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.

Ordinary life

Today, after pressing the send button at one minute past midnight, and then of course not being able to sleep for adrenaline, I did ordinary, human things. I saw my family. I walked the dog. I even had some social life.

There was a big gathering in the field, as a brilliant woman came to help us with some desensitising training. This is where you present a horse with alarming objects, and show it that it need have no fear.

I had been wanting to do this seriously with Red for a while. I won’t have any of the stereotypes about thoroughbreds, ex-racers, mares, chestnuts mares, chestnut mares with three white socks. But all the same, she can be damn spooky, and has a lovely party trick whilst under the saddle of doing cartoon leaps in the air when startled, landing about four feet to one side.

Desensitising would be the exact thing.

I had warned the brilliant woman what to expect. ‘She is very sensitive, and very intelligent,’ I said. (AND HER GRANDSIRE WON THE DERBY, I wanted to yell, but did not.) ‘So you can imagine.’

Everyone imagined.

Out came the plastic bags. This occasioned a bit of eye-rolling and snorting, but soon I was running the terrifying crinkly thing from ASDA all over her body, under her belly, down her neck and through her front legs.

‘I don’t really understand,’ I said. I had been prepared for bronco action and wild dramatics. I was almost disappointed.

‘Well,’ said the brilliant woman, very matter of fact. ‘It’s because she trusts you.’

I practically burst into tears of joy.

And then on she went, through the tiny scary gaps, in between the weird yellow drums, over the obstacle course, picking her way as coolly and delicately as Grace Kelly in her prime.

My mare. Admittedly, I was running on no sleep and the crashed emotions that come after a deadline has been met, but I was staggering and punch-drunk with pride. She blinked her eyes and nodded her head as if it were nothing. Yes, yes, she was saying. Next.

My God, the love. It’s idiot, untrammelled, no holds, fool love.

Then I went inside for lunch and told our guests all about the Byerley Turk, from whom Red is descended on both sides. I’m an absolute riot at lunch parties.

And that was my good, ordinary day.

 

Today’s pictures:

Work in the field:

See the glorious paces of that young American Paint:

Note scary plastic drums:

Red, having shown the little ones how it was done, dozy and relaxing, as if she spends every day covered in plastic bags:

Myfanwy looks as if butter would not melt in her mouth, but she put up quite a show:

In the sunshine:

Bit of wood action:

Stanley the Dog:

WHO HAS A STICK:

Hill, in the gloaming:

Random Sunday

My brain is shattered after writing and editing all day. So there are a very few fragmented thoughts for you. We have not had a random day for a while, so here is one. It really is pretty random indeed, in the newest sense of the word, the one that The Young People use. (This is one of the novel meaning shifts which I mightily enjoy, for some reason.)

1. The first absurdity of the morning was that I felt very, very proud of my little herd. I found them calm and settled when I went up to give them breakfast. Last night, they had gone through the shock of unexpected fireworks banging off only a hundred yards from their field. It happened at midnight, and I hurled myself into the car and drove down to the paddock to make sure they were not going loco.

I saw them, by the light of the full moon, gathered protectively into a tight little band. The moon was so bright that Myfanwy was shining white in it like a tiny unicorn. I gentled them and gave them some nuts and told them they were very, very brave indeed. Talking to horses under the light of a sailing moon turns out to be one of the great life experiences. (Because of this, in the end I concluded I ought be be grateful to the intemperate firework people, even though I was furious about the unheralded bangs at the time.)

2. The touching thing of this week is that Stanley the Dog has, for the first time, given me his stomach to stroke. For a rescue dog, with caution and uncertainty stitched into his short, chequered life, this is an act of courage and trust. I felt like someone had given me a present. I rubbed his belly for about ten minutes, watching his perfect little white teeth appear in a doggy smile. You and me, fella, I thought, are going to be absolutely, perfectly fine.

