Tuesday, 26 August 2014

The Englishman, the Scotsman, the Irishman and the Welshman.

No, this is not going to be another of those jokes invoking tired national stereotypes. Nor is it a reference to the independence debate.

And in fact it should truly be the Englishwoman, the Scotsmen and women, the Welshman, the Irish dog and the American…

All of these were present at the Royal Highland Showground, venue for last Saturday's dogs agility show.

The Englishwoman here, is of course Gail.

Note that she is looking mightily relieved and this is because, despite her woeful lack of commitment to training for the team relay event, we did not mess up in any major way and our team exceeded expectations by coming a respectable fifth (out of eleven).

See, Gail's team mates, Scotswomen Yvonne and Alison and our inspirational Texan team captain Jeri, were even still happy to pose with her after the event.
Yvonne and Phoebe, Alison and Maddie, Gail and Bertie, Jeri (Burns is hiding) 

The Irish dog I want to tell you about is this well cropped WFT pup Hayley.

Hayley is eleven years old and now retired from agility, but she had travelled all the way over from Ulster with her family - her sibling spaniels were in the competition. Gail was most impressed to learn that Hayley had reached Grade 6 in her agility career. She is quite a lot smaller than me. I think she is cute. 

Over in a different part of the showground on Saturday the Scottish Kennel Club were running their version of Crufts. Gosh there were a lot of very handsome pups strutting about the place. 

The Welshman was sat at a table outside the show arena when we walked past. He beckoned Gail over and told her she was a lady of excellent taste. 

You will have guessed that he was not referring to her dress sense. He wanted to know all about me, admiring my markings, my bone structure, my muscles, and my alert demeanour. He even asked if he could look at my teeth. (I have to tell you that did not go too well…) At this point the penny dropped and Gail asked if he was a show judge. It turned out we were talking to Mr Gerrard Morris, judge for the terrier group at Crufts earlier this year. Remember that a WFT won the terrier group? Gail found this picture on the internet. My new friend is the rosy cheeked chappie on the left. 

As for the Scotsmen and women well duh, I hear you thinking, we were in Edinburgh, of course there would be plenty of those, even at Festival time. 

This is true, but what we had on Saturday, in yet another part of the Showground, were hordes of bagpipe playing, kilt wearing, particularly Scottish looking Scots, all participating in a huge pipe band contest. 



You know, the Royal Highland Showground is not a place for lovers of tranquillity.

As if multiple pipe bands playing simultaneously next to a field of hyped up agility dogs did not provide enough noise, then you also had a nearby fairground blasting out loud music and, above, planes from the adjacent Edinburgh airport taking off every fifteen minutes or so.

To be honest, a bit too much excitement, even for me…
Back home and enjoying some peace and quiet.

Monday, 25 August 2014

Bye bye, dear sweet Jazzi

Oh dear I was distraught to learn that my sweetheart Addi's sister Jazzi had to say goodbye to her earthbound family last week.

This wee Scottie lass was full of life, fun and mischief (and tacos). I loved her so much, even though she did often refer to my gorgeous girlfriend as 'Dog-zilla'.

Gail and I are thankful we had the privilege of sharing a small piece of Jazzi's too-short life, and also that of her lovely and loving family. Jazzi's posts not only made us smile, always, but were so full of warmth and happiness that they left us feeling the world was a better place.

We send heartfelt condolences to all who are feeling sad at the loss of such a wonderful character.

Oh and if Uncle Ed is looking for a new pup to spoil, well he just needs to get in touch…

(Comments are turned off).




Friday, 22 August 2014

Bertie clarifies the debate on North Sea oil reserves

Yesterday I overheard Gail talking to a friend.

"I can't believe how much rubbish is being written about Scotland's future North Sea oil reserves. Honestly, I think even Bertie has a better understanding of the issues involved than most of the media commentators".

For once I shall ignore Gail's rather insulting use of the word 'even' and take her statement at face value.

After all, I live in the heart of Europe's oil capital and my human, a geophysicist, has been engaged in the business on and off (mostly on) for over 30 years. Naturally, my keen and attentive flappy little ears have picked up a wealth of knowledge about the petroleum industry.

