Guy Fawkes Night in the dog house.

Sirius - the Dog Star?
Well, it's also the name of my dog [part deerhound, with saluki, bearded collie and greyhound as other contributing breeds].

And he is a star at being an oaf; in fact, an absolute buffoon.
He is twenty-two months old and has no courage and very little ego.
He is also quite agoraphobic, and would rather run up and down my garden hell-for-leather than go for a walk in the real world.
It's been quite a journey, trying to give him some confidence. Now, at least, he doesn't completely empty himself in the car.
I used to call him "Three-Mile-Island dog", because if I took him out in the car, after three miles he'd have created a huge island of digestive system contents, from both ends,on my back seat.
Thankfully, he's grown out of that now.

Anything unusual in my garden, which is an oasis for wild birds [in a very bleak housing estate] with mostly trees and bushes throughout, used to start him off.
One time, some weeks after he'd been stung by a wasp, he was barking so persistently that I had to intervene. It was a bee.
It's like women screaming. I just don't "get" why evolution has selected for creatures that express their anxiety so readily. Surely that's just asking for trouble from predators?

He was barking with that nervous "edge" to his voice again another time, and I found that the object of his distress this time was a tiny baby blackbird, cowering at the base of a treetrunk.
He's an intelligent dog, and can work out the solutions to quite amazing problems on his own, so why does he insist on shouting at things he fears?

The most recent time was about a month ago.
The doors to my conservatory and back garden were open and he was standing in the conservatory, shouting very angrily and even growling a little.
I went to investigate and shoved his hindquarters to encourage him to go out so I could get through and see what the problem was.
Instead of leading me into the garden, as I had expected, he backed past me and WOULD NOT go outside or even budge.
I took his collar to lead him out and he turned tail and ran straight through to the other side of the house.
Now, he's huge, height-wise, and you'd expect a dog that size to at least try to have an ego, but no.
I chuckled out loud when I went outside.
He'd been given a new teddy, his favourite type of toy, and had left it about ten feet from the back door, face-down, and hadn't a clue what this huge white monster was that sat there, all fuzzy, looming and scary.
Idiot.
He saw me defeat the teddy monster by picking it up and so he came wobbling out, how young dogs do, his ears back and head circling in a playful way, asking me to throw it for him.

Then came Guy Fawkes night, tonight.
Last year he'd had company for this particular date because we had a slightly smaller dog of the same age staying with us for a few months, and she did wonders for his confidence, bless her.
[I found her a fantastic home, and she seems blissfully happy now. She needed to be an "only dog", and her stay here was only ever meant to be temporary.]
The back doors were open as usual, until the first bang, when he came bolting in and skidded on the floor tiles in his hasty attempt to get upstairs, crashing into the opposite wall.
I followed to check on him and there he was, buried into my bedclothes, doing that "Lassie-Come-Home" whimper.
A pillow had ended up over his head and I wish I'd had the means to photograph it.
Reminded me of Scooby Doo, wimping out. =D

Poor dog - nothing! I cannot take him seriously, because he never says afraid for long and he truly is such a massive wimp at first.
He ventured downstairs ten minutes later, stuck his nose out of the cat flap and FLASHBANG! - suddenly he was a dog blur tearing up the stairs again.

When my previous dog, Bodi, a german shepherd cross, was a puppy, he was absolutely fine with loud fireworks, but when he faced his back to the bonfire [we'd let him lead us a little way into the field to investigate] he began growling and his hackles went up. I turned to see that he was afraid of his OWN enormous shadow projected on the wall behind us.

Bodi was hardly ever afraid, Sirius is another matter altogether.
I know it isn't nice to find humour in another's fear, but it was so funny; he's such a goon.
He can't be fierce, so why does he bother? With his droopy saluki fur he hasn't even got hackles!
He may look like the stunt double for the Hound of the Baskervilles, but he's be better qualified to do the voice-overs for Lassie the Wonderdog!

Not long after his second retreat he was happy to go outside, even with fireworks going off.
I just had to go out first and show him it was okay.
At least it shows he trusts me. I think I must be HIS guard dog!

My six-year-old grandson pronounces his name "serious". He should have really been called Hilarious instead.

The Day The Carpet Died - 1989

We used to have a lovely soft carpet that ran throughout the house, and one day my German Shepherd puppy decided to snack on it, ripping a huge swathe of it out of the living room floor, two feet wide and the length of the room.
Luckily, we were covered by a new-for-old insurance, so another lovely soft carpet was soon fitted as a replacement, again through the whole house.
When my youngest two were aged about four and two years old, they decided not to wake me up straight away one morning, and broke into a cupboard while I still slept, discovering, to their delight, a litre tin of black gloss paint hidden inside it.

I woke about half an hour later, to the sound of squeals and giggles from the happy little pair, and that sprang my defences immediately into action.
They were normally happy, but this was something more..... you know that feeling you get when something, somewhere, has gone horribly wrong.......

