Gilbert the Good – an early walk

 

Gilbert the Good – an early walk

It’s getting hotter and hotter and hotter, so we have been going out in the middle of the night for our walks. It’s not really the middle of the night, but it’s so much earlier than we usually go out that it might as well be.

It’s nice, though, and we have been meeting *lots of other dogs* to chat to and play with. Barry has not been throwing the balls for us very much – we have one each – because he doesn’t want us to overheat. He tried not letting us have the balls at all, but we danced around him and asked so politely that he gave in.

He throws each of our balls once and we retrieve them and then carry them for the rest of the walk. This morning was glorious in the fresh forest air. The birds were singing their little hearts out and it felt good to be alive. We did get quite hot, even though it was really early, so we dived into one of the ponds. The water level is going down a little, which makes the mud more accessible, so we covered ourselves in it. It’s an excellent way to keep cool. Our thick coats carry gallons of water, and we’re still quite damp several hours later. The mud doesn’t show much on Roxy, as she’s chocolate-coloured, but I look more khaki than yellow. It doesn’t matter as I shall soon be my normal colour again. (Janice just muttered that the chair covers would be changing colour again.)

We don’t have breakfast before we go out early. It’s something to do with not exercising after eating. That sounded daft to me, but Janice explained that it didn’t mean we wouldn’t eat at all, just that we would wait until after our walk. She also said that we wouldn’t be able to eat immediately after our walk either. That was because of the dangers of developing gastric torsion, properly known as Gastric dilatation volvulus (GDV) 

It’s something that affects deep-chested dogs like Wolfhounds, Irish Setters, Dalmatians, Labradors and so on, though strangely Greyhounds and Whippets seem to be exempt. It can be fatal. Having had three dogs affected by it, all Dalmatians – luckily, they survived! - she and Barry are only too aware of the dangers and do everything to avoid it happening again. That’s what she said, though mostly I heard ‘no breakfast’ and ‘after’ and ‘later.’

It sounded quite reasonable – after all, she’s not cruel - and we were happy to have our collars put on and leave the house.

                                

     

Yesterday was the same rigmarole. We enjoyed our walk and were happy to reach home and flop out on the floor. As the morning wore on, however, I realised something had gone wrong with the routine. Roxy knew it, too. We gazed at the humans, trying to communicate with them, but they’re remarkably dense sometimes, and just grinned stupidly at us and told us what good dogs we were. Well, we know that! They tell us a dozen times a day.

I was busting a gut, putting all the pathos I could manage into my soulful brown eyes, and suddenly the penny dropped. Janice gasped and said, ‘They haven’t had their breakfast.’

There followed a discussion about whether that was true, and then that perhaps we’d had it and the humans had forgotten. ‘Had the cats been fed?’ they asked each other. Well, that was a silly question – the cats would never allow a mealtime to pass by without comment or complaint, but we dogs are polite and undemanding.

I widened my eyes further and pricked my ears as far as they would prick, and Roxy played her part, and finally, FINALLY, we were given our breakfast. We are very forgiving dogs, and didn’t give our humans the cold shoulder, whatever that means. In fact, I curled up next to Janice as usual. I’m sure she appreciates the extra heat I provide.

All was well this morning, and we didn’t have to wait hours and hours and hours to be fed. It’s a dog’s life, all right, but a pretty comfortable one in this house.

 

TTFN

Gilbert

* lots of other dogs* They often don’t meet any other dogs or people at all, so just two or three seems like ‘lots.’

Breakfast

 

Breakfast

                                        

I usually have breakfast sometime after noon. Today, I had an apple at one o’clock, which is quite early for me. The dessert apple harvest has been wonderful this year, but there are fewer to pick now. There are still bushels of crab apples on the trees, but I shan’t be making jelly this year. They will provide food for the birds, unless my granddaughters come to pick them.

The apple, though small, was crisp and sharp and very juicy. Delicious!

Air fryer blueberry muffins

I followed it with some blueberry muffins, freshly baked, though not by me. 

It is my daughter-in-law’s birthday today, and tomorrow it will be my elder great-grandson’s birthday. Both of them are spending their days at school, but the weekend approaches and I’m sure Fergus, at least, will be celebrating with some friends.

Breakfast

 

Breakfast

Breakfast is a moveable feast in our house. It is rarely eaten before nine and often it is early afternoon before we have it.

