Dynargh dhe'n Blogofrob

Monday 17th November 2008

Eulogy for a West Highland Terrier

As usual during the spring, it was beautiful back in Sussex. Sprinklings of primroses and carpets of bluebells filled the woods alongside the lane. And as usual, the freshness of the air when I stepped from the car at my parents’ house expelled the memory of London’s fug.

But not everything was as usual. For the past 11 years, whenever I walked into the kitchen, I was met enthusiastically by a small white barrel-chested dog, wagging his tail so hard that his happy trot towards me was affected. Big brown eyes fixed on mine, spluttering with excitement, he would jump up, demanding to have his belly rubbed – and then down again, and if the mood took him, he’d lower his ears, wag his tail harder and rumble an invitation to catch him, before running off under the kitchen table, only to return if not pursued. Other times, he’d simply come and take his place by me, content to have his ears gently tickled.

This time, Archie wasn’t there. An empty basket and a rug covered in white hairs. But no Arch. He was gone.

Just a couple of weeks before, I was back in Sussex for Easter. Archie was notably thinner, and quiet, at least compared with the bounding mania of Minnie, the young border terrier. But he was an old – or at least older – dog, and one with emphysema, which manifested itself mainly when, in attempting to give voice to his thoughts, he had to utter a few sad coughs before being able to bark. But he still leapt to greet me when I turned up, eagerly following me up the stairs to watch the television. In the TV room, he jumped into the neighbouring chair, and soon made himself comfortable, stretching out, his head extending over the chair to rest on my knee. He sighed contentedly while I ruffled his coat and the TV burbled away. This is my last abiding memory of Archie.

Although diminutive – and a dog – Archie was a complex little fellow. He was always happy, playful and mischievous: and all this shot through with a sense of his own importance. Often, when called, he would turn his head to look at you and then trot off in the opposite direction. His confidence was tempered by a neurotic streak – he was eager to please, but this desire conflicted with his self-importance. He wanted to be loved, and despite the unconditional love thrown at him, by me and others, he never quite seemed to take it for granted.

Archie arrived as a peculiar looking puppy – I nicknamed him Piglet – and spent his first couple of years gambolling with a kitten my parents had bought at the same time. I was initially underwhelmed at the prospect of what I saw as an yappy midget-dog, but Archie quickly won me around, without difficulty. He bemused Rags, our springer spaniel, who stoically accepted Archie’s presence, in spite of Archie’s brattish insistence on evicting Rags from whichever basket he was relaxing in. He simply hopped into the basket with the spaniel, who would almost immediately re-locate elsewhere. But Arch needed Rags’s nose, and it was on walks that he showed due respect, following Rags’s leads, to pheasants, rabbits or fox shit. As Rags showed his age, Archie often waited for him on walks, regularly retracing his steps along a path to rejoin the old man.

After Rags died, Archie was on his own, perhaps difficult for a dog who loved company and socialising. A favourite memory of mine occurred one New Year’s Eve, when I had a few friends over to my parents’ house. The night was wearing on, midnight had passed, and people were drinking and chatting in the sitting room. Archie was in his element, showered with affection from all sides, he had spent the evening contently trotting amongst his public. Now he was tired, and should have been snoozing in his basket, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave the party, and was desperately trying to stay awake, his little head nodding for a second in submission to sleep, before his eyes slowly and stubbornly blinked open again.

Despite his rejection of it that New Year’s Eve, sleep was something he loved. I used to plod downstairs early on weekday mornings, in order to drive to law school. Each morning I met Archie in the kitchen. He would sit up in his basket, acknowledge me, perhaps potter around briefly, but then without fail, yawn and curl up again. However, when he eventually rolled out of bed, he was extremely energetic, rocketing through his walks on fast forward. He loved running, and if he could run with someone, so much the better. Once, miserable and rejected from a failed relationship, I headed with Archie up to the nearby fields. Faced with a long straight path alongside a corn field, I attempted to exorcise my pent up unhappiness by running, and started sprinting down the path. Immediately Archie was beside me, speeding along. He could have gone faster, but ran beside me the whole way, his mouth open, the wind blowing back the hair on his face. We sprinted for a couple of minutes before coming to the end of the field. I collapsed on some straw, while Archie, so much fitter, nonchalantly sniffed around before patiently coming to sit beside me. The exercise didn’t make me feel much happier, but he did.

