That rambling preamble, a pre-ramble if you will, is merely to warn that what you’re about to read  a) does not contain dogs and  b) isn’t for the faint hearted.

Now that I have your attention I’ll begin.

For the past 12 years I have attended a 6 day writers’ summer school in Derbyshire. Having taken a reluctant break from Love Dogs, I have recently returned from this year’s frivolities … ahem, this year’s week of studious creativity and sobriety.

The school is now in its 64th year, the longest running writing school in the world, and is highly addictive which is why there are delegates who have been attending for over 50 years continuously.  I emphasise, more than 50 years without a break!  I am a relative newcomer with my measly dozen attendances.

A whirlwind of a week crammed with workshops, courses, talks, discussion groups, readarounds and writeabouts, Swanwick caters for every kind of writer and every conceivable genre.  Which segues me neatly, in a Freudian sort of way, to a workshop run by the redoubtable *Della Galton.

Bearing in mind the age span of attendees at Swanwick (do the Maths from above) there had been much whispering in certain quarters regarding Della’s Thursday morning class.  Also, much speculating on turnout.

Della needn’t have worried. Writing Erotica filled the Orchard Room.  Commiserations were expressed for The Art of Comedy, Practical Internet Technology and Copywriting which were up against it in the programme.

From the moment Della began, everything appeared to have a double entendre, exploited a pun or was just downright suggestive.  She handled the guffaws and titters with her usual professionalism and aplomb and to eliminate all prepubescent coyness from the outset she set us an exercise: shout out acceptable and non-acceptable terms in literary erotic fiction for female and male parts of the body.

We could have heard a foil wrapper drop … but for only a moment then the floodgates drew back and a veritable outpouring of anatomical synonyms came rushing out.  Many of them from the most quintessential of little old ladies sitting directly behind me.  And when queried these same ladies had most definite ideas into which categories their barrage should fall.

All the usual c***s, f*****s and p*****s flew around the room with “valley of pleasure”, “furry cup” and “lady garden” (all big in 1912 no doubt) thrown in for good measure culminating in a lengthy debate as to where “member” would fit … in the list.

It was as if these septuagenarians and octogenarians had been waiting their entire lives to scream out obscenities in a packed room and Swanwick had helped unshackle them from propriety.  I wonder if right now they’re at the check out at Sainsbury’s bellowing out “TITS” like they’ve contracted late onset Tourette’s.

It was a most surreal morning in anyone’s book.  And it was a two-parter with the second session that afternoon.  I won’t even go there.

As these same lovely ladies tottered into the dining room later some of us admitted to seeing them with different eyes, not a little respect and a vow to emulate their chutzpah in our 50th year at Swanwick.

Dog willing!

*Della Galton is editor of Xcite Books and writes erotic fiction under the name Antonia Adams.  She’ll shoot me for divulging that.

In the satin lined kennel we have Uggie, the amazing Jack Russell who saves his master’s life in The Artist (my particular favourite) and who scooped the top canine award at the Cannes Film Festival by winning the Palm Dog and Best Dog in the Golden Collar awards.

In the studded and chained kennel we have Blackie, the ferocious Doberman guard dog who terrorises children (shouldn’t he be my favourite then?) in Martin Scorsese’s film Hugo whose omission from the Golden Collar shortlist has caused a bit of a hullabaloo.

And in the kennel with the bobbing corks there is Koko, the ginger Kelpie who unites a warring community in the Australian Outback road movie, Red Dog, and won Best Dog in a Foreign Film in the Golden Collar.

However, there is now a new contender:  Scarlett, who will make her stage debut this Thursday in His Majesty’s Theatre in Aberdeen in Puccini’s Parisian opera, La Boheme.  Scarlett will play … well, herself actually as a sort of metaphor for her owner’s treatment of her paramour: a lapdog.

Scarlett, is an extremely charismatic,  8 year old orange roan Cocker spaniel with definite star quality  … who also happens to belong to me.

A week or so ago I was contacted by Danny Blythe, the Promotions Director of Derek Block Concert Promotions in London who saw Scarlett’s photograph on this very website and showed it to the production’s Director who decided she was the dog they’d been looking for.

