JONTY SPINS.

Every so often, my keyboard would be appropriated by one or other of the household pets.  In this instance, it was Mr Jack, the greyhound.

The missus has asked me to put paw to keyboard and relate to you the latest amusing incident from the life of that young blade, Jonty. She would do it herself - only she's still rolling around on the floor, helpless with laughter and isn't very sure when she will be coherent again.

She had just returned home from collecting the boy from that school place (shame we can't send Jonty there) and had opened up the Big Chair Room again. We're not allowed in there when the people are out, because otherwise young Stupidhead-The-Woolly-Eared-One trashes the place and destroys everything. It's not so bad, as we get to use the Big Bed Room instead, where Jonty amuses himself by flinging the teddies around the room and chewing off their noses.  ~rolls eyes~  Anyway - I digress.  Before she went out, the missus threw a new box of tissues onto the back of the Long Big Chair so that it wouldn't get eaten by the Devil-In-A-Dogsuit while her back was turned.

In later life and innocence personified.

As soon as the door is opened we all pile into the Big Chair Room and Stupidhead does his normal thing (he's SO lacking in decorum) of throwing himself upside down onto the Long Big Chair, in one (he thinks) smooth movement (imagine a hairy fish landing in the bottom of a boat and you've got it). He likes to do this, as he thinks it looks as though he's been there for hours and in the hope that nobody will chuck him off, you see.

The tissue box was jolted by the Great Hairy Twit landing like a ton of dog biscuit on the Long Big Chair and started to slide downwards. Mum and I noticed this, Jonty didn't.

The next thing Jonty knew (and it only took a split second) was the tissue box landing on his upside down head.

What happened next has proven to me that cartoon animators do, actually, work from life instead of imagination.

In a matter of seconds, Jonty had managed to spin (I swear this is true - trust me, I'm a greyhound, would I lie to you?) three complete circles, whilst juggling the tissue box. He was a blur of ears, paws and tail, and achieved keeping the tissue box spinning in midair throughout. After the third revolution, he managed to leap clear of the nasty, violent tissue box and onto the floor.  Our only wonder is that he didn't wet himself in the process (because you know, he's very likely to!). It’s just as well he didn't, or the whole room would have copped it as he was spinning like a catherine wheel.

I can't remember the last time I saw something quite SO funny. Mum was hysterical and I was grinning for ages. Ooooh, he might be a pain sometimes, but I tell you what - he's definitely good for a laugh!

AND THEN, THE PHONE RANG ....

There are moments in my life when things are trundling along how they should be, everything in its place, everyone carrying out their allotted role - and then the phone rings and in the blink of an eye, everything goes to worms.  This is one such moment, from more years ago than I care to remember (around 2003!) and when I still had working legs.

Initially, you need to know the geography of the lower level of our house for this one.  Imagine three rooms, on the right is one big room (utility and computers), on the left are two small rooms (bathroom and kitchen) and the phone is beside the computers.

Steve is in the kitchen making dinner.  Our son Morgan was just a wee fellow back then  and he and I are in the bathroom, washing hands ready for dinner. Jack – our extraordinarily huge black Greyhound - is laying on the carpet by the computers in the utility room.  The washing machine (also in the utility room) is busily working, all three computers (yes, we've gone one each) are switched on and humming away, Steve has got music on in the kitchen.  All of which is fine, except the phone rang.

In what was probably less than ten seconds, all hell broke loose. Morgan ran towards the phone (don't ask me why) and fell over Jack, who immediately panicked and jumped up  because he always thinks he's at fault, bless him.  He attempted to exit stage left by scooting towards the stairs by the kitchen doorway, causing Steve to fall over him as he ran towards the phone from the kitchen. Meanwhile, I am picking Morgan up off the floor where he's fallen between the two computer chairs. Steve reaches the phone just as the washing machine starts its VERY NOISY spin cycle.

I manage to complete a very athletic (for me!) move and hit the "off" switch on the washing machine, because I just know that Steve will not be able to hear himself think with that going on. In the meanwhile, he is muttering about "pan of chips in kitchen" as he answers the phone. Jack has run upstairs, making enough noise for a herd of elephants, I'm on my way to rescue said "pan of chips". Morgan is wailing about his poor knee and Steve is trying to talk to the phone company about their complete inability to issue a correct bill for the television/phone/internet service.

