of the night?
Because she wakes me up to help her.
She comes up to my bed rests her head on the mattress as close as she can get to me and stares until I awake. It is seriously disconcerting to wake up with your nose millimetres from your dogs face especially when you normally wear glasses.
Once awake she licks me to ensure I stay awake then she moves off to where she has been trying to make a nest and then looks at me again until I get up and help her to get comfy. I don't know why I bother because it seems like only minutes before she wakes me again to make her a nest in another part of the room.
Of course I could put her in the back kitchen, out of sight and harms way, but she just prefers to make her nests in my bedroom and I haven't the heart to stop her. I'd also worry myself senseless if she wasn't close at hand.
What if she got into trouble?
If the puppies were in difficulties?
If I needed to call the vet?
So she has had me up making nests and sorting her wheel ping box out at least twice a night for the past week and now finally tonight I think it is THE night...
I bet it's a long  one!

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…

The Most Evil Dog On The Planet Strikes Again And I Have A Moral Dilemma…

Most Evil Dog On The Planet enjoying herself in the long grass

I love her.

I do.

I really, really love her.

BUT.

But sometimes she’s just evil.

She’s horrid. She more than lives up to her sobriquet EBJ (Evil Black Job) aka the wickedest whippet in the world. Sometimes she is SO bad she’s the most evil dog on the plant.

Today she was the most evil dog on the planet and I have a problem.

Both she and I had been out running and being that is was cold and I was very tired after my exercise I decided to have a very long, very hot bath.

Sheer bliss.

I trotted downstairs afterwards to have a glass of water and to ready myself for the rest of the day. Work and the like.

I drank my water.

And then I noticed a lovely smell.

Chicken stew.

But it seemed out of place. I hadn’t been cooking any so why could I smell it?

And it dawned on me as I turned to look at the stove that I normally put the lids of the pans on properly, the right way up, not upside-down as this pan lid was.

I approached the pan and noticed a tell-tale blob of chicken jelly on the top of the oven.

I am NOT a messy cook. I DON’T leave blobs of stew on oven hobs.

Somebody…

Somebody had left it there and it couldn’t have been the boys.

I glanced around the kitchen it was strangely devoid of canine inhabitants.

I eased the lid off the stew. The stew that my Darling Husband had spent hours on Sunday, cooking.

Hours and hours slaving away

The one that I was supposed to have carefully put in containers and frozen on Sunday night. The one, which I had every intention of giving my In-Laws on Friday night when they came to stay for the weekend.

I peered inside the pan. There was still stew.

But it had gone down somewhat. There wasn’t as much stock in there as there had been the night before.

Although I cannot say for certain it was her because as usual there is a lack of evidence and I cannot afford a full forensics, my gut tells me it was, that and the fact she is studiously refusing to look me in the eye.

But now I have a problem. Knowing what I know, do I go ahead and put the stew in the container and freeze it and serve it up to my In-Laws on Friday or do I throw the lot away?

And what do I say to my husband who is expecting to see said stew on Friday for supper if I do throw it away? Should I ‘fess up or should I just keep quiet? Or should I just blame the dog?

A nice little walk - not!

Tattie on a walk

What a good idea to go for a walk. A perfect way to get things going and to cheer yourself up when the days are grey and getting dark. But not if you are taking the Wickedest Whippet, Sassy aka EBJ with you. A good walk ruined.

To start with she pulls like a train on her lead and lunges out across the road causing a driver to swerve and holler some presumably  helpful  information at me accompanied by hand gestures. I wave and smile as the car hurtles away  only just negotiating the 90 degree bend in the road before it disdappears from view.
We cross over into the wood and onto the footpath and just after everyone else has crapped and just when I run out of bags she decides it is her turn and I have to do that thing where you have to reopen a bag.
Not nice.
Out of the wood I usually let the dogs off and in a complete daze I also let the EBJ off.
Stupid move.
All I can say in my defence was that I was trying to work out what the man in the car had been shouting; it looked like: "Choo Miaow" judging from the way his mouth moved.
Anyway I spent the next 20 minutes yelling for the dog to come back and not going anywhere. Just as I had given up and started to go home she lolloped up beside me whreupon I put her firmly back on her lead.
Thinking it was a bit mean onthe tother three dogs not to go on a walk I decided to continue.
I got lulled into a false sense of security and thinking that she had probably exhausted herself. I let her off again and everythign was OK. She stayed relatively close.
Everything was fine until I decided to return home. She being way ahead I called and waited for her to run back which she did amazingly. But just as she came up to me my old gorl Tattie did something stupid. She mock rushed at Sassy to stop her. Tattie tryng to assert her authority and it all went horribly wrong.
A dog fight: the second in a month.
£130 later...
Both dogs are seperated. DAP is flowing round the house in ever increasing quantities and I am contemplating what is to be done.