3. The sweetest thing of the week was a picture that was sent to my Facebook page. The Horse Talker has taken her family to Paris for a winter break. I send her dotty updates on the herd each day, because even though she is in one of the most lovely places in the world, she still misses her filly. (This is one of the bonkers things that only other horse people will fully understand. When I am in the south, my heart gets sore when I think of my mare.)

Anyway, in one of these bulletins I suggested, not that seriously, that they all go and say hello to the Place des Vosges for me, since it is my favourite place in all of the city. A day later, there was a picture of her two enchanting children, in their very Parisian chic, standing under the familiar blue street sign of that lovely square. They had walked for miles to get there, and their legs had almost given out.

Funnily enough, I remember well the first time I went to the Marais, and I walked it too, all the way from the Place Vendôme, down the Rue de Rivoli and past the Hôtel de Ville. I remember being entirely footsore, and absolutely exhilarated at that much beauty.

4. It’s the most glorious sunny day outside. The funny thing I had forgotten about writing fiction, which I have not done for a long time, is that the world entirely disappears. I am so focused on the pictures in my head that when I stop writing and look up, it is an actual shock to see the amber Scottish sunshine glimmering over the stone walls and tall trees.

The other thing that astonishes me is how exhausting the process is. I am not working down a mine. I am not in a factory, drilling rivets. I am sitting at a nice, quiet desk, thinking, imagining, and tapping with my fingers on a responsive keyboard. And yet, when I get to the end of a six hour stretch, as I just now have, I am as drained as if I had been doing the Iron Man Challenge.

My plan for today was to do a word marathon, and keep going until midnight, but this was a crazed notion, brought on by the insanity always produced by the hard deadline. I have to stop now, before my cerebellum turns to mush. I am going to go and mooch with the equines, and let simple physical work restore my mental capacity.

 

Today’s pictures:

I have not had time for editing more of the Christmas day pictures, so here are a very few snaps I took just now, in the gloaming.

My love for the beech leaves continues unabated. Even when they are slightly blurry in the low light:

Stanley the Dog, working on sit, stay and lie down:

The hill, in its blue evening incarnation:

Thank you for kind wishes about my mum. They are keeping her in, but she is on the mend. The NHS in Aberdeen is bloody brilliant, and we are really lucky to have it.

Oh, and here are the happy small people in Paris. That’s The Pony Whisperer on the left. She is Myfanwy’s special friend:

I should also mention that the fellow on the right, who does not yet have a blog name, but of course shall soon get one, was the very kind person who gave Stanley the Dog a special Christmas present, on the grounds that it was Stan’s first festive season here, and he must have a secret Santa of his very own. The present is a small feathery emu-like creature, and is a roaring success. He plays with it all evening long.

And since I seem to be being a bit whimsical, here is an absurd picture I took on my webcam this afternoon. I was joking about with my Twitter racing crew, and I was having a very nuts hair day, and for some reason felt I should show it to them. (This is the thin end of the wedge part of Twitter.) Just as I was pressing snap, a certain gent decided he too was ready for his close-up:

And now I really am stopping.

One more dog story for the road.

I had a whole marvellous blog for you today, as special reward for the kindness of yesterday, and for putting up with my slight wail. I generally hate wailing, but the Dear Readers are always so generous and wise and forbearing when I do. The least you deserved was something really juicy, after all that.

This was going to have everything: a bit of philosophy, a whole boatload of human condition, a meditation on perfection, an excellent dose of two kinds of perspective, and a quick diversion on Cheltenham. I even managed to mention Lichtenstein.

Then I got half-way through and stopped. It was all wrong. It was laboured and straining for effect and not quite authentic. Bugger that for a game of soldiers, I thought. And then it was four-thirty and the rain was hammering down outside and I was tired after a long and productive day (1032 words of book), and I did not have a Plan B.

Actually, that is not quite true. I did have a Plan B, but I’m not really sure it is fit to go out in public. It’s a dog thing, and it risks sentimentality, which I attempt to avoid, as a rule, but which I find creeping in a bit, as the Christmas season advances.