Outside of walks his excessive energy had to find other outlets. He always remembered me as the guy he played the pond game with, and would run to the pond if I was nearby, looking at me expectantly. The pond game consisted merely of me tapping my foot at various places in the pond, upon which Archie would run and snap at the splashed water. He loved trying to guess where I would splash next. He fell in that pond a couple of times – once when playing the game with me, and once absent-mindedly sitting down, having misjudged the water’s edge. It was OK though, he liked a swim, always popping down into the river when he could, paddling out briefly (snapping at any water that splashed up) before running back up the river bank and enthusiastically drying himself on the grass.

Confident, cocky and playful – but also small, and in need of looking after. He loved being petted, and used to happily sit next to me while I gently stroked his head or rubbed his tummy. He didn’t seem to get bored with this – if for a minute I stopped, he’d turn his head slowly, and fix me with those dark brown eyes until I started again. There were afternoons where he’d run up to my bedroom with me, struggle up onto the bed and, while I lay reading and listening to music, stretch alongside me dozing. Sometimes, I’d scoop him up, and he’d enjoy seeing the world from my height, one paw clutching my shoulder.

He adored my parents, especially my mother, who he lovingly followed, even from one side of the kitchen to the other. My parents also doted on him, however much they might deny it. On dark thundery nights, Archie, down in his basket, would get scared, and they would get up from their bed, and go and sit with him until the storm went away.

And then Archie died. Suddenly he was ill, and gone. I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. It was spring and I was back in Sussex to help bury him. He’d been dead for a week, kept in cold storage. My father told me he was in the barn, so I went through, apprehensively, into the converted barn, cluttered with old furniture left by my grandparents, and debris from childhood. I looked around. “Where are you boy?” I said, like an idiot.

And then, in front of me, I saw the wicker basket, and the towel in it. I unwrapped the towel, and there he was, lying, as if asleep, his paws tucked under his mouth. I stroked his cold fur and tickled his ears, and cried like a baby.

Later that afternoon, we buried him in a deep hole in the garden. My dad got into the hole, and I handed him Archie, still wrapped in the towel. He placed the little white dog on the earth, and struggled out of the grave. We filled the hole, and put a paving slab on top. I was devastated.

I’m guilty, of course, of flagrant anthropomorphism. I think it’s justified. I wish he was here now, sitting quietly on the sofa beside me. I miss him, the Arch, my good friend.

Arch

111 - posted at 11:08:41
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Monday 21st April 2008

Monday is, of course, difficult. However, on the way into work this morning, I enjoyed a gently subversive piece of tube graffiti.

Instead of the usual chewing gum bullets blotting out the eyes of whichever two-bit actress has taken on the role of Roxie Hart in Chicago, or a biro scrawl indicating that Jamie Oliver is a "nob", this was a succinct film review of Flashbacks of a Fool, which somewhat undermined the Baz Bamigboye style snippet of typical poster hyperbole above it.

flashbacks

I'm tempted to seek out a poster for Mike Leigh's latest, Happy-Go-Lucky, and mark it "fairly irritating".

I also notice that (the same?) reviewer has drawn attention to the rather arrogant practice of actors who insist on being known by just a single name. You can't really make it out in the picture, but above Eve's name, someone has written "New Year's".

110 - posted at 12:30:43
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Monday 10th March 2008

Stormy

A resolution after my birthday last Tuesday - put some more stuff on this old blog. Ramp it up a little. At least once every six weeks.

A specially lively day for the "Have Your Say-ers" today. It's difficult to tell which of the below are genuine, but there's an entertaining mix of the piss-takers and the simply cretinous. Anyway, they almost coaxed me out of an abject dolour, prompted by coming back to work from a week's skiing without even a peek at the Blackberry.

Some are from the BBC, some The Sun and some the Daily Mail. See if you can guess which are which.

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Added: Monday, 10 March, 2008, 15:48 GMT 15:48 UK

Storms like this are common in North West Scotland, what's all the fuss about?