The Veneer of Domesticity

Tattie Whippet

The veneer of domesticity is exactly that when it comes to dogs. You have to remember that they are 99 per cent wolf, not 99 per cent pajama case one percent adorable but animals that could so easily survive and thrive without us, though probably not quite so comfortably.
What I saw on Tuesday night I would have expected from a pit bull or doberman not a whippet. Not a mild mannered though somewhat naughty whippet. I should have been prepared to head off the incident for certainly the signs were there that any decent owner of dogs could have seen coming. But I was distracted with boys and schools and headmasters and missed them.
It's cost me nigh on £500.
And it has made me re-evaluate my dogs and how I treat them.
To all intents and purposes the fight was kicked off by a bowl of food that was left out. Tattie, my Empress (whose reign as Alpha Female has been on the wane for sometime now) was having a good old chomp, I remember thinking damn me I should have picked it up because there goes a fat whippet and it was as I thought about it that Sassy, the EBJ (Evil Black Job aka The Wickedest Whippet), came up to have a look see.
Tattie swung herself round so that Sassy couldn't get at the bowl. Blocking her from the food.
Sassy  tried again.
Tattie growled.
Sassy growled.
Then suddenly they kicked off. At first I thought it would just be a spat over as quickly as it began but it wasn't. This was a full on challenge and Sassy was never going to back down. In fact she won quite quickly and Tattie was trying to get away but that wasn't enough for Sassy while her blood was up.
It was vicious.
It was terrifying.
tattie was cringing away but sassy kept on coming. She would not stop. I waded in with feet bashing at sassy to get her to release her hold but I fear I only made it worse she let go then went straight back in again. Tattie was yelping. I was hollering God knows what.
I broke them up  and shoved sassy outside into the garden and turned to look for Tattie who had shot under the table. She wouldn't budge so I opened the door out to the hall and she bolted  there and up the stairs.
I let Sassy back inside, she was cut on her shoulder which I thought served her right and she had a small nick on her nose. Nothing untoward.
Then I went in search of Tattie. She was sitting at the top of the stairs, her eyes bulging and breathing rapidly through her mouth in puffs making her muzzle look pinched and thin. She was covered in blood.
I approached and she turned from me and that is when I saw the extent of the damage: a four inch  piece of skin was seemingly missing on her shoulder with a deep puncture wound welling up with dark blood in the middle. She was obviously in shock.
Strange as it may seem I know the vets' number by heart and I called it immediately knowing that if you get a wound like this to the vet within the first four hours they can literally work miracles.
Both dogs were bundled in the car, though I hasten to add, separately. And I rushed them down, not thinking it was too bad: I was just kidding myself. All of us were shocked, me and the dogs.
Tattie's wounds were far worse than was immediately apparent as were Sassy's. This had been a fight for stakes far higher than a mere bowl of dog food.
Both dogs were whisked away for stitches. Sassy returning with me that night while Tattie underwent a general anaesthetic and surgery for her extensive injuries. I could not sleep that night and tossed and turned right through finally giving up the battle at three in the morning and reading until it was time to get the boys up.
As I waited I thought long and hard about it. If a whippet could do so much damage to another dog what sort of damage could they do to a child, a toddler or even a baby? What sort of damage could  a larger heavier dog do?
I thought I knew my dogs, thought I could trust them but I know now that I cannot, not totally.
Tattie is OK. The vets' are miracle workers. It was touch and go. She will be scarred but I knew that and she is still My Empress though perhaps not in the eyes of the rest of the pack. It is something I will have to be careful of for a while until I can work out how the land lies.
We have DAP for dogs  pumping its calming influence around the house. It's helping.But all I can think about is how thin the veneer of domesticity.

Tattie Whippet - the best!

