Biggles in an adventure with stomach contents

I have received many requests for updates on the new CFZ dog, Biggles.

Training a puppy from scratch is exhausting and full of surprising successes and false hopes of success. All this information you read about having to imprint (in my case) alpha female status upon your new four-legged canine friend makes sense, but is not that easy to implement (however - and I just can't resist this small bit of sexism - a tad easier than trying to imprint alpha female status over other males in this house). I have had success in some areas but have struggled, and am still struggling, in others.

We are still finding new things when out and about – the other day I took him for his walk around the field and it started to rain. Not only that, I mistimed our perambulation to coincide with schools out, so there were mums and children walking home with that most strangest of objects (to Biggles at any rate) - the umbrella. Now, of course, Biggles has never seen such an oddity before and decided that it was foe rather than friend so greeted each one with a vocal welcome. “I am sorry,” said I over and over again. “He is only a puppy and has never seen an umbrella before.”

However, during his 24 weeks of existence on this planet he has learned to sit when asked (mostly), stay when asked (mostly) and come to you when called (mostly).

He has recently been teething and for a week was very subdued. It was like having a moody teenager in the house again! He wouldn’t eat his food, unless something tasty like hand-fed scrambled egg, and spent most of his time curled up asleep in his crate. Then, oddly enough after the CFZ annual meeting, he shed a tooth and from then on returned to his former self.

Here are a couple of more notable events in the last couple of weeks, which are, perhaps, worthy of amusing note:

The most disgusting thing he has done so far:

I was sitting at my laptop late one night (and no, nobody did the monster mash, but hopefully you are now all humming the tune) when I heard a horrible sound not unlike a baby screaming as if being attacked by something evil. I soon came to the correct assumption that it was, in fact, the CFZ cat Helios 7 that was making this awful cacophony in the kitchen. Then followed the all-too-familiar sound of a cat being sick. It seemed to go on for ages.

It is not so easy for me to make a quick escape from my seat at the dining room table as the wires from the laptop are strewn across the chair next to me from the plug in the wall, so it took me a few seconds to get to the kitchen to deal with the mess. I was not looking forward to it, cat sick is not as bad as the stomach contents that children can deposit (throwing up spaghetti for example, as was the case with one of my offspring once) but at that time of night it was an unenviable task.

So, there I found myself – standing in the kitchen searching for a large mass of cat vomit. But all that greeted me was a cat looking rather sorry for itself and a dog looking rather satisfied with itself. Yes, Major James Bigglesworth had enjoyed a rather tasty ‘mess’ supper.

The most frustrating thing he has learned so far:

Toilet training for puppies is no easy feat. Potty training children isn’t either, but at least they have the added bonus of nappies. After many weeks, Biggles has developed the habit of bashing on the back door when he needs to go relieve himself. Great you may say. However, border collies are well known for being very intelligent creatures, and Biggles certainly seems to have inherited this trait. He knows we will take him out if he asks, so he has developed the little trick of asking just to go for a general potter and sniff around the garden. Hence, several times during the day I can find myself roaming the flower beds just because he wants a breath of fresh air. There is a danger here of ‘crying wolf’ syndrome.

However, he is a sweetie and we all love him dearly. Yes, he is naughty at times, but at 24 weeks he is still really only a youngster. He piddles when he gets excited, is inquisitive just like a toddler and forgets his manners sometimes, but we are getting there – slowly.

From Milan to Yucatan

I am not one to labour a point (yeah right I hear Jon say) but since posting my blog yesterday, Jon has given me some sketches of the Owlman so that the aforementioned t-shirt can be compared more easily.

Now, if you feel like tottering down to your local store to see the piece of clothing for yourselves, I have to remind you that Topshop is the fashion store for the female of the species and Topman is the equivalent for the males of this world. You will not find the t-shirt in the former as they will probably only have t-shirts sporting fluffy bunnies or sparkly bits. No, the t-shirts adorned with monsters are found in the testosterone area.

I am tempted to ask why it is that, as a general rule - from tiny tots to adulthood - males always seem to get the best gear? Us females don't always want to dress in pink and sequins you know. But, I shall stop before I get involved and just return to my 'was always such and will always be' stance and just get on with it.

Back to the subject in hand, however. Below are the sketches so that you can see the similarity for yourselves.

The Owlman has not been seen for many years. Is this, perhaps, the start of a new spate of sightings of sorts? He could soon be visiting local pubs, fish and chip shops, and supermarkets and may even get to visit Buckingham Palace one day. He could even spread his wings further afield and visit the Taj Mahal or the Great Pyramids. Now there is a thought.

Owlman - the new Top Man

A few blog entries ago, I wrote of our excursion to Cornwall to explore the Old Church at Mawnan and the surrounding woods - the haunt of the Owlman.