I caught a glimpse, out of the corner of my eye, of several sweet little handprints perfectly placed on my bedroom wall, but ignored them, as they couldn't possibly be there, and my two babes could be in danger.
As I rushed out of my bedroom, I saw the sight.
Standing in the near-darkness of the upstairs hall was an apparition.
All I could make out were the few blond curls on the top of his head, and his big white eyes blinking at me. The rest of him was covered in black gloss from head to foot.
A small, black gloss cherub was frozen to the spot in my gaze.
Roxy quickly appeared behind him and she was daubed with small black handprints of two sizes above her completely black legs.
They were both terrified of my reaction and both instantly realised they'd done something I would not approve of.
I said, in a voice as menacing as I could muster,
"What HAVE you done?"
"I don't know!" - "Doh-know!"
To be honest, the sight of them was overpowering, and I popped my head back behind my bedroom door to stifle my laughs.
I wish there was photographic evidence, but the memory is enough to raise my smile, even 20-odd years later.
I didn't say another word to them, but grabbed my bottle of Polyclens (a paintbrush restorer), which I knew was okay on my own skin and put them straight into the bath to get the paint off as fast as possible.
I considered it was safer than leaving them painted, and I'd found white spirit burned me slightly.
Needless to say, I ran out, so when a friend visited and they were still greyish and in the bath, he ran up to town for me and brought back two more bottles.
It was Sunday, and "that was all they had", he'd said.
I splashed it onto them and Roxy started crying. It was hot!
Looking at the bottle, it wasn't Polyclens, but a version by another maker and it was going to burn their skin!
About an hour hour later I had washed them both clean, and they were looking pink and human again with no paint at all, so I left them in the bedroom in towels [still not speaking to them] and my friend and I inspected the rest of the damge.
Little black hand- and foot-prints on every step, all the way up the stairs; a two-year-old-Roxy-sized bum print on the built-in bunk bed [which I've kept]; handprints and smears all around the walls, just about everywhere in the kitchen had been daubed, but the "Pièce  de Résistance" was my lovely new carpet in the living room.
You wouldn't believe how far a litre of black gloss will spread when applied by Child-Roller!
I even found the screwdriver they had used to prise off the lid!
They had upturned the tin on the floor and Rikki had rolled through it like a little human roller, which is why I could only see the top of his head and his eyes. Roxy had sat in it and squished her legs around, so there were splashes of it spread far and wide.

They were completely unharmed by the paint, thankfully, and by the second cleaner, which rinsed straight off with the shower in the bath.

I did not even need to scold them. They knew exactly what they'd done wrong as soon as they'd seen me, and, as they'd got it out of their system there'd be no danger of a repetition. Their experiment was complete, and it was not a favourable result.

My silence was enough.
We used to have fun every day, but this day I was simply a carer, and they showed respect and didn't even expect mummy friend to play with and teach them new stuff after their little stunt. They watched me cut up my lovely new carpet and throw it away over the next few days. They also didn't like hurting my feelings.

The new carpet was NOT insured, and I have not been able to replace it to this day, but there were floor tiles underneath it anyway, and the true reason for my silence towards my little rascals, until they went to bed, was not anger, or even disappointment; I was quiet because I was trying so desperately hard NOT TO LAUGH!

Three of my favourite limericks:

1)
There once was a priest of Belgrave,
Who put a dead whore in a grave.
He said, full of lust,
"With a bit of a dust -
"Just think of the money I'll save!"
[Comedian Dave Allen, I think]

2)
Two ugly sisters from Fordham
Went out for a walk, till it bored 'em.
Then, on the way back
A sex maniac
Jumped out from a bush - and ignored 'em.
[Comedienne Pam Ayers]

3)
When Lady Penelope swoons
Her bosoms pop out like balloons.
Her butler stands by,
With a gleam in his eye,
And pops them back with warm spoons.
[Comedian Kenny Everett]

Cheese Toastie Monster - Monday 27th July 2009

[Posted first on Lazylaces last year]

My second daughter, Angie has given me a sandwich toaster.
Duly buying bread, olive spread and cheese, I set about creating the perfect toasted sandwich.
Then I remembered that about 20 years had elapsed since the only time I had ever used one.
I rang Angie - no answer - so I rang my son Rik. He kindly gave me a brief recap on how to use one, then I made my raw cheese sandwiches with sliced tiny tomatoes inside, and placed them into the toaster.
It was a bit of a struggle to get the clip shut on it, but, plugged-in and closed, the lights came on and it began to steam.
With white clouds billowing from the sides, an innocent and unsuspecting moth flew just above - and dropped stone dead on the other side. Then came the sizzling. A reassuring sound at first, but growing with intensity, as if to warn me to run. I stood my ground and watched as bubbles appeared at the sides, then cheese, then the whole thing seemed to erupt like a cheese volcano. Cheese and tomato juice were gushing out of it onto the counter, and I was deeply tempted to stop the whole process by unplugging it, frantically trying to consider whether it would be easier to clean up whilst still hot (and would I burn myself in the process?) or cold.
 There seemed to be more cheese coming out than I had originally put into the sandwich, but as I wrongly reasoned that perhaps the worst was already over, I decided to keep a healthy distance until the indicator light went off.
 The only thing missing was horror film anticipation music as I stood staring at it for a moment. I tapped the clip in case it was hot, then hooked my finger under it. It burst open dramatically, bread stuck firmly to each surface, flabby parts sagging sadly at the corners, cheese filaments drawn across between them and flopping down. The only sign that tomatoes had ever been involved were small draped shreds of skin embedded in the entrails.
  It was the "Toastie Maker Cheese Monster"; a gaping mouth with crusty teeth and wry, droopy lips, cheese drool strands clinging and dribbling down the sides, with wisps of atomised tomato for added fleshyness, the whole thing standing in a lake of what was supposed to have been the filling.

Taste Test: - I ate just one. I'm not a great fan of bread. It was like unusual toast which had been threatened with the idea of cheese. Tomato was not really part of the taste equation at all.

Things I learned from this....
i) don't use fat bread.
ii) use square bread.
iii) don't put too much cheese in.
and -
iv) let the battle area cool before cleaning.