Every morning as I scoff toast I have a little look at
Facebook. Perhaps I shouldn’t; it winds me up. But it makes me realise just how
stupid some (many) people are. One chap (a builder) was posting
copies of a series of text messages in which a customer cancelled a huge
contract because the contractor called him “Tom” and not “Thomas”.
I was reminded of a rather arrogant eight year old cub scout who was once in my
pack. His name was Charles and he told you so. I once called him Charlie and he
certainly pointed out the error of my ways. Tom, Charlie… does it really
matter? Cleary it does to Thomas and Charles.
And there was quite
a lot of whinging about last weekend’s official Red
Dwarf convention which (by all reports) had been something of a
disaster. Thirty years ago sci-fi conventions were run by the fans for the fans.
We used to have great fun going up to the University of London, meeting
friends, dressing up, and watching the latest episodes of our favourite shows
which had been sent over from America on video tapes, then going on to the
themed pubs to drink Romulan ale (lager with blue food colouring). These
days the conventions are run by commercial companies who want to make a profit,
and the themed pubs have been closed down for breaching copyrights. Such a
shame.
I got the leads onto the dogs and we went out. As we
drove the pundits on the radio were talking about how one of the artificial
intelligences unilaterally decided to mount an attack on a
competitor. Perhaps the machines will take over the world? All the more reason
to thank the Alexa every time it does something for me.
We got to the woods and walked a rather random walk
for a change. As we came up the Pilgrim’s Way so I heard shouting and
shrieking. Some people were approaching on bikes. I held Morgan and Bailey by
their collars. I didn’t hold Treacle as she could be trusted not to run under
the bikes’ wheels. And so Treacle ran under the bikes’ wheels. No one actually
crashed or came off… I told the cyclists in a rather firm voice that the gravel
on the path was very loose, that there were far better tracks to cycle on in
the woods, and that the Pilgrims Way was a no cycling path. Two of those
statements were true, but I always bear in mind the old adage that you can fool
all of the people all of the time if you talk loudly and confidently. And I
have been told that I can do a good impersonation of a scary tattooed skinhead
thug. The cyclists hurried off.
We carried on with our walk. We saw a buzzard circling
low. We saw deer. We didn’t see a swan for all that my Merlin bird app said we
did. It’s interesting that now that the mating season is over, the birds in the
woods are a lot quieter.
We came home listening to my Adrian Mole audiobook.
Adrian’s father had made a spice rack. Once home I made us both a cuppa, Munzed,
and Wordled from “dwarf” to “lorry” in four goes. I wrote
up some CPD, then put the finishing touches to a little project
I’ve been working on for the last week or so. It’s a little list of where we go for walks. I might extend it, I
might forget all about it. Time will tell.
I went into the garden and trimmed back some of the
overgrowth coming over the fence from not-so-nice-next-door. I tried speaking
to nutty noodle when he used to live there (I wonder whatever happened to
him). At that time the brambles from his bushes came a full five feet into
my garden and he really couldn’t see my problem. Since then I’ve just tried to
chop it all off at the fence line, but the stuff goes up quite a way. It’s a
shame that she chooses to be so difficult. I’ve offered to prune it properly.
I’ve offered to replace the fence. She either ignores me, or shrieks
incomprehensibly then asks if I understand English (and she’s Japanese!).
I watered the plants, and generally pootled. All the
time Treacle was watching me. Eventually to her delight I announced that I was
going to “FEED THE FISH”, and she flew down the garden to the pond,
squealing in excitement as she went.
I then gave myself a haircut (those hair trimmers
have saved me a small fortune) and sat by the pond reading my Kindle for a
bit until it was time for the dentist.
The doggy dentist.
Some time ago when having her annual check-up the vet
said Treacle’s teeth weren’t as good as they might be. She recommended a scale
and polish (under anaesthetic) and said it would be four hundred quid…
and then anything they found whilst rooting about in her gob would be extra. I
told the vet I’d think about it, and as we walked home I saw a van drive past
with the logo “Doggy Dentals Ashford” so I gave them a
ring.
They are excellent. Charging about a tenth of what the
vet wanted, the nice lady gives the dogs’ teeth a good cleaning. Or that is she
gives the girls’ teeth a good cleaning. She had a look at Morgan’s gob when she
came to Dog Club for Dog Dental Week and said his gob is OK. Or it was then.
We got to the doggy dentist. Neiter of the girls
really had a glowing report. Treacle’s teeth will probably see her out, but
Bailey will probably need one or two pulling before much longer.
As we came home I saw something that made me sit up
and take notice. A small dog which looked just like my Fudge running up the
road. I took the girls home, then went up the road to see that dog that looked
like Fudge. He was just running loose with no collar. I soon caught him and
picked him up. He offered no resistance. I walked up and down the street
banging on doors, haranguing passers-by, and shouting, but I couldn’t find
anyone who recognised him.
In the end I took him to the emergency vet. They’ve
now got him and say they will scan him for a chip and if they can’t contact the
owner then the dog warden will have him in the morning. Apparently that’s the
process and the law.
Part of me wishes I’d not taken him to the emergency
vet.
Part of me realises that three dogs is already too
many. A fourth? Seriously?
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