Looking at my breakfast the other morning, I was struck by the appearance of the strawberries. They reminded me of Fly agaric (Amanita muscaria). It is the toadstool of fairy stories and children’s books. In Alice in Wonderland, Alice is given Fly agaric to eat, which may explain her strange experiences in growing and shrinking. It is hallucinogenic and was used in religious ceremonies in Asia for more than 4,000 years.

Fly agaric (Amanita muscaria) can be seen in woodland and heathland in light soil under beech, pine or spruce from August to November.

Fly agaric is poisonous if eaten, but not usually fatal, unless ingested in great quantities. (It’s suggested that something like 10 mushrooms would have to be eaten to kill . . . ) Historically, it has been used as a basic insecticide; pieces of the red cap were broken off and added to milk, its smell attracting flies, intoxicating and killing them.

Fly agaric has an association with Christmas, from a hangover or crossover from earlier pagan associations. It is believed that Father Christmas’ jolly red and white robes were inspired by the colouring of the mushroom. Fly agaric often features on Christmas cards.

This beautiful illustration is from one of my favourite books, 'Wayside and Woodland Fungi' by W.P.K. Findlay. The illustrations are by Beatrix Potter. 

 Why do reindeer fly? Maybe they ate Fly agaric – in Siberia, reindeer have been observed becoming intoxicated by them, though I’m not sure if they have ever eaten them. Some records suggest that the Siberian herders fed the mushrooms to the reindeer and then drank their urine to experience the hallucinogenic effects. The only other mammals that eat them occasionally are red squirrels. Otherwise, they are consumed by slugs and fungus gnats (sciarid flies)

My breakfast was not toxic, but very filling – porridge, strawberries, dates, grapes, pumpkin seeds and yoghourt.

Concentrate!

 

Concentrate!

Jellicoe snoozes

On Saturday morning I was feeding the animals, assisted, as ever, by Jellicoe purring round me and giving me encouraging little nips as I measured his insulin in the insanely small hypodermic syringe. There were no B12 capsules to split and spread on his food. He is supposed to have half a capsule every day but it’s difficult impossible to be accurate so he has one capsule every other day.

The routine is well established and I could almost do it in my sleep. Herschel and Jellicoe are fed first, as it’s the only way to stop the incessant yowling. I had switched on the radio, which I don’t normally do, and something interesting caught my attention, something so enthralling that I cannot now remember what it was.

While the cats were happily occupied eating their breakfast, Jellicoe in the kitchen, Herschel in the conservatory, I turned my attention to the dogs. Roxy is always fed first and Gilbert waits patiently. It’s a matter of moments before he can also eat, as Roxy consumes her food rapidly.

When I put Roxy’s dish on the floor, she looked at me with a puzzled expression. Gilbert appeared a little alarmed but he’s a well-mannered pup and doesn’t push in. As soon as Roxy started eating, I realised I’d already fed her and so she was enjoying a generous, unexpected second helping. Her rate of consumption was not noticeably slower and her girth had not
expanded, but she had a smaller supper later on.

Herschel finds a box to sleep in. He is a very long cat!

I’m not usually easily distracted but the radio interrupted my concentration. I’m sure Roxy hopes there will be further lapses.

Soft-boiled eggs and soldiers

Soft-boiled eggs and soldiers

I didn’t often play with my food when I was a child. It wasn’t encouraged but occasionally I could dream as I ate. Dipping a spoon into the Lyle’s syrup tin and drizzling it onto a pudding, making sticky patterns with it and watching as it smoothed itself into a golden puddle was one such occasion. I tried to write my name with it but it was too quick for me. I loved the tin and never realised the lion was actually a rotting carcase. I was more interested in the words – ‘Out of the strong came forth sweetness’ - beautiful words to accompany a tooth-aching syrupiness.

Breakfast often featured eggs in some form. My favourite was soft-boiled eggs. First the egg was taken from the pan of boiling water and put in the egg-cup. It was too hot to touch but the urge to open it and reveal the rich orange-yellow yolk within its white coat was almost too much. Tap, tap, tap on the top of the egg (not too hard, don’t want to smash it), slice it off with a knife and spoon out the white from the eggshell – no yolk in the top - a little salt and pepper to taste, if desired, and then the feast could begin. To eat it with an egg spoon was enjoyable but by far the best way to appreciate it was to have soldiers. Buttered toast was sliced into strips and dunked into the inviting gooey sunshine – utter joyJ

All too soon the egg was consumed and the final game could be played. Quickly the shell was turned upside down in the cup, for all intents and purposes to look like an egg waiting to be eaten. It never fooled anyone but it was fun.

