FFHT September: A Meeting with Royalty...

Today is, of course, the day for Murphy and Stanley's FFHT. Hooray! As usual, this month's special phrase is highlighted in red in the story below.

A Dream Come True 

"Hey, look at you, woolly WFTer with the painted paws!"

That's what some dumb mutt barked at me in the park yesterday. But did I care? I did not. Let me explain why.

*********

It is only fitting, don't you think, that royalty in the dog-blogging world should on occasion consort with fellow celebrities from other walks of life?

Oh how I have always wanted to meet the diminutive pop star known as Prince. I feel he is a kindred spirit. So much charisma packed into a small frame. Such an interesting and creative chappie.

But elusive.

And, reluctant though I am to admit it, my home town of Aberdeen is not always top of the list of places in Europe which famous Americans want to visit. (Excepting Donald Trump of course, and the least said about him the better).

In prison earlier this summer, I had time to think long and hard about how I might tempt Prince to come and visit NE Scotland.

I carefully studied his song lyrics to glean some ideas, and suddenly, inspiration - aided by Wikipedia - struck.

As you are aware, Scotland is renowned worldwide for its damp climate. Normally our rainfall is kind of a dreary greyish colour.

Another point to note is that September is blackberry season and this year’s crop has been abundant, perhaps on account of the precipitation.

So my idea was to conduct an experiment, using local resources, which I hoped might catch the attention of the wee mannie from Minneapolis, Minnesota.

First of all, I arranged, through my extensive local contacts, for every single blackberry bush in within a 20 miles radius of Aberdeen to be stripped bare of fruit. With the assistance of some industrial sized kitchen equipment, the mountain of berries collected was then crushed to a juicy pulp.

As for the next step, how fortunate we are that the RAF base in nearby Lossiemouth is still operational.

Now it was merely a matter of timing.

I waited until the Met Office was predicting several days of continuous rainfall, then summoned a fleet of specially adapted Tornado jets to fly above the mass of clouds gathering to the west, and spray them with a generous quantity of my blackberry juice.

And guess what?

It worked.

PURPLE RAIN!

Of course, Prince heard about the sensational weather phenomenon on social media and flew straight over to Scotland. I was there at Aberdeen airport to meet him. It was still raining. I raced across the runway through the puddles. And that’s why my toes turned purple.

Prince was so awestruck by the spectacle he scarcely glanced at me. But did I care? I did not. My long cherished dream had come true. And no-one was going to be allowed to wash my paws for at least a month!

PS Gail says I might be in contention for the most ludicrous and contrived FFHT ever written. When will I be ever taken seriously (sigh)?

FFHT June: Alternative Realities

I knew I needed a good excuse for not taking part in Murphy and Stanley's FFHT this month. And I have one.

It is that I have been abandoned(1), poorly foot and all(2), by Gail, who is living the high life(3) in London(4) this week(5).

Footnotes by Gail:

(1) "Abandoned" as in being cared for by neighbours Kirsty (a vet), her husband Mike and their two amiable dogs, border terrier Bonnie and miniature poodle Jack. Bertie will be having a blast.
(2) "Poorly foot" as in, thankfully, nearly better foot (although vigilance is still clearly required).
(3) "High life" as in being sequestered in an office besides Gatwick Airport, inspecting data on some Norwegian oilfields for the Kuwaiti Government? You decide.
(4) "London". As I said. Actually an office block next to Gatwick Airport.
(5) "Week" as in two days / one night.

Apologies. We will try to do better next month.

FFHT: Bertie gets Cross with St George

It's Murphy and Stanley's FFHT time again, and as usual the set phrase is highlighted in red …

In a Flap about a Flag

As my regular readers will already know, mine is a mixed race household. Although I live in Scotland, Gail (my human carer) was born south of the border to English parents, and brought up in the fine city of Nottingham, and she still identifies herself as English. Whereas I am, of course, a proudly Scottish pup.

Tensions first arose in the summer of 2010 when I was just a few months old.  The football (that's ‘soccer’ to my US friends) World Cup was taking place in South Africa. England had qualified for the competition but Scotland sadly had not.

“So Bertie my young pup”, said Gail, “in the absence of your national team, I assume you will be cheering for England along with me. After all, they will be needing all the support they can get*. Look here, I have a flag for you to wear for the first game. I’m afraid this was the only one I could find in Aberdeen. It is rather large but I’m sure we can tastefully arrange it over your wiry wee frame.”

Well.

I reacted as any self-respecting Scot would to being draped in the flag of the Auld Enemy.

Unfortunately, the harder I tried to get it off me, the more ensnared in this dreadful piece of fabric I became.

I had all but strangled myself before Gail managed to dissociate me from the Cross of St George and was able to snatch a photo.

I am pleased to report that a certain England fan learned her lesson and has never again committed such an atrocity upon my person.