Dave Griggs, Gairloch

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Added: Monday, 10 March, 2008, 15:47 GMT 15:47 UK

I went out this morning and my hair blown about and very wet. This is really intolerable. I put it all down to Global Warming - can't take any much more of this.

Martin wilson, Wirral, United Kingdom

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Added: Monday, 10 March, 2008, 15:45 GMT 15:45 UK

it is windy and it is rainy.

Phil, Milton Keynes

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Added: Monday, 10 March, 2008, 16:23 GMT 16:23 UK

Our fence has been blown down and part of the conservatory roof has been lifted! its been scary stuff!

Melanie, Crawley

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Added: Monday, 10 March, 2008, 16:20 GMT 16:20 UK

I thought that it was only the Scots and the Welsh that revelled in English discomfort - but it seems it's anyone outside of the South - WHat it is with you people? want to see someone die is that it? Why on earth you cannot just feel some concern for some people who are going through a tough time is beyond me - Southerners bleed and die just like you!!

[bigjeeze], Bournemouth, United Kingdom

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Added: Monday, 10 March, 2008, 16:18 GMT 16:18 UK

i got up the this morning and the tide down me was very high and the powder went off two and a half hours

alison, swansea

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Added: Monday, 10 March, 2008, 16:11 GMT 16:11 UK

My hat blew off this morning. It smelled awful.

Kerry, Bedford

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Added: Monday, 10 March, 2008, 15:30 GMT 15:30 UK

I dont understand all these comments from people in Scotland saying how much wind & rain they get & how it is worse than anybody else gets.

Thats why nobody with any sense wants to live there.

[Harbourside], Dorset, United Kingdom

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Added: Monday, 10 March, 2008, 14:50 GMT 14:50 UK

Hi

Today early in the morning around 6 am I have had severe wind gusts and heavy rain.

Please do extra care during this extreme weather.


regards

nadeem khan, wanstead

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Posted by: tyblonde

And what do GMTV do? The prats in charge send out one of their idiotic reporters to Brighton where he is in great danger of being blown over, and even more stupid Fiona and Ben are giggling about it? FFS, they should be taken off the air.

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Posted by: Truth_Always_Hurts

Nothing has happened in reality... every country will have to endure 'freak' weather. I'ts Just Gordon Brown coming to the 'rescue' of the nation that's all.

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For many years my late husband and myself talked about moving to Sussex or the West Country but I am glad we didn't and I feel safe here in good old North Hertfordshire.

Sorry to hear about the damage caused by the weather and may God look after the mariners.

- Angie, Herts
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We never had bad weather when Maggie T was running the show!

- Theresa Dunning, Chichester
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Like "Global Warming" - it's all "HOT AIR"!

- John Wisniowski, Melbourne-Australia

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If you want to pay more tax in the UK, just keep talking about "Climate Change" and you will be taxed accordingly.

- Msr Kev, UK

109 - posted at 17:18:49
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Sunday 28th October 2007

Blimey, it's been a while hasn't it. And why? I'm not sure - laziness probably, although work has been intense for about 3 months, and obviously, like everyone else, I've devoted my spare time to looking for Maddy.

Time trundles on and not much changes. My last momentous blog gave me the opportunity to write something vaguely original on, say, Glastonbury, but instead it consisted in the most part of a cut and paste job from the BBC website.

I did go to the Glastonbury festival this year, and it wasn't the best. But this says more about the five previous Glastonburys I've troubled with my attendance, as I still had a good time at Pilton in 2007. But I'm not going to write about how I rose above the mud and the rain, my Blitz spirit demeanour shot through with an admirable sense of fun, because that wouldn't be true. On the Monday after the festival, Claire and I spent over two hours standing in a field, waiting to get off the site, while the wind contemptuously drove rain into our faces - but the endless mud and perpetual downfalls got to me before that. This was mainly because once the entire site was covered in mud, walking anywhere was exhausting.