At this point I realise that - inexplicably - Morgan is waving a can of Mr Sheen furniture polish around, looking like he has every intent on using it (where did he get it from? Surely he didn't have time to find it, in between washing hands and falling over dog?).

Photo c/o Hayford Peirce

In a somewhat delayed reaction, hubby hits what he thinks is the "off" switch on the washing machine, except of course he’s turned it back on. As I pass, I swoop upon the can of Mr Sheen and wrest it from the grasp of the then indignant son, finally reaching the kitchen to discover that "pan of chips" is indeed as described - a frying pan with chips sizzling in hot oil. Now this is a complete nightmare for me - I just don’t do that, it's too scary! If anybody wants me to cook chips in our house, its an oven job or nothing. I realise that the chips are done, so turn off the gas and start fishing them out before they turn into something you could use to nail a fence together, when the washing machine starts spinning again! Eh? In confusion, knowing that I'd switched it off earlier, I dash out and switch it back off again - and dash back to the kitchen, where I throw everything that hubby had just taken out of the oven back into the oven again.

Bedlam.

I think the phone company has got our house bugged and knew the very worst time to ring. They had to. That couldn’t all have been coincidence. Could it?

THE ONE ABOUT THE HIGHLAND, THE CORTINA AND THE BRUSSELS.

Rosie, shortly after arriving from Yorkshire, at around 18 months old

This tale takes us back quite some time ago to when I lived in Oxshott in Surrey and owned ponies.

Rosie (the Highland pony) was about four years old. For anybody interested in pony lineage, Rosie's registered name was Rosette of Gleneagles and she was by Cock'o'the North (what an unfortunate name for a stallion - but it probably did his street cred no end of good!) out of Rose of Balinoe. Anyway, Rosie came from aristocratic stock which you wouldn't believe if you met her as she was a true St. Trinian. In human form, she should have had pigtails with blue ribbons tied in a bow, wrinkled socks which were always in concertinas around her ankles, scuffed toes to her shoes and a smudge of mud on her nose. You probably get the picture. So now convert that to a medium-sized (14.1hh) mushroom coloured VERY hairy pony who had always got a dirty tail and you had Rosie. She was also completely adorable, by the way.

Now Highland ponies are renowned for being easy to handle, with calm characters and an amiable disposition. What people don't tell you is that they are incredibly hard on their surroundings. They won't walk around something if they can just trample over the top of it, if when leaned on it gives then push it over. As a result, fences were made to be pushed over unless they were electrified (and even then, Rosie bit it three times before she believed it was the fence which was walloping her!), they also have an inbuilt curiosity which constantly gets them into trouble.

Rosie had a bit of an unfortunate start in life, which left her committed to searching out as many different types of food as she could lay her whiskery lips upon. If you attempted to walk across the field with a plastic carrier bag in your hand, you'd be mugged until she had been able to put her head inside and examine the contents, consuming anything remotely edible at the same time.

She was a sore trial to her mother, but I loved her all the same.

Rosie at 3 yrs

I kept the horses (I had another Highland, Kellie of Whitefield) on a four acre field and would regularly drive my car (said Cortina which went by the name of The Duchess) across the field and up to the feed shed and hay barn which was situated on the geographically highest point. It was an interesting drive in the mud and/or snow and you certainly learned how to control a skid (eventually).

On the day in point, I'd driven The Duchess up to the feed shed and parked it in the shade provided by the buildings, which meant it had its nose buried in a dog rose bush. I'd been particularly keen on keeping it shaded as my Sainsbury's shopping was in the back of the car. Because of transporting horse feed, hay and several dogs around, I very rarely had the back seats available as seats, instead opting to keep them collapsed down so as to maximise the available space in the Estate part of the car. Cortina Estates were vast inside and it was a very useable space. It was also a very good space for all your shopping to roll around in and so I'd been in the habit of stacking it all up behind the driver's seat. Because of the dogs, I was also in the habit of leaving the windows rolled right down on hot days - making the car rather less baking to get back into.