*This prediction proved to be accurate

FFHT April: A fairly typical Friday walk

Yes, yippee, it's Murphy and Stanley's FFHT time again! We're short and sweet this month.


Last Friday's walk 

"Sit nicely" Gail said, "while I take an 'arty' photo of you and the daffodils". But it smelled like a rabbit was somewhere in the vicinity so I had other priorities.

"Come, Bertie", shouted Gail, from a distance. But it smelled like someone had dropped a piece of burger just by the path under the bridge, so I ignored her, again.

"Oh Bertie, do hurry up", Gail sighed, "we haven't got all day. But it smelled like my adversary Jake had been round these parts quite recently, so I was loath to rush ahead. 

"Leave it Bertie!" shrieked Gail, too late, as I prepared to roll in some freshly produced fox poo.

To me, it smelled like ambrosia.

Although Gail begged to differ, as she wound down the windows in the car going home. 

FFHT: Hamish at Cruden Bay

It's Murphy and Stanley's FFHT time again. And after missing the last two months due to Gail being distracted by other matters, we are delighted to be taking part again.

HAMISH AT CRUDEN BAY (OR, WHEN THEY REALLY SHOULD HAVE MOVED THE GOALPOSTS…)

Sometimes, of an evening, when I am cuddled up on Gail's lap, I like to hear stories about my predecessor Hamish the Westie. The best ones are, of course, those in which Hamish commits some dreadful misdemeanour.

This is what Gail related last night:

Bertie, did I ever tell you about the first time I took Hamish for a walk on the beach at Cruden Bay, when he was about four years old? I knew I would remember this incident forever, because of the reaction of the lady who witnessed it…..

It was a lovely sunny afternoon in the middle of summer - well, lovely at least by Aberdeenshire standards. The haar had stayed offshore and, although hardly tee shirt weather, it was warm enough not to need an anorak. Quite a few other folk were enjoying the beach that day, including one family party who were working off their picnic lunch with an impromptu game of football. Discarded clothing served as goalposts. 

Imagine my horror when Hamish made a beeline for the makeshift posts and cocked his leg. Before I could stop him he had generously 'decorated' a jacket made of highly absorbent material. What's worse, a lady about my age, presumably one of the family, was standing right there watching him. 

"Oh I am SO SORRY", I grovelled, "I should have been keeping a closer eye on him, I feel terrible, please you must let me give you some money for dry cleaning, oh dear, Hamish you are a BAD DOG!"

But you know what? The lady just stood there and laughed. 

"Oh don't you worry about it, it's not a problem at all, it's only my husband's jacket!"  

Bertie at Cruden Bay,  June 2014

FFHT: The forty year wait (a true story)

It's Murphy and Stanley's FFHT time again.

***   ***   ***   ***   ***

Once upon a time, there was a little girl, born one foggy November night in Nottingham a long long time ago (1958, to be precise).

From a very early age, this little girl disliked dolls, finding their plastic faces creepy, but she loved her furry animal toys very much. She loved Mr and Mrs Teddy, and Uncle Edward the Elephant. But best of all, she loved her Airedale wheelie dog, even though she cannot now recall his name.

As she grew older she wished more than anything that she could have a real live dog. She would spend hours perusing her 'Observers' Book of Dogs' published in 1961, trying to decide, in her imaginary world, which type of dog she would choose. The entry for the wire-haired fox terrier stated that this was the most popular terrier breed.

Sadly, neither her parents nor her granny nor her brother, all of whom lived in the same house, shared her desire for a pup, and her only childhood pets were Goldie the goldfish (won by her brother at Goose Fair) and Arthur the guinea pig, whose lifespan of eight years may yet be a world record.

Fast forward to 1999, and the little girl is forty years old. After living in London almost all her adult life, a company relocation takes her to Northeast Scotland. She now has a house with a garden, friendly neighbours and a five minute commute to the office.

One evening, she circles a small ad in the Aberdeen Evening Express. "Three year old male Westie needs a new home". She phones the number. A farmer from near Fraserburgh answers. She is too embarrassed to tell him that she only understands one word in five of his strong Doric accent. The story seems to be that the farmer wanted to use the Westie for breeding but then realised the dog was too closely related to the intended bitch. An appointment is made to view the dog. His name is Hamish.

For Gail, things would never be the same after this phone call.

(It was only later it occurred to Gail that farmer's story never made any sense!)

FFHT: Life on Mars or Space Oddity?

It's Murphy and Stanley's FFHT time again! (Posting one day early this month 'cos of Halloween).

*********

Bouncing Bertie Boffin, Scientific Advisor to Blogville here! 

Surely, space travel is every scientist’s dream?

Ever since I was a wee pup, I have fantasized about becoming an astronaut.