We did not catch sight of him then, but perhaps now we know why. It seems that he may have grown tired of the woods around Mawnan Church in winter and has spread his wings (I could write 'branched out', but that would be too bad a pun) into retail therapy. My youngest daughter, Olivia, discovered this in Top Shop today:

OK, he does appear to have developed a third eye, but could this just be a cunning disguise?

Bugs Bunny in an adventure with Paddington Bear

A few weeks ago, Jon had an invite from the organiser of ‘CONVENTION! Event Horizon’ at the Royal Academy to go along and give a talk on mystery animals. The whole event was billed as: “A collaborative evening of performances, films, lectures and music ........ bringing together special invited guests the event is an unravelling of several conventions into one including animal liberation, cryptozoology and furry fandom”.

“OK”, I thought when I heard. “This sounds like it could be odd to say the least”. So, last Friday, off we went. We got to London at around 5.30 on Friday night, after an uneventful journey from Tiverton, and then tackled the London Underground to get to Great Portland Street, which was the nearest station to the hotel where we had been booked. Well, that is what we thought at any rate. Upon arriving at the reception desk, we were met with the kind of glance given when your bankcard is refused at the local supermarket’s check out. You know you have plenty of money in your account and that it must be some kind of bank problem, but no matter how many times you explain this to the checkout lass/lad, they look at you in a knowing way as if thinking to themselves “Oh yes, of course – I believe you”.

However, on this occasion Jon could produce emailed proof that the hotel, in whose foyer we were standing, was the one given us in said communication. A couple of calls to the event organiser and Royal Academy revealed that there had been an administrative cock-up and we had, in fact, been booked into a different hotel in the chain. Unfortunately for us, though, our ‘real’ hotel was now around half an hour away and, not being able to face another trip on the tube with suitcase etc, a taxi ride was utilised which would be billed to the event organisers as punishment for their crass mistake. Yeah, yeah I know we all make mistakes, to err is human and all that, but it is SO nice when someone else does it.

Once it was plain that it was not our fault, by the way, we were - in the end - looked after quite well by the ‘wrong’ hotel, being offered a cup of tea (and biscuits) while we waited for things to be sorted out. Having to pay for the tea and biscuits, I guess, was to be expected, but we made sure to take the uneaten biscuits with us!

Actually, luckily for us, it turned out OK in the end, because our hotel was just down the road from the Natural History Museum where we had planned to spend Saturday anyway, before heading to the Royal Academy for 4 pm in preparation for the event that night.

The Natural History Museum is a great place to spend a few hours and seems to have had a few additions since I was there last a couple of years ago. It has become more educational which is not necessarily a bad thing, but it does mean that some of the cases of preserved creatures seem to have been removed from the public domain. There were no cases of insects for example, not that we could see at any rate. These appear to have been replaced with educational pieces for children (and adults) to learn more about creepy crawlies rather than just look at long demised specimens.

Jon, by now, was having trouble getting around and his feet and legs were hurting to such an extent that we were wondering how he was going to manage the lecture that evening, and also how he was going to manage the journey home on Sunday. I think it was a combination of ill-fitting shoes and walking around more than he is used to more than anything else, but Jon being Jon was convinced that his feet were going gangrenous and that he would have to have them amputated. What is he like?

The event. Hmmm how does one describe it? I am not entirely sure. I did not know whether to laugh or cry. As an example, here is how one of the acts was introduced in the programme: “Two ways to reskin a cat – Reimarus-trumpeting bits o’lecture on animal aesthetics undermined by non-Cartesian wax-crayon gestural expressionism a la Congo the Chimp, occasional childcare, hotel shampoo-bottle on pie-tin percussion, amidst various polemical outblastings.”

Are you with me still? No? Fair enough. Yes? Really – can you explain it then please?

There were quite a few in the audience, made up mostly of young people with a smattering of older bohemiam types. But what got me, apart from those of my daughters’ ages who seemed to think that dressing up in furry animal garb (tails, bunny ears and weird cartoony head-dresses) was a really, really good idea, was that everyone’s facial expressions throughout were the same – stony-faced. I kept wondering whether they were really enjoying what was being presented before them or were they themselves thinking ‘what on earth is going on?’ Or is it the done thing to sit there in such silence – a kind of masochistic exercise they make themselves go through to prove something?

Perhaps it is just me. Perhaps I just cannot accept all this arty-farty stuff and nonsense. I do not get the point of it at all. I guess I should just accept that everyone has the right to express themselves in whatever way they choose and should just avoid such things in future – for my own sanity’s sake.