Turns out, it is all I have for you.

You might like a nip of brandy first.

Stanley the Dog, as some of you know, came to me as a rescue. The poor fellow has been sent to the Many Tears Rescue centre twice in his life, and one of the best things I ever did was drive him home to Scotland. Bearing in mind his chequered history, I was on the look-out for sadness, or nerves, or anxieties, or other abandonment issues. In fact, he is a marvellously composed dog, happy and responsive and eager. He even does little comedic turns (hurling himself on his back with all four feet in the air; chasing his tail; playing little pouncing games with his ball).

As I mapped his character, I concluded that he was quite an independent dog. He does not generally come for love, but settles himself quietly at a distance, happy in his own space. I rather admired this, although there might have been a small, secret part of my heart which missed the soft closeness of The Pigeon, who followed me from room to room, and dozed in the evenings with her noble head on my hip, as we sat together on the sofa.

Last night, I gave myself a special Christmas treat of a glass of Brouilly and a box set of The West Wing. I must know half the episodes by heart, but, apart from watching re-runs of Kauto Star winning his fifth King George, it is my happiest and geekiest pleasure. I get political process and liberal dreams; it is very heaven.

Stanley, as usual, curled himself up on the end of the sofa, not especially interested in congressional minutiae. I concentrated luxuriantly on the glorious acting skills of Martin Sheen, of which I never tire.

Suddenly, there was a shift and a rustle, and the long, lean dog turned, stretched himself out, and buried his head under my left arm, his whole body pressed up against me. And so we sat, together, breathing in time, until it was the hour for bed. It was so keenly sweet, so profoundly touching, that I was reluctant to move and break the spell.

It seems that Stanley the Dog would quite like the love, after all. I think he was just waiting until he felt confident enough that it would be given, and that he would not be sent away again. I think - and this is the schmaltzy part, so hold on to your hats - that he really, finally knows that he has come home.

And that, my darlings, is worth more than emeralds. That, right there, is my best Christmas present of all.

 

No pictures from today, as the rain poured out of a dirty sky from dawn till dusk. It is still hammering at the window as I write. I bless the fact that some very smart new waterproof rugs arrived for the horses, so they are cosy as toast, covered up to their dear ears. (There are people who are very proud of letting their horses go natural and naked in all weathers, and I salute them. But Red and I are not nearly butch enough for that. I did once experiment with leaving her bare in the rain, and it was like the Princess and the Pea. I’m not risking that again.) So here are a few snaps of the Lovely Ones, and my favourite leaves, and the hill:

The Dear Departeds:

The hill:

My lovely gentleman is sleeping by my side as I finish this, dozing happily on his sheepskin, still and peaceful as the weather beats down outside and the wind whistles at the eaves.

I keep meaning to write a whole blog on the marvellous organisation which gave him to me, but, in the meantime, if you ever want to rescue a dog, I cannot recommend Many Tears more. You can find them here:

http://www.manytearsrescue.org/

12.12.12.

This is a Red Letter Day. It is a day among days. Apparently, this repetitive date is the last one ever. I can’t quite work it out in my mind. Surely it will come again, on the 12^th of December 3012? I suppose what people mean is that we shall all be dead by then.

Either way, it feels tremendously thrilling to me, for a reason I cannot work out at all. I am inspired to blog the whole day. I actually signed up to a thing called One Day on Earth, where they are making a brilliant project, getting millions of people to record the day on video, and then posting it all on their website. This is a lovely idea of human community and I was all for it, until I realised that I only have a pathetic video facility on my ordinary camera and have never been able to work that properly. Instead, I am going to do my own little one day, right here in this small corner of the earth.

It will be like the Mass Observation: an ordinary day, in the ordinary life of an ordinary woman, on an extraordinary date.

I did not start the great day on a glorious note. I slept through three alarms and ran down to the horses with my hair sticking up in shock and lateness. They were unmoved, feeding happily at their new, custom-built, hand-carved hay manger.