A little hesitant at first about letting her get mixed up with ‘theatrical types’ as she’s already a bit of a diva, I was finally persuaded by Danny to let her have her moment in the spotlight as she would only have to walk on, sit at a cafe in the carnival scene in Act II then walk off again.  “She could do that” thought I.

“So someone would have her on the lead then?” my next question to which reply came “Yes, you!”

I’m only hoping there are no embarrassing accidents on stage.  And I’m not talking about Scarlett.  I can just see the headlines the next day “Impeccably Behaved Dog Disgraced by Owner in Popular Opera”.

From what I gather, I play Musetta, maid to tragic leading lady, Mimi.  Musetta has an admirer whom she treats as a lapdog and the producer of this particular show has run with the idea of using an actual dog.  This is where Scarlett comes in.  Although my costume has barely been mentioned there has been much toing and froing of emails regarding choices of lead for Scarlett.  It is as it should be.

Danny advised I not mention that Scarlett has a tendency to spontaneously sing (ok, howl) to random pieces of music.  She will also do it to my Sybil Fawlty impressions.  Danny then changed his mind and proposed that I do my Sybil in the dressing room just before we go on as it would make a much better story for the papers.  He also said not to tell anyone he suggested that.  Oops!

There has also been much toing and froing of communication with the theatre by my friends who have suddenly become opera buffs and want seats right up front in order to photograph and video Scarlett’s big moment.  A problem here on two counts: the production is pretty much sold out and photography and videoing is absolutely verboten – normally, but apparently there may be an exception with some relaxation of the rules in this case.  Everyone involved may well rue the day they ever set eyes on Scarlett!

On the other hand this could be the start of a wonderful new career for ‘Scarlett the Starlet’.  Next time, a woofing part?  Perhaps not.  Never mind the dog-eat-dog world of Hollywood.  Scarlett will always be top dog to me.

Gillian Abel, my local Dog Warden, who has been so helpful and supportive, and Neil Cockburn, my own vet to whom I trust implicitly with the care of my girls, carried out the last inspection on Tuesday.  They were both very happy with my home, my levels of safety, security and comfort and general standards of care.  So much so that upon leaving Neil asked when he might be able to book himself in!
It has involved a great deal of thought, work and, in many cases, expense, but it’s been worth it for the dogs’ sakes.  Right from the start I wanted to do this properly and with the welfare of my “guests” paramount.
Dougal, my adorable regular Friday guest leaves at 4.30 this afternoon and my next guest arrives tomorrow at 2.30 which means it’s just my three gorgeous girls and me tonight. I reckon the cork from a bottle of Bolly might be heard reverberating around my newly plastered and decorated walls this evening.
I’d like to say thank you to all my friends and neighbours who have encouraged, supported and helped me promote Love Dogs.  To Anne who helped me with my website, to Yvonne who helped me with my flyers, to everyone who spread the word by distributing my flyers and telling all their doggie friends about me especially Claire and Rosie who never seem to leave their houses without a wad of flyers in their hands and regularly accost people innocently walking their dogs to tell them about me!  To my already burgeoning list of clients who in turn recommend me to their friends.  Thank you, thank you, thank you.  I couldn’t have done it without you.
Of course, I must thank every single one of my clients over the past 7 months who have entrusted their precious doggies to me, and in particular those who have come back time and time again.  Whether it be for long stays, doggy day care or regular walking I have loved getting to know each and every one of your beloved pets and look forward to watching them develop, mature and grow to ripe old age over the years.
My fantastic neighbours too have been incredibly supportive, always interested to meet new guests and surprisingly tolerant of the cacophany of barking which precede each “walkies”.  Thank you … and sorry!
As if I wasn’t enough in awe of dogs before I began Love Dogs, I certainly am now.  They blow me away.
This is most definitely the time to say also how absolutely amazing my three, truly wonderful girls have been throughout this whole process.  They have accepted, welcomed and (in the vast majority of cases) enjoyed having a vast range of dogs sharing their home, walks … and, most importantly, their Mum.  To them I want to say how much I love them for making this so much easier for me.
They have my unequivocal and devoted love always.

I will receive my license certificate in due course and it will be proudly displayed.  Please ask to see it.

And Neil … you’re welcome any time!