Jon was the sixth guest on, and I spent the hour and a bit before that telling him not to laugh (well not so loudly at any rate) and to stop issuing such raucous exclamations of the cursing variety (eg the occasional for f**** sake) as I did not think it would go down too well (as he was also a guest speaker) to be seen to be making fun of his co-performers. We were both wondering how he would go down amidst such ‘company’ and were, at one point, thinking of making a dash for the front door. However, surprisingly enough, the stony-faces cracked at his jokes, bodies seemed to become relaxed and there was almost a united sigh of relief heard that someone at the event was actually understandable. Even the bunny ears were waggling excitedly. All in all his talk went down very well and we had several people showing an interest in the CFZ and taking away leaflets.

Chris Clark arrived an act or two before Jon’s and when Jon had done his bit, we made our excuses and the three of us left to get something to eat. Before we left, though, we had an amble around the small art exhibition next to the event. I think the highlight of this was the piece that involved two skeletons – one chasing the other on a long platform. On closer inspection, you could tell that it was in fact Wile E. Coyote chasing the Roadrunner – brilliant.

We spent a pleasant evening at a Thai restaurant near Piccadilly Circus and left Chris to make his way home, while we went to hail a taxi back to our hotel. Just as we left the restaurant, the heavens opened and within minutes Jon and I were drenched to the skin and catching a taxi was impossible – there were none to be had as all were full of similarly drenched people such as ourselves. We eventually decided to catch the tube from Piccadilly to South Kensington, in the - as it happens - correct belief that we would be able to easily catch a taxi from there.

Don’t get me wrong, I like catching the tube. Many evenings in my youth were spent catching the Piccadilly line to Rayners Lane then changing to the Metropolitan to Uxbridge. Or switching trains to various places around the capital going to see bands. I love the whoosh of air and the smell as the train emerges from the dark tunnel, and the sounds of trains in adjacent tunnels as they trundle down the tracks. Not so much fun though, the crowded carriages standing nose to shoulder with someone who has just eaten garlic, but that is another matter.

We came back on Sunday - again an uneventful journey from Paddington to Tiverton - and were back at home by around 5 pm. Unfortunately, later on that evening Jon discovered that the stills camera card had malfunctioned and that all the photographs from the weekend had been lost. We did still have the video footage though which is at least something.

I couldn’t help thinking, “well what was all that about”, but at least the CFZ has spread its wings a bit further and can now count an attendance at the Royal Academy on its CV.

Dogfights over Slough

It is often recorded that fathers and daughters, and mothers and sons, have a special bond between them. It is not something that can be easily described, but just exists as a silent entity. I guess the relationship with my father and me was just the same, deep down, and he got me out of many a scrape, from boyfriend troubles to the usual money woes, as I was growing up.

However, as many of you may know, on the evening of 23rd/24th December 2007 my father took his own life. A year has nearly gone by and not a day has passed that I don’t think of him. I shall not dwell on the latter part of his troubled life. Through no real fault of his own he caused hurt in our family, there is no denying it, but he was still my father and I thought I would share some of my memories of life in happier times.

It is, perhaps, poignant to say that my first ever memory of childhood involves him. My brother and I were playing in the garden one winter (I do not remember how old we were) and were happily making a snowman. My father was taking photos of us – and I think this is probably why it sticks in my mind – when he sat on a snail. It is that kind of event that still brings a smile to my face when I think of it.

He was a young boy in the war years and often told stories of going outside into the street where he lived in Slough, looking up into the skies and watching the dogfights between our airmen and the Germans. Mosquito fighter-bomber aircraft were made at Slough and so it became a target for our enemy. It is something that you don’t really think about, but he would recall how dangerous it could be outside when these dogfights were occurring, as shrapnel would fall from the skies. Obvious really, I suppose, but not something I had thought of before. It must have been one awesome sight though, and something that will never be seen again.

He was conscripted into National Service after the war and did his stint on Salisbury Plain. He was on guard one night when he heard snuffling and rustling in the darkness. Challenging with the usual “Halt, who goes there”, he was met with no response. Nervously shining a light across the ground in the vicinity he was embarrassed to find that he had been challenging a hedgehog!

Jon and I had been trying to get him to record his earlier life on paper, as he still had a very good memory of those early childhood years, growing up in the war and its aftermath. Unfortunately, though, he never got around to it.

I am not sure when exactly it happened, and I think it was mum that instigated it, but he became known to us as Pogle. There was a childrens’ TV programme called Pogle’s Wood and as dad was always, at that time, to be found pottering in the greenhouse, mum thought it was an apt nickname for him. From that time on, it stuck.

As a family we would go for walking holidays all over southern England. Many happy hours were spent tramping across places like Exmoor and they instilled in me a great fondness of the place. All we would see on our rambles was the occasional hiker amongst the multitude of sheep that roamed freely across the moorland, down into valleys with babbling brooks carrying cool, clear water. We would have fun crossing over stones to get from one bank to the other, trying not to slip on their wet, uneven surfaces. Many a time, also, it would appear that we were lost, but he always got us back to the car after a long day’s hiking around in a huge circle. Other times we went to Brecon Beacons in Wales and would get caught in the rolling mists that suddenly descended upon us.