I worked first with my small Welsh Mountain pony. We did some gentle ground work, yielding at the quarters and shoulder, backing up, coming to. We did a little join-up, and I had the keen pleasure of walking the field with her at my side. It’s an easy technique, but it gives me the most intense joy, and every time I do it I bless the cleverness of Monty Roberts, and wonder that it never fails. I think the delight of it is that an essentially wild animal is giving you their consent. This feels quite profound to me.

Afterwards, I stand with the pony for a while, scratching her all over her sweet spots, gentling her muzzle, telling her she is easily the cleverest pony in Scotland. She leans her head against me and I feel my heart expand with love.

Myfanwy is, on paper, good for nothing. She is old, and her back is crocked, so she cannot be ridden. All the rescue charities find it almost impossible to home what they call companion horses. Yet, to me, she is good for everything. She has grown into the most beloved, entirely irreplaceable member of the herd. I cannot imagine life without her. Red the Mare would be lost without her small, furry friend. When I appear at the gate, the pony raises her head and pricks her ears and makes a low, humming whicker, and that is worth more than diamonds.

Red gets no work today, just love. We stand together for a while, looking out into the light. She rests her noble head on my shoulder, and I stroke her dear face, and chat to her for a bit. I think of the thing the Buddhists talk about, of staying still in the moment.

‘This very minute,’ I say to Red, who listens politely, ‘is more important than anything. For this moment, I am quite happy. I must not think of the lost ones, of The Pigeon or The Duchess or my father, because then I shall miss this perfect moment with you.’

Red blows gently through her nostrils, as if she knows all this already.

I say: ‘Of course it’s easier to say than to do.’

But for a moment, I do manage to quiet my antic mind, and concentrate on the pure, undilute pleasure of being at one with a horse in a field, on a clear day, where, just for a second, it feels as if I can see forever.

I race down for breakfast with my mother and stepfather. We discuss the continuing row over Kauto Star going for dressage, and the now very public spat between Clive Smith and Paul Nicholls, and how the whole of Twitter is alight with it. I eat bacon and drink coffee black as pitch. The Stepfather, who is not interested in racing, fills out a form from The Dogs’ Trust to sponsor a lost dog.

I take Stanley the Lurcher into their garden for a race around. It is entirely fenced in, so I can let him off the lead and allow him to show his paces. When he runs, he is like a greyhound, his belly low to the ground, his head down, his long legs raking over the grass like Frankel in his pomp. It is a very thrilling sight.

‘Watch that dog go,’ I yell to The Stepfather, who watches in admiration.

I go home to my desk, and write this.

The sun comes out. The bare trees are gilded with pink and gold; the remnants of the ice and snow glitter and gleam. I drink more coffee. I think: 12.12.12. is a very splendid day indeed.

 

Pictures of the morning:

The horses’ field, looking north:

Myfanwy the Pony:

Red the Mare and Autumn the Filly:

When Autumn first arrived, Red did a huge amount of boss mare prancing and leaping, to show who was in charge. She has never been a lead mare before, and she rather overdid it, as if uncertain quite how to play the part. Now, they are sweet friends. Red occasionally gives Autumn a bit of a biff or a bossy pinned ear face, but most of the time they mooch about in perfect harmony.

The sweet dopey face of my lovely girl:

The field with its magnificent tree, facing west:

The herd, with the timber for their new shelter in the background:

Trees:

Ice:

My favourite small tree:

Sheep, looking east from my mother’s house:

The Stepfather’s excellent shed:

Another view east:

My favourite old iron fence:

The limes:

Stanley the Lurcher, with his good boy face on:

And his sweet flying ear:

Observing the sheep:

More limes:

My plan is to return later in the day, so that every moment of this date may be kept forever. Absurd, I know, but I have a habit of indulging my whims, every so often. It was whim that brought me Red and Myfanwy and Stanley, so it can’t be all bad.