Having lived in the US for a few years while working on a degree I retain a keen interest in the colourful carnival that is US politics.  Much more so than our grey, homespun variety I’m ashamed to confess.  So naturally, I’m following the current presidential nominations closely although having no particular allegiance to the Republicans or the Democrats.  It’s the process and the personalities in US politics which are fascinating.  The electoral college (an overly complicated voting system if there ever was); the presidential debating; the National Conventions; the no-hoper Congressmen; the lobbying; the scandals; the financial irregularities; the adulterous affairs – basically the meat of Presidential contest – I love it all.

However, it’s gone beyond the pale this time.

Entire forests have been felled and pulped it seems in order to fully disclose Republican hopeful, Mitt Romney’s 2010 Tax Return.  I defy anyone in either continent to not know that he earned $42.5 million (£27 million) in the past 2 years  – 14 years after retiring from the private equity firm, Bain Capital which in itself begs questions of his understanding of the tightly squeezed middle classes in America, and that despite being one of the richest men ever to run for the Presidency he is only paying 14% tax.  US mailmen pay more tax than that … heck, his own secretary probably pays income tax at 25-35%.  This, and ironically his sizeable charitable contributions which have drawn attention to his Mormon faith which he has been reluctant to shout about, has seen him roundly censured by his rivals as an out of touch plutocrat who grew rich as a “corporate raider” at the expense of jobs.

Now, there are different ways of looking at this in my opinion – Cayman Island accounts aside.  He is legally paying the taxes he’s owed because of a capital gains tax rule in the US.  He pays what he’s due and not a penny more as you or I would most likely do.  However, it doesn’t seem quite right that middle class workers are paying more tax than those making fifty or a hundred million dollars a year, does it?  But then there’s a niggle I have that it is decidedly “un-American” to knock success and should we not say good luck to him for making hay while the “Buffett rule” is still floating.

So, where is this going? Well, actually nowhere in terms of finance.  What has really irked me, especially as he now has a double digit lead in the polls and looks to be storming towards an easy cruise towards the nomination, is something he did in 1983.

I couldn’t care less about his half a million dollar speaking fees, his $4 million deductions or his tax havens.  Like I say, good luck to him.  What I think is reprehensible is how he treats the family dog.  I’m sure this has been disclosed in the US yet it is looking very possible that he will still win the Republican nomination and then, perish the thought, even the Presidency.

Personally, I have always found that how people behave towards animals, just as how they behave under pressure, is a pretty good indicator of what kind of a person they actually are.  Judge for yourselves.

Almost 30 years ago, Mitt Romney and his family set off on a 12 hour journey to Canada in the family station wagon.  Oh, the family pet, a lovely Irish setter called Seamus came too … but travelling in a box on the roof of the vehicle!

Challenged on this recently, Romney claims that Seamus liked it.  Really?  I think Seamus would beg to differ were he still alive today – and could talk obviously – because not long into the journey one of the sons noticed brown liquid seeping down the back window.

So what does “Mitt” do to his mutt?  He stops at the next gas station to check on the situation, of course.  But does he make the family bunch up and bring the poor traumatised Seamus into the car?  No.  He makes for the garage hose (not the jet variety, please God), sluices down both car and dog and stows poor Seamus back on the roof until they reach Canada.

One can only imagine what the remaining 10 or so hours were like for poor Seamus.  It also begs the question as to what is wrong with Mrs Romney.  Why didn’t she volunteer to drive the rest of the way, take the poorly dog into the car and stick Mitt in the crate … unwashed?

With the verb “to Romney” meaning “to defecate in terror” gradually entering popular usage let’s hope it gains enough momentum to derail this despicable man’s pursuit of the White House.

Rant over.  Blog backlog over.

I’m with Cyril Connolly when, in The Unquiet Grave, he said “It is only in the country that we can get to know a person or a book” and I could never live anywhere else, but it does have its minor downsides.  Uninvited guests.

As the glitterati take off to ‘winter’ in St. Tropez or Florida, field mice here in the North East of Scotland go in search of a cosy loft full of sumptuous insulation, squishy sleeping bags and a daily supply of peanut butter in which to hunker down until Spring.

I must be getting fab reviews on the rodent equivalent of Trip Adviser as they’re checking into my loft at an alarming rate.