On the first day, with Claire and Simon, I eagerly approached the Pyramid Stage to see Bloc Party - but huge swathes of the area in front of the stage, all the way back to the mixing desk, were under a gloopy grey soup. We eventually found a relatively hazard-free spot, but any kind of movement, even the most nonchalant of toe-tapping, was an effort, as feet immediately stuck to the ground. I wasn't up to that level of physical exertion. A few hours previously I had survived a long dark night of the soul, which was perhaps no less than I deserved, it being brought on by meeting people from the internet.

The previous afternoon I headed down to the Cider Bus to participate in a "Glastonbury meet-up" organised by users of a London website. They all seemed very pleasant people, but a nervousness that one of them was going to cut off my penis and fry it hadn't dissipated, so I hit the hit the hot cider quite hard, as well as the "spicy" cider, within which lurked the probable agent of my destruction, brandy.

Apparently I was in a bit of a state when I got back to the tent. I don't really remember much of that. What I do remember is waking with a start in the middle of the night, convinced my brain was haemorrhaging, so intense was the pain. Lying in the dark while my head slowly ate itself wasn't doing any good, so, with difficulty I pulled on some clothes and wellies, and lurched out of the tent. And lurched back onto it, snapping one of the poles. Undeterred I wandered off down into the festival site, desperate to walk off the pain. It was a grim and arduous journey, especially since I hadn't put my contact lenses in. Dull lights and figures moved around the festival's many paths. I kept moving and blundered on for about an hour, pausing only to throw up against a tree. I then wandered back up the hill to the farmhouse, and found the Christian tent. A nice man gave me a blanket and I went to lie down in their shelter marquee, and miraculously, dropped off to sleep. About an hour later I woke again with a suppressed scream. The pain was back, as bad as ever. I sat up breathing heavily, and the nice man came to ask me if I was alright. After answering in the negative I made my escape, and, ungrateful wretch that I am, disappeared around the back of the marquee and vomited all over it. By the time I staggered back to the tent, dawn was breaking.

Over the next few days I enjoyed lots of music - Bjork, Manics, Gruff Rhys, Arcade Fire, various fortuituouly found randoms in the Green Fields (Alice McLaughlin, The Bohemianists) - as well as comedy (Bill Bailey), a good mime (oxymoron though that may seem) and the infinite range of other entertainment the site had to offer. But despite all this, by Saturday afternoon, the elements were winning the battle for hearts and minds. Claire, Matt, Sally and I trudged up to the Park, a new area apparently curated by Emily Eavis. It may as well have been called The Somme, as any grass was buried under about 2 feet of a particularly viscose strain of mud. While the others queued in the driving rain for some damp Mexican food, I found refuge in a bar and skinned up, amused by an ongoing hip-hop karaoke competition.

Two things consoled me. The first was thinking back to the train journey from London. Sitting at a table in front of me was a group of fresh-faced students, exhibiting that nauseating smugness that comes naturally to those safe in the embrace of further education. Festival first-timers and foolishly clad in new trendy clobber, their incessant naïve patter and insistence on cheering whenever blue sky emerged over the passing Wiltshire plains tried my hungover patience. When one of their party excitedly remembered she had forgotten to retrieve something from her rucksack, she clambered onto the table to access the luggage rack, wiggling her tight jeans, enjoying the appreciate murmurs from some blokes further down the carriage. Four days of shit later and I wondered if they were as complacent in their youth. Did that girl still carry her petite frame so confidently - or was she crawling through the mud, crying for her mother, her mind destroyed by exposure and drugs, her gut riddled with parasitic worms? Probably not, but the thought comforted me as I struggled with the moist cigarette papers.

The second consoling thought was that we were in the Park to see Lou Rhodes. Of course, her set was incredible, the absolute highlight of the festival. It doesn't get much better than that. It even beat the one and a half hours I spent in the Hare Krishna tent the night before. That was special. And a bit odd.

I saw Lou Rhodes again the other day at the Bloomsbury theatre. Look, here's my ticket!

Lou Rhodes

108 - posted at 20:33:42
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Tuesday 31st July 2007

From the BBC website today:

Scientists have discovered the first gene which appears to increase the odds of being left-handed.

The Oxford University-led team believe carrying the gene may also slightly raise the risk of developing psychotic mental illness
...

Oh good.

107 - posted at 11:23:50
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