When my brother was old enough to be left at home on his own and didn’t want to join in on the family holidays, it became my job to be front seat passenger and to stretch myself as far over to the left as possible so I could see what was coming around the corners of the twisty roads dad used to drive us down, with caravan in tow.

He was a talented man and had been an architect with the London Borough of Hillingdon for many years – he was the planner for the Alfred Beck Centre in Hayes, and it was a weird feeling going to see Ralph McTell there one night, sitting in the auditorium that my dad had basically designed. An artist of great talent, he once produced many watercolours, miniatures and sketches in his spare time. In his later years, he had started to dabble into writing music on the computer and produced several of his own symphonies.

Anyway, enough. He has gone. All I have are my memories and photos, and the lasting hope that he has, at last, found peace. Bye dad.

Biggles in an adventure with seaweed

The Saturday before last (on the fairly interesting date of 08.11.08) saw Jon, Graham and me out on a filming trip to the old haunt of Mawnan Old Church. We did not encounter the ubiquitous Owlman – not that I had thought we would - but enjoyed our day out in a somewhat rain-lashed Cornwall nevertheless. It was also the first official CFZ trip for Major James Bigglesworth (aka Biggles the pup) who christened the event by being sick in the back of the car halfway through the outward journey. Bless.

Taking a puppy out on a trip is a bit like taking a baby out. The amount of things you have to take with you - just in case – is reminiscent of those trips out with my two girls when they were gurgling bundles of delight (not that they are no longer bundles of delight I hasten to add, but have, I think, stopped gurgling). Items from bottled water to deodorised plastic bags for those necessary moments had been bundled into the boot of the car. However, a puppy throwing up breakfast time Baker’s Original for Puppies cannot really be catered for, but luckily I had had the foresight to take along one of Biggles’ blankets for the back seat so that caught most of it. A visit to a garage shop to obtain a free local newspaper was then made in order to line the Jag’s leather seats just in case of a repeat performance on the way back!

I adore old churches and love wandering around their peaceful confines. It was my first trip to Mawnan and I had been wondering whether I would get ‘bad vibes’ - you know the sort, the hair standing up on the back of your neck etc. However, the only feeling I had was of the serenity of the place. The church is nestled at the end of a lane overshadowed by the autumnal trees. The old graveyard is dotted with angled headstones and, although the walkways are obviously well-tended, the plots themselves are very overgrown, giving it a very ancient feel. The sea winds have done a wonderful job of weathering the headstones and most are covered in lichen or ivy. One of my hobbies when visiting old churches (as macabre as it may seem) is to spend ages wandering around reading the inscriptions on the headstones. I have found some quite amusing ones over the years, as well as those that bring a tear to the eye. I was surprised to notice, however, that considering the church has been there for hundreds of years, the oldest one I could find dated from 1894. There may be some that I missed, but I can only presume that under those plots visible there are older inhabitants at rest in this peaceful overgrown patch of Mawnan.

The fact that Graham found himself having to climb into a tree to take aerial photos of sorts kept the event a typical CFZ one. The tree was not a particularly hefty looking specimen but he managed to keep aloft long enough to take the film that Jon required.

Biggles enjoyed sniffing the undergrowth while Jon and Graham did an interview with some young ramblers and I was quite proud of myself for even managing to cross from one area of the path into the other using the rambler’s traditional method of climbing over a stile! We then gave the pup his first feel of the sand beneath his feet, which he took within his stride. However, I think the exciting smell of stale seaweed detracted to a point. So much so, that when we reached the shoreline he was quite surprised to look up and see the sea. He didn’t take to that at all! Oh well, no surfboard training for him then.

The return journey was hampered by the rain and the fact that the car heaters were not working properly. This meant that the windscreen kept misting up making it rather difficult for the driver to actually see where we were going. Biggles was completely oblivious to it all though – his first adventure out with the CFZ had exhausted him so much that he was fast asleep on the back seat all the way home.

Puppydog tails

Here is the first picture of the new addition to the CFZ - my border collie puppy, who has been christened Biggles. He is a cute bundle of energy and is settling down here extremely well. It is, of course, a highly fine tuned exercise trying to persuade him that outside is really the most ideal place to empty his bladder and bowels, but we are getting there slowly. He arrived with us last Friday at the grand old age of 9 weeks and is definitely living up to the border collie trait of being very quick to learn basic commands.

It took him about ten minutes to discover the delightful prank of nicking the cat food and about another ten to discover the not so delighful obligatory hissy fit from the cats at his arrival on to their 'patch'. It will be interesting to see how relationships develop there then. I have a sneaky feeling that they will not be too pleased if he tries to round them up like sheep.