Edward and Stanley

Last week, the Mother and Stepfather took delivery of Edward the Puppy, a Norwich Terrier. You might have thought that Stanley the Dog would have been a bit disconcerted or jealous or growly or territorial. You might have thought tiny Edward would be freaked out by enormous, leaping Stanley. Not a bit of it. They fell in love at first sight and now spend every morning playing games of their own fiendish devising. Edward likes to stand on his hind legs and shadow box Stanley with his little fat paws. Stanley enjoys rolling Edward over and over with his nose.

This morning, there was a new game. You shall see.

They started off with traditional sniffing and exploring:

Then, having a rumble, as my friend M always puts it:

Pause for thought:

VELOCITY:

And the inception of the new game. This is entirely invented by Stanley the Dog. It involves doing top greyhound speed in perfect circles, and JUMPING over Edward in the process:

Edward gets the gist quickly, and lies very, very still:

Stanley: ‘Look what I DID!!!’ Edward: ‘I’m just going to stay here for a bit, if you don’t mind.’:

The good companions:

As you know, for some improbable reason I can’t quite identify, everyone on this blog, even the animals, get special pseudonyms. Privacy, I suppose. Stanley was the first person to appear under his own name, because it was so splendid. Edward too gets the same treatment. Mostly because I love the sound of Edward and Stanley. It makes me think of two old-school gents, with bowlers and rolled-up umbrellas.

Saturday; mostly pictures

I had a whole bushel of words for you today, but the hours rushed away from me and now it is eight o’clock and my brain has turned itself off. So today is mostly pictures.

The loveliest thing of the day was watching Kauto Star parade around Haydock, the place where he stamped his class and his guts and his great, beating heart on four glorious occasions. The old warrior looked better than ever, his head held high, the look of eagles in his eyes. The new stars, coming out to strut their stuff, looked a little mere and ordinary by comparison. The decision to retire the great horse whilst he is still fit and well was a good and honourable one, but there was a sliver of regret in me as I watched him, looking as if he could hack round the three miles in a canter and give the young fellows a run for their money.

There are some very exciting new young horses this season, and some lovely prospects just coming into their pomp, but nothing will thrill me quite like Kauto. He was, truly, a horse in a generation. As Ruby Walsh once said of him, live on British television, to happy, watching millions: ‘Ah, I love him, anyway.’

I shall miss him.

I miss my dogs today, quite a lot. ‘Why do dogs have to die?’ asked the four-year-old cousin, in a spirit of enquiry. I did not really have an awfully good ontological answer to that.

I miss my mare, who is very much alive, but five hundred miles north. I look at pictures, to quench the yearning. ‘Oh,’ says the four-year-old, a dying fall in her voice, ‘she is so beautiful.’ And so she is, and I am lucky to have her.

 

Today’s pictures are a random selection from the last few months. I was going through the files and plucked these out for you. There are some archive shots of the Duchess and the Pigeon too:

A little self-indulgence for a Friday night. Warning: dog-heavy

There are some advantages to running late. I have been running late all day. I went on a journey I calculated would take half a day; it took until tea-time. I have not answered the emails that needed answering, nor responded to the vital calls on the telephonic device. I missed a deadline, which is not usual for me. And I have not sat down to write this blog until way past everyone’s bed-time.

The advantage is that, by this stage, you will all be out, doing Friday night things. You will be eating dinner and drinking cocktails and talking of the state of the nation and making bad jokes and thinking of almost anything else except for a tiny space on the internet. I attempt, in a paltry way, to avoid the excesses of self-indulgence that blogging is heir to, but tonight I cave in, hopelessly. My secret joy is that hardly anyone will see, not at this time on a Friday night.

Today was a day of vivid light and shade. I drove over roads which were like rivers, past sodden fields, where the water sat, still as a looking glass, after the wild weather that roared in from the west. At Beanacre, one of those tiny villages that only the English could have named, the meadows ran out from the road like lakes, not a blade of grass visible under the deluge. The sun glittered and joked over the mirrored surface; on the radio, the weather forecasters were stern about the possibility of more floods.

In all the light, there was sadness too; memories of my departed girls, and another departure too, sudden, and melancholy. But against that was the great kindness of strangers, which you know I put great store by, and the faint, yearning possibility of something new. I don’t want to talk about this yet, because forms must be filled, hoops must be leapt through, all possibilities must be explored; but the hopeful gentleman was met, and instantly loved, and oh, oh, if I am good and proper, may be kept. Emphasis on the may. No chickens are counted, not in this house.

But in the meantime, here is the self-indulgence, which I am sneaking in under the wire. Here are my glorious ladies, in all their pomp. Here is what I miss. As the wonderful Miss Nancy Mitford, the voice of my formative years, would have said: do admit.

And the stern voice in my own head, which does not care for whimsical indulgence says: if you have no interest in canines, really do look away NOW:

 

Regular readers will remember the full glory of the SNOW DOGS:

There we are. Have a lovely weekend. I promise I shall rein in my excesses tomorrow.