Tattie Whippet: trying to get some sleep

As far as whippets go my Tattie Whippet, for whom this blog is named, is quite simply the best.
She's not naughty like the EBJ (Evil Black Job) aka Sassy aka The Wickedest Whippet; she doesn't steal...much, she just loves me and has to be near me. I cannot go anywhere without her knowing. She even gets in the car, which she loathes, to be with me. She usually vomits quietly by the side of the seat so I won't notice while I am driving. She's considerate like that...
She trained with me for the Flora London Marathon in 2009 running beside me never too fast, never lagging behind. She came out in rain and sleet and snow and hail.She wasn't much impressed but when I was having a seriously hard time around Mile 15 I saw her in my minds eye plugging away just ahead and it helped me to keep going when I longed to stop.
I hate to admit it but I sleep with her too. We curl up together to keep warm on winter nights and try to push each other off the bed during the summer months. If I manage to win she jumps back on the bed and just stares at me until I wake up - it is very disconcerting to know that you have been woken up by a dog just staring at you in the middle of the night.
During the day she sleeps in my office keeping an eye on things and making sure I stay where I ought. She does not like sharing her basket with Sassy but for me will put up with it.
I am hers and she is mine forever.
She also likes curling up in the laundry...

Prime Suspect…..

The Wickedest Whippet: The Prime Suspect?

Now there’s something really weird going on here everything I own that is garishly pink is going missing, seriously missing. First it was my Noble & Black perfectly pink address book, the one that costs a fortune! Then today it was my purse….my prime suspect: THE DOG.

Not just any dog, not my gorgeous Tattie, my beautiful Gemma, my clever Tigger but her. Sassy, the EBJ. The wickedest whippet.

She just looks guilty. All of the time!

Problem is though why would a dog want a pink purse?

There is no evidence to link her with the crime, if indeed it is a crime. There are no tell-tale signs of chewed up bits of pink leather littering the lawn. There is nothing. So perhaps I am being a tad unfair.

The purse has vanished.

And that is the problem.

I had it this morning at 9am when I opened it to get £40 before I went running. I also took my Visa card with me in case I needed more cash on my way home from the lakes where I run.

And that’s the last I have seen of it.

Bog Boy says it was on the kitchen table at about 9.30am. But by the time I got home at 11am it was no longer there.

First I thought he boys had hidden it or played with it.

“No Mummy.”

Then I thought I must have put it somewhere else. Dear Charlie, me and Marion, the cleaner, hunted high and low for nearly two hours. Every drawer, cupboard, bin, under the chairs, outside, in the dog baskets...

Nada

Nothing

Gone.

I reluctantly cancelled my credit cards and fearing the worst called the local police.

For, as Sherlock Holmes so memorably said: “when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?”

The truth is someone must have walked into my home, into my kitchen and taken my purse, for that is the only thing that makes any sense at all.

I still want to hold the dog up as the prime suspect for I don’t like the idea of some nefarious person sauntering about my kitchen when my boys were playing in the next room, Marion was upstairs cleaning and Tattoo (me man what does) and J were in the garden too far away to do anything at all if said person had been up to anything other than an opportunist thievery.

It makes me feel quite sick.

The Wickedest Whippet has a problem…

The Wickedest Whippet: soulful or just plain guilty?

The Wickedest Whippet (aka EBJ – evil black job – aka Sassy) has a problem. Or let’s say I have a problem with the wickedest whippet.

She’s decided to hole herself up in Bog Boy’s room behind a chair on top of a whole load of dirty washing and she’s not coming out.

Every time I try to force her to get out she looks balefully at me then digs her feet in and won’t budge.

My boys call me cruel for dragging her by her collar so that I can get her outside to go to the loo. I have said that as soon as she uses the loo in the bathroom she can stay inside for as long as she likes. The boys look at me blankly. “You just wait until you tread on the proverbial as you get up in the morning,” I snarl as explanation.

The dog sighs and while I am busy haranguing the boys about why dogs do not use toilets (a word I hate) she trots back to her hidey hole and buries herself more deeply under some smelly socks.

I have got her downstairs but she’s a wily creature and as soon as she gets an opening she shoots back upstairs again. I warn the boys NOT to leave doors open and for a while there is progress. I manage to clear away the clothes and get them to the washing machine and I rescue a variety of goodies ranging from a couple of my shoes, a teddy bear, a biro and a pair of my husband’s running shorts. There is also a quantity of ripped up newspaper or at least what I think is newspaper, it could be an Economist…

However, she’s there again now. Someone left the window in the downstairs loo open and she’s leapt through it and ensconced herself yet again. I can see I am going to have to get professional help. I do believe she’s in the grip of a phantom pregnancy as it is the only thing that makes sense.

I have just been to see her again and she does look ever so pathetic.

Oh maybe not just heard thunderous roars from downstairs I think the whippet has just eaten all the newly made bread painstakingly made by husband. So maybe she was just looking guilty….she really is the wickedest whippet!