But I think it will help if, instead of oil and gas, we consider the subject in terms of doggy treats.

Got your attention, right?

Let us imagine that once upon a time, many millions of years ago, a huge number of doggy treats were  buried under the ground in deposits of varying size and depth. And that this would form the only local supply of treats ever available to dogs in the UK.

For years, no-one knew they were there, but one day, a basset hound caught a faint whiff of something interesting in a field. A passing Scottie noticed the hound sniffing the earth, and started digging. Lo and behold, he had discovered the UK's first treat hoard.

A border collie, observing the action, used her brain and figured out that there were likely more treat deposits scattered around, and hired a gang of scent hounds to sniff them out and terriers to do the excavation work.

Initially only the larger and shallowest deposits were found, but selective breeding of scent hounds with ever more treat-sensitive noses meant that medium sized treat stores could also be detected, and likewise terriers with bigger and bigger front paws made for ever more effective digging operations. Meanwhile, the increasing global population of dogs meant the market for treats grew and grew, increasing the value of each individual treat.

Naturally it was the canny border collies, in partnership with some poodles, who organised and ran the sale and distribution of the treats and made off with most of the profits, although they did have to pay an annual tribute to a gang of powerful German Shepherds and Rottweilers who also controlled the permits to dig.

No-one knew exactly how many dog treats were buried at the outset, and so estimates of the number left at any point varied considerably. The uncertainty was compounded when the task of calculating remaining treat reserves was sub-contracted to a litter cross-bred from a Bulldog and a Shih Tzu……..*

It was also unclear if, as locally sourced treats became scarcer and scarcer, people would be prepared to pay ever more to extract them, or if they would look to overseas treat supplies instead. And no-one was certain whether further selective breeding could improve performance of the terriers and the scent hounds sufficiently to locate and dig out the remaining small or more deeply buried deposits. The cost of maintaining these precious (in every sense of the word) specialists was already going through the kennel roof.

One dog who without doubt understood all this was an Aberdeen-based billionaire treat magnate, a border collie known as 'Woody'.  Although Woody's judgement had in recent years been called into question when he attempted to move beyond his core expertise and started trying to design a city centre dog park, no-one questioned his deep knowledge of the complexities of the treat business.

And so when he said that there are not so many treats left as a certain power hungry but deceitful Gordon Setter named Alex had claimed (based on so-called 'expert advice' from a grovelling lapdog), then we can all agree that Woody should be believed.

All clear now, I trust.


*Blame Her from Scotsmad for this one…

Thursday, 21 August 2014

Priorities all wrong...


Really, how could Gail go swanning off with her colleagues, geologising in the far north of Scotland and abandoning me in prison when we should have been in intensive training for the big dog agility relay event near Edinburgh this coming Saturday?

This relay business is very complicated you know. So much could go wrong, and I don't think Gail has practiced the baton passing thing anything like as much as she should have done.

Oh dear, yes, I am worried that Gail, with her distorted sense of priority, is going to let the whole team down.

And by the way, I hope everyone realises I am going to get VERY UPSET if forced at any point to stand too close to my team mate Manchester terrier Maddy, who, frankly, I find irritating.

What's even more irritating is that Gail is trying to make out she was doing me a kindness by making me stay in prison boarding kennels while she was away, saying at least I had a room to myself, unlike if I had come with her to Helmsdale.
Helmsdale Hostel - outside
Helmsdale Hostel - inside
And perhaps you can tell me just why these localities are so worth visiting that one would miss a vital training session and jeopardise the future success of the Deeside Devils dog agility team.

Caithness flagstones and tidal swimming pool, near Wick
An infestation of geologists at Dwarwick
Ammonite bearing rock on beach - Portgower
Windswept geologists by Dunnet Head lighthouse
Cliffs:  west from Dunnet Head

No? Beats me too.

PS Many thanks to Gail's colleague Quintin, for photos 4,5,7, and 8. Quintin has a sideline in pet portraits, see: http://www.quintindavies.co.uk/