Being an advocate of ‘catch and release’ I went the humane trap route.  I would catch the bl…, ahem, blighter, walk to the top of the 30 acre field across from my house,  oversee an honourable discharge and come home to find him practically waiting at the door, tiny paw on hip, tapping his foot as if to say “What took you?”.

I put a tiny drop of nail polish (Jessica Ruby Red 293 no less) on one when I first suspected they were following me home.  I released him in the shelter belt at the top of the field and yes, you guessed it, two days later he was in the trap sporting a metallic crimson dot on his back.

Puts a whole new perspective on Horace’s observation that “The mountains will be in labor, and a ridiculous mouse will be brought forth.”

Suffice it to say, I’m a little ashamed to confess I then went the inhumane route.

I’ve been catching one every day now for the past 29 days … until this weekend when the trap was empty.  Yee-hah! Break out the bubbly! “I’m mouse free”, I thought, until I noticed the peanut butter was gone as was one whole side of the trap.  The varmints could now get to the peanut butter without activating the trap.  To add insult to injury they had dragged a massive wadge of insulation into the box to make a nest … IN THE MOUSE TRAP.

I thought they were having a laugh before, but they’re really taking the ‘Mickey’ now.

If anyone has a mouse-catching dog please go on holiday soon.  Special rate available.

In the course of our spirited and diverse conversation it came up that a writer friend of ours was ghosting an autobiography.  There’s nothing too remarkable about that as a lot of autobiographies are “ghosted” to some degree.  However, for an autobiography to be successful the subject should be well known or at the very least their name needs to be recognisable.  The subject of this one was unfamiliar and curiosity got the better of me.

Imagine my surprise when a veritable dogfight unfolded before my eyes.

Lizette Roux, whose life is to be documented in print, recently set up a dog magazine called Surrey Dog Life and in doing so has become embroiled in a particularly bitchy battle with the editor and publisher of the well established, also Surrey based, Dogs Today.

Beverley Cuddy started Dogs Today 20 years ago and has taken great exception, not surprisingly really, to Lizette Roux’s masthead strapline which reads “Surrey’s first and only dog magazine”.  To add insult to injury Roux has also called her home the “Dog House” which is just happens to be the name of Cuddy’s home.  I can’t help but think either one of them could have come up with something more original but hey-ho that seems to be the house moniker of choice in the Home Counties.

At this point you’re probably thinking that a minor publishing dispute isn’t really enough upon which to base an entire volume and you’d be right.

Roux, who, until recently went by the name of Liz Hoad, is a former Page 3 girl and is no stranger to controversy and the law courts.

A professional golfer when she left school, clothes sponsorship led to modelling which then led to topless modelling – a more lucrative career at that time than chasing birdies on the PGA circuit.  As seems to be the way of it, she then embarked upon well documented affairs with James Hunt, Lord Lichfield and the much loved and late Seve Ballesteros to name but a few … allegedly.

Despite these obvious distractions, her penchant for putters, fervour for fairways and great weakness for gimmies never left her and in 2004 her membership application, under the name of Beth White, to the elite golf club at Wentworth was accepted … until her colourful past became known and the powers that be withdrew it.  Needless to say, a fight ensued.

Those who know me might be tempted to think my over-active and over-vivid imagination has come into play and either I’m making this all up or the punchline is immiment.  I wish it was.  Such literary luminaries as Charles Dickens, Daniel Defoe, P. G. Wodehouse, H. G. Wells, Aldous Huxley, Alfred Tennyson,  J. M. Barrie, George Eliot, Robert Browning, Lewis Carroll, George Bernard Shaw, Arthur Conan Doyle, J. M. Barrie, John Galsworthy and John Donne have all lived for a time in Surrey and even they’d be pushed to make this sort of nonsense up.

This skirmish in Surrey is … well, it’s ‘surreal’.

Having been editor of a golf magazine for several years (golf/dogs … it’s all about chasing balls isn’t it?) I know how much work goes into getting each issue out so Ms Roux/Hoad/White must be a grafter.  She’s clearly also a dog lover and is interested in writing (three important … nay, essential qualities in my book) so my feeling is that with a population of over 1 million England’s most heavily wooded county should be able to sustain two dog magazines … “surrely”.  (Sorry).

As good old Walt Disney, said, “I have been up against tough competition all my life.  I wouldn’t know how to get along without it.”

He’d have loved this fairytale.