I had been industriously unloading sacks of bags of horse feed from the back of the car to the feed shed - and both ponies had been very interestedly watching the proceedings in the way small children watch shopping being unpacked - quite sure you're going to get to the sweeties eventually. On the last trip (which involved carrots for all), I closed down the back of the car and went to get everything settled and sorted into its bins and cupboards. Kellie followed me and I thought Rosie was probably behind her.

Rosie, growing nicely, at 4 years

After a while, I realised there was no Rosie and everything was suspiciously quiet. Now, because I *know* Rosie, I went looking for her very, very quietly. Telling Kellie not to make a noise, I tiptoed down the passageway that leads back to the field - Kellie was somewhat perplexed by this odd behaviour but watched with interest. Hmmnnn, no Rosie by the hay barn, no Rosie by the water trough, looked out across the field and there wasn't a Rosie in sight anywhere.

I wondered if she was still by the car and hoped she wasn't licking it. They liked to do that, I think it was the salt from the road that was the interest but it didn't do the paintwork any good, particularly when the teeth were employed. As I continued my stealthy approach around the corner to where I've left the car, I was rewarded by the sight of a vast pony backside standing extremely close to the driver's side of the car, the rest of the pony being temporarily obscured by the vastness of the backside and the growth of the dog rose bush. What is it that she's so interested in? Move forward and around to the side a little, for a better view, but then notice something moving IN the car. Um, that looked like a pony head in the car. Eh? IN the car? I move a bit closer and yup, she's got her whole head and neck in the car, through the driver's window! EEK! On second thoughts, I'd better not shout, just in case I make her jump and she hurts herself trying to get out in a hurry (not to mention trashing bits of the car en route). Moving even closer, I realise that there's a number of things scattered around on the grass and dried mud and under her (shod) feet. In fact, she's standing on a packet of ham. In the dog rose bush is a bottle of mineral water (she obviously didn't want that as she couldn't get into it. On the floor beside her is a loaf of bread, the plastic wrapper torn to pieces (that one was yummy!) and a large hoofprint in the few remaining slices. By the side of the bread is the remains of a packet of Rice Krispies breakfast cereal. The box is slobbered into papier mache, but the plastic inner bag is still intact (got bored with that one). At this point, I don't really care if she gets her silly head stuck or not and ask of her "ROSIE!! WHAT are you doing??".

Well, she took off like a Harrier jump jet - except her head was still inside the car. I was a tiny bit concerned about the future of my car versus the damage half a ton of panicking Highland could wreak - but I was also more than a little bit peeved about my shopping! Goodness only knows how she'd managed to get her head through the window and across the back of the driver's seat to reach the shopping with her determined and semi-prehensile upper lip, but she had and it was all unravelling back the other way as she attempted to extricate herself from the incriminating evidence.

As her head finally twisted and turned and popped back out of the open window, I realised she had hold of something in her mouth. A second look revealed it to be a freezer bag containing a bag of frozen runner beans and another bag of frozen brussels sprouts - which had been chomped and was scattering its contents like mad green confetti as it swung from her teeth. Head free from the car, off she went - straight through the dog rose bush like it was Becher's Brook and off across the field, bag swinging from her teeth, brussels spraying everywhere, ears pricked, head slightly turned so she could watch me chasing her, tail up and she might as well have had a big sign over her head, saying "You gotta catch me first!". So I'm running after her, yelling "bring back my Brussels!!" and notice a family of four cyclists who had paused on the road and were watching our little charade with great amusement. It was at this point that the ridiculousness of it all got the better of me and I stopped chasing her - but Gyp (my lurcher dog) took over. Off they both went, around and around the field, Gyp barking and chasing Rosie, Rosie still spraying brussels sprouts from the bag between her teeth (who knew it contained that many!) and Kellie standing looking utterly amazed with possibly a bit of admiration mixed in, watching it all going on. I was doubled over with laughter at this point.

Grown up Rosie, being shown by Lynda at Kent County Show in 1999

Bless her heart, if she wanted Brussels sprouts that badly, she could have 'em! I eventually managed to retrieve the runner beans, but the sprouts were a gonner.

Happy days.

FROG-GONE IT!

