What a tale my thoughts could tell

On Sunday Beattie decided that she was going to go for a proper walk with Daddy and Mummy and Piglet. No being left behind for just a potter up and down the road; this was going to be like the Old Days, and when Beattie decides something there's no changing her mind.


Beattie has two speeds - slow and stop - and Piglet was very good and didn't get too bored walking at a geriatric pace but was pleased to eventually reach the fields where he could be let off the lead to stretch his legs. Beattie bumbled along enjoying the pleasant sunshine, only occasionally having to be pointed in the right direction having been diverted by an interesting smell. But it took a lot out of her, and on Sunday night she wasn't comfortable. After a night's sleep (plus blundering about knocking over furniture) she was a lot better and had a quiet day, but by the evening she was very unsettled again. She wouldn't sleep on the sofa as usual but was staggering between Ned and me, wanting attention, and tangling her legs and falling over when she tried to turn round. We decided that The Time had come - that she was getting distressed with life.

So we had a crap night, and when the surgery opened I phoned for the vet to call in and Do The Deed. Piglet can certainly read my mind. All morning he was fussing and whining, and going over to Beattie and sniffing her, then coming over to me and trying to climb into my arms (not helpful when doing the washing up) and generally behaving totally out of character. During the course of the morning Beattie decided she was feeling much better, and went and lay in the hall again waiting for a walk, which is where she was when the vet arrived. When the door was opened she rose majestically, wagged her tail briefly at the vet and had to be restrained from wandering outside. Piglet greeted Sarah happily and pushed in while we discussed her condition, because by this time my nerve was failing me. Then the odd thing happened; Sarah asked directly "What do you want to do?" whereupon Piglet put his hackles up and he barked very crossly at her. Beattie bumped into the vet's bag, pushed it out of her way and strolled off nonchalently into the kitchen while Piglet put himself determinedly between her and the vet.

I bottled it completely and Beattie has a stay of execution to see if she'd just overdone the exercise on Sunday and was going to settle back to what passes for normality; Sarah left. Piglet's back promptly went down and he went and settled down in his bed - no more fussing me for attention as he had been doing earlier. He must have known that his sister was under threat and he wasn't going to let it happen. One day soon it will have to happen, that's for sure - just not today.

Happy birthday, fweet fifteen

Fifteen years ago this puppy came into the world.



Not all the plans I had for her future were realised, but that's Life. There have been several times over the years where we thought we'd never see this day, but here we are.

Happy fifteenth birthday, Beattie!

When I'm calling yooooo oooo oooo ooooo

Piglet has changed since Harry's death. Although he's stopped searching for him in every room in the house, or looking round for him when we're out on our walks, he's become less independent and confident and much clingier, and likes us all to be together in the house. Anyone going out causes distress, and now whenever Ned leaves for work he gets summoned to return to the group:



This can go on for some time. Luckily our neighbours don't seem to be bothered.

Computer-wise I managed (with a bit of help) to remove the old defunct commenty system; shame, because I thought it was very good. Unfortunately it means that none of the comments on previous posts show, and it looks like I'm a real Billy-no-mates who's been talking to herself for the past however many years. I was able to copy them all over to the hard drive, and if I have a spare few years I might replace them all, but as it'd probably mean copying them all individually I can't see that happening in the near future.