Turns out I needn’t have worried as I was in a team of seasoned quiz-goers who knew the most obscure things.  We were well matched as my knowledge, such as it is, is pretty much confined to obscure things.

Hilary, my friend who put together the dream team of ‘The Baker and his Crumpets’ as we coined ourselves had also invited a couple called Tom and Penny Baker (hence the name) who were enormous fun.  Tom, in particular, was hugely irreverent and had me in stitches the entire evening with his little asides.  The pair of us were threatened with the naughty corner at several points.

In the medical round one of the questions was “What is the term for boring a hole in a person’s skull?”  Quick as a flash, Tom stage whispers “Talking!” The serious ambience evaporated and it took a while for composure to be regained.

‘The Baker and his Crumpets’ held 2nd place right up to the final round when the ‘Banchory Vets’ beat us into 3rd with their highly suspect knowledge of mushrooms.

It was a great night and superbly organised by SPCA supporters, compered with aplomb by  redoubtable dog trainer, Rosemary Pirie, and well attended by local worthies.  More importantly I believe we raised almost £400 for the new SPCA centre in Drumoak which makes the real winners the animals looking for loving homes.

By the way the answer is trepanning, the oldest surgery in the world used to treat anything from headaches, brain disorders, insanity and to let out evil spirits.  Bizarrely, doctors would keep a fragment of the skull as a lucky charm.

We need doctors like that like a hole in the head!

I’ve often thought that Rabbie Burns must have accidentally set fire to the paper on which he wrote “To a Mouse”.  “The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men” surely must have had … “an’ dogs” after it originally.

“Gang aft a’gley” they certainly did last week, to quote the Bard further.

How a dog is introduced to me and my girls at the beginning of their ‘dog-liday’ at ‘Love dogs’ should be carefully orchestrated in order that they feel  safe and settled as quickly as possible.  But, of course, with everything else involving dogs things never quite go as planned.  And the arrival of Milo, my current guest, was no exception.

Milo, is a feisty little Chihuahua whom I’ve met on a couple of occasions for “introduction and orientation “ and he was finally coming to stay with me for twelve days while his Mum, Sheila, attended a family wedding in Malaysia.

Sheila arrived promptly as usual and I could see Milo in the passenger seat when she got out to greet me with a hug.  We were about to open the back doors to get his ‘luggage’ when we both heard an ominous “click”.  I could tell by Sheila’s face exactly what had happened.  Milo had stepped over the central console to settle himself on the driver’s seat and in doing so had toggled the lock button.  He was locked in the car – along with the keys which were still in the ignition, Sheila’s handbag with her house keys, phone and usual paraphernalia.

With a tight time schedule and a plane to catch Sheila was panic-stricken.  I immediately went into damage limitation mode and started firing off solutions: were there spare keys? could I drive her home? who has a key to the house? could we break into the house, etc. whilst also trying to entice Milo back to the passenger seat in the hope he might toggle the switch again and unlock the car.  He did step on it several times but not heavily enough to activate the mechanism.  How could he have been heavy enough 5 minutes earlier to lock it but not heavy enough now to unlock it?  As tiny as he is and with a metabolism that I’ve since discovered could power a small energy sub-station, he couldn’t possibly have lost weight in that short space of time.

With no way to access her house for the spare key the next step was to try to break a window in the car.  It always looked easy in The Sweeney and the windscreens of American cop cars in the James Bond movies appear to be made from the same substance as my liqueur glasses so how hard could it be?

Trying to look as if smashing car windows was a regular and rather tiresome pastime I donned my safety glasses, made a large (and very Christmassy I might say) star with duct tape on the back, passenger side window and aimed my hammer at it.  Striking it right bang in the middle of the star it made a lot of noise but bounced right off.  It did this three more times until I realised something heavier duty was required.  Telling Sheila I had a new plan I went back to my garage, re-emerging with my sledge hammer.  Her gasp of horror was almost as audible as the thwacking of my hammer on her car window.

Absent-mindedly wondering if all my years of weight training were in preparation for this very moment, I stepped back from the car, wielded the hammer over my shoulder and put everything I had into the swing.  The bang reverberated around the valley a couple of times, up and over the Hill o’ Fayre and returned to my drive with an awesome echo but the window held.  When they etch “TOUGHENED” on to the bottom of car windows they’re not kidding.