Not our frog - picture borrowed from the internet

Many, many moons ago, we owned a tropical fish tank that supported a number of well grown fish, which ultimately had to be dismantled when we moved to Dorset. Everyone found new homes to go to - and they all left home via a cooler box (which had been turned into a warmer box), hopefully to continue to live to a ripe old age.

At one stage in our aquatic adventures, Steve took a fancy for owning a couple of frogs. We thought - and quite rightly so, as it turned out - that they would provide some added interest to an already quite attractive collection of fish.

Well, as often happens, one of the little chaps fell foul of some unknown malfunction and popped his little webbed clogs some two weeks or so after we introduced him to the tank. However, the other was going from strength to strength and causing no end of consternation amongst the fish. He had a habit of nipping chunks out of the floaty tails – which wasn't winning him any friends. He’d also shown a tendency toward looking for a way out – and there are two small cutouts on the tank cover where cables for the air pump and heater pass through. We were of the opinion that the holes were too small for him to negotiate – however, this particular morning’s antics proved us wrong.

The fish tank was, at this stage, in an alcove in our bedroom – and it was lovely to lay in bed and watch them doing their fishy thing. However, upon waking this one morning, I couldn’t see the frog. I looked everywhere in that tank – no sign of Froggy. Hmmn. I looked around the outside of the tank, just in case he’d escaped and was flopped, gasping, in the tiny gap around the edge. Nope. No Froggy.

Time was marching on, so I had to put the lost frog to one side and get on with the necessary of getting everybody ready for work and play school (which shows how long ago this was, as said child is now an adult!).

Later on in the day and having still not found the frog, I was downstairs tending to the laundry and had just come back into the kitchen from the garden. As I walked through the kitchen, I saw a dead leaf (or what I thought was a dead leaf) on the floor. This is not an unusual occurrence with dogs in the house, so I bent down to pick it up and bin it. Two thirds of the way to picking it up, it moved.

Oh, I nearly died a death on the spot. It was the frog. Covered in dust, dog hair, bird seed and feathers, all wrinkled and dried out looking, but there it was struggling frogfully across our kitchen lino. Poor, poor, little chap! But – what to do, what to do? I knew if I plunged him directly into cold water, he might die of the shock and if I tried to produce warm water, it’d probably be too hot. So I ran with my little pyrex bowl to the sitting room where the octagonal fish tank lives (where all the man-eating Barbs do their fishy thing! lol) and quickly scooped a half bowl of fish tank water. It might be foreign water, but at least it was the right temperature.

I’d got a sudden attack of the heeby-jeebies about touching him, so I picked him up gently in a piece of wadded kitchen paper and plopped him into the bowl. He just sat there, motionless. I bet he was thinking “Oh damn it! So near, yet so far!”. After all, he was heading for the back door and freedom. (How did he know?).

In the meanwhile, I'd got a cotton bud and very gently washed some of the bits and pieces off of him. He started to look a bit more like a frog again, after that. Within a couple of minutes, he was starting to come to life and was paddling gently around the bowl.

I didn’t quite know what to do next .. put him back in the tank? Take him to the vet? Sign him up for the Paras? ~shrug~ So I rang Steve (after all, it was his frog!) who suggested I just put him back in the tank for now.

I felt so sorry for him. (Now renamed by the misnomer of “Lucky”). After all, he’d escaped from the tank, fallen down the crack in between the tank and the wall, then fallen from the alcove to the carpeted floor. He’d crawled the length of the bedroom carpet, out onto the landing, down the stairs (which had to have been an experience on its own), traversed the breadth of the dining room carpet (which is a main thoroughfare – its just amazing he didn’t get trodden on by people or dogs) and got halfway down the length of the long, narrow, kitchen floor and to within six feet of freedom. He’d achieved all this without getting eaten by a dog. In truth, he should really have been rewarded with his freedom – but I’m guessing a little one inch aquarium frog isn’t too well equipped for freedom – even if he IS an intrepid explorer. Poor Lucky .. back in solitary. Maybe I should have given him a baseball and catcher’s mitt on the way back into the tank.

As it turned out, we couldn't keep him in our tank, he was a complete Houdini and made several more escape attempts. We eventually rehomed him with a friend who is very experienced with fish, frogs, lizards, spiders, snakes et al. So far as I know, his new home stopped any further adventuring.