When I saw these ‘Eggs For Soldiers’ the other day I smiled at the memories they evoked then quickly sobered as I realised they were being sold in aid of Help for Heroes. I wondered how many soldiers can no longer eat their breakfast eggs without help – and how many will never eat again.

Pet Pride - After breakfast

Bozo and his human host this weekly meme - thank you! To see more pets please click here.
Breakfast is an exciting time in our house. Winston miaous at me and if he thinks I can't hear him or am ignoring him he yells louder and comes to pat my leg. Frodo whinnies, Tia, one of our visitors, whines softly and Foxy, our other visitor, dances from front paw to front paw, as though she's kneading the floor to bring forth food. Jenna, Gus and Buddy watch every move.
Buddy is the first to be fed - that is his privilege as the oldest dog. Correction! Winston is fed first but his food is put in the conservatory so that it doesn't get snaffled by a quick dog. Depending on what I'm giving them for breakfast the rest are fed in the kitchen or outside. If I'm cutting up heart or kidney then they remain indoors and watch as the bowls are filled. Minced tripe is the easiest meal - and probably the smelliest. I simply remove the packaging and put the mess in a bowl. Tia is the next in the queue as she needs a little extra to build her up. Frodo follows, then Jenna and Foxy. Gus has already had one breakfast but is given more in the sitting room to prevent him pinching the others' food. 
If chicken wings are on the menu, Winston has one in the conservatory, Buddy doesn't have them at the moment, so he'll have tripe or heart, and the rest, including Gus,  follow me into the garden. Then it's rather like feeding the penguins at the zoo - or perhaps the alligators. I toss a wing to each dog in turn and the snapping of Frodo's jaws is loud and fearsome. They edge closer and closer so that I have to toss the wings further afield to make them move back. After I've counted the wings for each dog we all troop back indoors again. 
The next excitement is the ritual of the pills, all served in peanut butter. They all watch as I set out the tablets and capsules. Frodo has the most as he has anti-epileptic drugs three times a day, plus MSM, glucosamine, bromelain and a couple of other tablets. He has his dose first. Buddy is next, followed by Tia, Jenna, Foxy and Gus.
Then they settle down for a well-earned rest.

Winston chooses one of the footstools.

Frodo curls up in his basket.

Jenna likes to rest on Barry's chair.

Buddy and Tia play bookends on one of the settees.

Foxy and Gus sleep together in another dog bed, close to the box of toys.

Peace reigns supreme, punctuated only by snores and whimpers as they dream of rabbits.

Mother or Mistress?

Frodo is spending the morning with the vets. He's having bile tests and a scan to see how his liver is functioning. One of the medications he takes to control his epilepsy, Phenobarbital, is known with prolonged use to have a deleterious effect on liver function. His latest blood results last week showed a greatly increased rise in one of the liver enzymes, ALP (Alkaline phosphatase) hence his in-patient status today.
So the morning routine was disrupted because Frodo was not allowed to eat before the first bloods were taken. All the animals variously yowled at me, patted me, followed me, threatened to trip me up as they waited in vain for breakfast. Gus was particularly insistent - he is not just a hungry puppy but a hungry Labrador puppy with very strong instincts for sustenance.
I took Frodo to the vet just after half-past eight. He was somewhat surprised to be there again so soon but is a very adaptable dog and accepts his lot in life. The consent form duly filled in I prepared to leave at which point Brenda, the head receptionist, said, 'Come on, Frodo - you'll see your mummy again soon.'
This is not the first time I have been referred to as 'Mummy' to our animals. (I don't think they call Barry 'Daddy'!) Usually I make a passing reference to being an old bitch - or cat. I started to wonder which is preferable - to be a mother to an animal or a mistress. I suppose the maternal role is slightly more respectable as mistress implies a woman of somewhat easy virtue. What title should I have? Owner, handler, companion, partner-in-crime? I think 'servant' might be the correct term!