I wish that I could now report that between us we came up with an ingenious way to free Milo who, incidentally, seemed quite unperturbed by the proceedings, but alas we did not.  Breaking quietly and unobtrusively into cars will never be a handy sideline for us.

I had to resort to calling a local mechanic who arrived superhero-ish (but thankfully not wearing his underpants over his boiler suit) with a nifty piece of kit which miraculously separates the door from the roof allowing for a dexterous bit of fiddling around with a glorified coat hanger.  I would go into more detail, but then I’d have to kill you.

As they say, “All’s well that ends well … so let’s all go to the wedding.”  Oh, no, I’m already in panto mode.  Anyway, Milo was freed, he gave himself a bit of a shake, looked us up and down as if to say “Is my room ready and have my bags gone on ahead” and trotted into the house taking up residence like a canine RuPaul, his minions (us) scuttling behind him. And there, he has remained.

But far from being the archetypal, precious, male diva, Milo is prepared to get down and dirty with my boisterous girls.  He enjoys a two hour walk twice daily on muddy farm tracks and through dense woods, his little legs often a blur of movement, clearing fallen twigs with the poise and resoluteness of Red Rum over Beechers Brook.  In a word, Milo is a trooper.  In between walks, he follows me around wherever I go with no interest in a restorative power nap.  He’s a busy boy and what he lacks in stature more than makes up for in character.

I’m absolutely smitten with him and am feverishly tempted to get glammed up, put on my Jackie O shades, pop him into my ancient (48 seasons ago) Chanel bag and have a wander around town WAG-like.

Alas, despite his diminutive size and all my years of weight training, I fear I couldn’t carry him off!

My friend Claire and I took our dogs for a good two and a half hour hike in the autumnal mist around Glen Tanar, the largest surviving remnant of Caledonian Scots pine forest on the south side of the Cairngorms.  Nestling in the heart of Royal Deeside near Aboyne, Glen Tanar covers around 25,000 acres and is a magnificent and majestic wilderness.  I have walked it many times on my own with my dogs and have always felt a particular serenity in the undisturbed landscape … and have always felt safe and at ease.

Around two-thirds of the way around yesterday, a little way past the Knockie viewpoint, Dinah, my Golden retriever began barking fearfully down towards the heather to our left.  There was nothing to be seen or heard, the ferns and heather weren’t moving which is usually an indication of some creature scurrying away through the undergrowth yet we couldn’t console Dinah.  She continued to bark – ears back, tail down – whilst backing up to the opposite side of the track.  The other dogs ran ahead and as Claire and I passed the spot which was causing Dinah so much unease she ran past me on the far side and away from the spot. We stopped and scoured the area for any sign of activity but could see nothing. A little unsettled and bewildered, we turned to continue on.  As we did so, something to the right caught my eye.  Something I had never noticed before.

A large, flat stone propped crookedly against the hillside just feet from us.  Free from moss, rain marks and other signs of the ravages of time, the stone was strangely pristine which did not sit well with the archaic prose.

Engraved in a crude, gothic style with ‘t’s carved as crosses were the words “lett well alone”.

Startled by the ominous warning, and still a little perturbed by Dinah’s reaction, our strides lengthened and quickened and, although we continued our amiable chattering, both of us found ourselves looking over our shoulders until we were off the hill, out of the pines, on to the more popular track and in sight of the Chapel of St. Lesmo, the mysterious Holy Hermit who lived in Glen Tanar over 1,000 years ago.

‘Lett well alone!’  Is it a simple plea not to disturb some nearby well or mineral spring?  Does it imply a weightier, more philosophical caveat not to tamper with tradition?  Or was it intended to send us swiftly on our way?

On the one hand I’m anxious to return to the spot to reassure myself that the stone remains, despite me never noticing it before.  Perhaps if it’s a bright, sunny day and the light would enhance a photograph.

On the other, I may take a different route.  Especially if the hill is again shrouded in mist.  It would only impair my already rudimentary photography skills you understand!

I’m sure it will remain a much-loved walk close to my heart, but I’ll never call it a favourite ‘haunt’ again.

http://www.lifewithdogs.tv/2011/07/what-a-dog-does-when-its-cold/