I’m delighted to announce that we have a new arrival in our household. Her name’s Ozzy. She’s a black Labrador puppy. And she’s now coming up to ten weeks old. I know, you want a photo, so before we go any further here she is.
One of the things that I don’t do enough of in my life is canoeing. Which is to say that I’ve been perhaps once or twice. Over twenty years ago. But I absolutely loved it and have been kicking myself ever since for not having done more. It has that rugged outdoorsy-ness to it that many sporting activities seem to lack. And, unlike kayaking, you don’t have to worry about whether your eskimo rolling skills are still up to scratch.
So it was with considerable enthusiasm that Natalie, Molly and I actually got our acts together sufficiently to take a short canoeing trip down part of the River Wye. It’s one of the best places in the country for canoeing and (I’m ashamed to admit) it’s only about an hour’s drive from my front door.
There was also a certain trepidation to the escapade, though, as while Natalie and I have both canoed before and know that we like it, nobody was quite sure about Molly. Do Labradors canoe? Or would we end up taking the shortest canoe trip ever, followed by an extended swim and a hefty damage bill?
I knew it was going to be a nice morning as soon as I stepped outside, just before sunrise, and saw the planet Venus glimmering brightly in the heavens. And sure enough, as Molly and I set out for our morning walk, the sky was clear, the dew was shimmering and the Sun was radiating for all it was worth.
One of the best things about winter is that the sun comes up sufficiently late for us to catch the sunrise. Molly and I were taking our early morning walk the other day and the sun was just coming up over the hills. The colours were stunning. It was like normal life, but with the colour saturation cranked up to the max.*
* Please excuse the large volume of photos on my blog that are of this part of Somerset and taken with my cameraphone. But I walk along here several times a day and there’s always something new to see. I really do live in a particularly fantastic part of the world. And no, I don’t work for the tourist board. Though perhaps I should.
Molly, my Labrador, is particularly expressive. If she’s happy, you’ll know it. And if she’s unhappy, then you’ll know that, too. And there’s a whole range of emotions in between. Here’s a quick guide to some of her most common moods.
And here’s ‘alert’…
Here, for the sake of balance (and realism), is ‘slightly nuts’…
Here’s ‘Alert! Unauthorised something going on here! Alert!’
Here’s ‘dubious’. We get this a lot. Especially when I try to do some DIY around the house.
Here’s ‘playful’… We get this one a lot, too. There’s usually a tennis ball involved.
Here’s ‘What the hell are you doing? I’m trying to sleep here’.
And here’s ‘tired’ again. No, I don’t know why nobody’s using the sofa. It’s probably too covered in dog hair.
As regular readers will know, I am the proud owner of a rather adorable Labrador called Molly. But like most Labradors she has a rather dubious approach to personal hygiene. She likes nothing better than to charge through the mud, roll in something disgusting (the slimier and stinkier the better) or pick up the thing she’s just rolled in and run around with it in her mouth.
Her preferred time to indulge in such activities is, inevitably, (a) when I’m in a hurry, (b) when I’m wearing a suit or (c) when we’re standing in front of a bunch of prim, disapproving elderly ladies just outside the church. But if I’m on the ball then I can usually see what’s about to happen and take appropriate steps to intervene (i.e. shout, scream, throw things and generally try to be more exciting than a piece of badger poo).
This does not go down well with Molly, who is clearly outraged that I could even think that she would do something so heinous as to roll in faeces or hurl herself joyously into a sludge-filled ditch. And to cover up for her attempted misdemeanour, she has a range of strategies at her disposal. Here are my top five.
1. The wee. I was just stopping for a wee. Look, I’m weeing. You never trust me. This is outrageous.
2. The sniff. I was just stopping to sniff this blade of grass. It’s quite a fine blade of grass, wouldn’t you agree. Very green and … er … grassy.
3. The other sniff. I wasn’t going to roll in it. I was just going to sniff it. Honest. Look, I’m only sniffing. Sniff. Oops, I swallowed it. Butterfingers.
4. The fetch. I think I dropped my ball down there. I’m just going to get it back. There it it. I can see it. I can almost reach it. Almost. Just a little bit more. A little stretch. Splash.
5. The you can’t get to me in time. Look, fat boy. I’m standing right here next to this steaming pile of excrement and you’re a good fifty metres away. Even if you were Usain Bolt, which you’re patently not, there’s no way you can get here before I’ve had a good old roll. Sure, I’ll be in trouble and I’ll need a bath, but to be honest it’s sooo worth it. So here goes. Get running, chubbs.
Luckily for me, though, Molly’s plan to get as mucky as possible as frequently as possible suffers from one minor snag, which means that no matter how hard she tries she’s hardly ever able to completely pull the wool over my eyes.
And this snag is that whenever she spies an opportunity to do something disgusting, she approaches her task with such obvious glee – huge grin, eyebrows wiggling with anticipation, tail waving like a giant orange flag – that anyone within half a mile can tell exactly what she’s up to.
Guile, it would appear, is not a word that exists in Molly’s vocabulary. But she certainly does a good line in exuberance, excitement and general enthusiasm. And this, as dog owners across the world are well aware, is what Labradors are all about.
I came across some extremely cute pictures of Molly when she was just twelve weeks old. We’d only had her for a day and were still terrified that we’d get it all wrong. But we must have got something right, as Molly’s now three and seems to be doing just fine. We’re exhausted and gibbering wrecks, mind you, but the dog’s peachy.
My dog and I have just got back from our morning walk through the fields on the edge of the small town where we live. We have a very pleasant morning walk, in which we meander along the side of a long valley, which leads from Bristol right down to the sea. And when it is sunny like today, our walk is a particular pleasure.
As we reached the mid-point of our wander, we passed two small terriers playing on the edge of a field. Molly greeted them in her usual enthusiastic manner and, after a brief interlude in which the three dogs took turns to chase each other in a sweeping circle through the freshly-cut grass, we continued on our way.
About five minutes later, we heard one of the terriers let out a colossal woof. Not a ‘look what I’ve found’ woof or a ‘help, a tiger’s got me’ woof, but one that says simply ‘hello world, I’m here’. In the dewy morning air, the woof echoed slowly down the valley, as if all the world’s terriers were joining in. Our new friend was evidently surprised by this response, as he woofed again. And again.
One by one, other dogs in the fields and hamlets down the valley joined in, until the place was alive with a riotous symphony of canine communication, multiplied a hundred-fold by the steep hills on either side. My own dog, needless to say, sat silently, taking this all in with her usual quizzical expression. And then, suddenly, and with the sad inevitably of all things ephemeral, the moment was over and the dogs fell silent. Molly and I looked at each other and continued on our way.