A realistic ambition, for sure, given that in the Soviet Union, dogs like Laika (above) preceded humans into space. OK so they were all bitches ‘cos apparently it was thought that a leg cocking tendency was incompatible with rocket hygiene (yes, truly) but that is a minor obstacle is it not?

Oh I was excited beyond measure when I saw an advert in one of my favorite magazines, ‘Canine Astronaut Weekly’

WANTED: CANDIDATES FOR MISSION TO MARS

Joint US/Europe/Russian space agency seeks fit, flexible, intelligent young adult dogs (male or female) with a sense of adventure, a friendly nature and a sound grasp of science and technology.

No previous experience necessary as training will be provided.

To apply, please send CV and covering letter (human assistance with typing is permitted).

You can bet I sent off my application faster than you could say ‘one small step for dogs….’

You are thinking it was a foregone conclusion that a high achieving pup like me would be selected and you are of course correct.

Gosh I was so bouncing with excitement when I arrived at the Star City Cosmonaut Training Centre near Moscow, I nearly achieved escape velocity under my own steam.

A programme of intensive and rigorous instruction ensued. I overcame my aversion to clothing and learned how to get comfortable in my spacesuit. It did take a while to achieve the necessary accuracy in using the zero-gravity toilet (one of my fellow trainees, a husky from Siberia, called it the Poo-tin). A lot of the training was focused on how to achieve successful Space Walkies, something that of course came naturally to an outdoorsy type like me, although it was disappointing to learn that on a Space Walkie one must always have the walking string attached.

It was only when I sampled the dehydrated rations and learned that sausage would be unavailable on the spacecraft that doubts crept in.

Oh, and when the novelty had worn off, after a month or so, I did start to miss Gail, and wonder whether she would still be there for me when I returned at the end of the four year mission.

But, with so much invested in my training, and so much pride at stake, I knew there was no turning back now.

It was only three weeks to blast off when we were all sent for public relations training. Obviously, these days, the canine astronaut is encouraged to be active on social media, to communicate our adventures to the public. I could tell that my instructor Boris Borzoi was interested to hear I have been writing a blog for, well, like forever. He even wrote down the url.

Next morning I was pulled out of my Advanced Rocket Science class unexpectedly and asked to visit the big boss, Top CAT*

Who was not looking at all happy.

On her computer screen I saw displayed my blog post about ‘An Incident at Newcastle Station’.

“Bertie” she said,  “we at Mission Control have been reading your blog with interest and great concern. It seems to me that the CV you submitted to us contained important omissions which were also not mentioned in your covering letter.

"In your blog you record several incidents that, had we known about them beforehand, would most certainly have prevented you from being offered a place on our prestigious Mars mission training programme. What, you look surprised? Blue poo, chewing cashmere sweaters, getting into fights with neighbour dogs, nearly giving your owner a heart attack by escaping from a train at Newcastle, …. need I go on?

"OK, I will.

"It is clear from your record at agility shows that your performance under pressure is erratic at best. The letter your cousin Coco sent last December detailing your behaviour as a guest in her home makes us doubt your ability to fit in with your fellow space travellers, and the egocentricity indicated by post titles such as the recent “WFTs come first, right?” is a sure sign that you lack the team spirit required on the long journey to another planet.

"In short, you are not made of the Right Stuff.

“So, Bertie, I regret to have to inform you that since you fail to meet the high standard we expect from our canine (and human) candidates for space flights to Mars I am dismissing you from the training programme forthwith. You may collect your belongings and go home."

And so my dream of being an astronaut came to an abrupt end.

I guess I am not the first and nor shall I be the last creature to have a promising career blighted by their social media pawprint.

But secretly, between you and me, I was a just wee bit relieved to be home and see Gail again before she became a wizened old lady.


 *CAT = Canine Astronaut Trainer.

FFHT September - apologies

Oh dear I do believe I shall have to send my apologies to my Dood pals Murphy and Stanley this month.

You know, I so enjoyed taking part in their 'Fractured Fryday Hairy Tales' events in July and August. They really were super good fun, and everyone's stories just grrrreat.

But this time I don't think I can do it.

You see, the task is to write something including the phrase 'Just when I thought things couldn't get worse'.

All my friends will know by now that I had a perfectly horrid real life experience last weekend.

Oh it has just been too hard for me, this week of all weeks, to conjure up a narrative about things getting worse.

Right now, I only want to think happy thoughts.

I want to think about sunshine, lamb shank bones, cuddles with Gail, trips to the park, my tank-loving girlfriend Addi, games on the beach, mountain expeditions, comfy sofas, more lamb shank bones, more cuddles, and a world in which everything just gets better and better.

I am trying my best to be brave, I really am.

I do hope Murphy and Stanley will understand.

FFHT August: I can't believe I ate….

Really, I don't know why Gail is protesting about my desire to participate in Murphy and Stanley's  August FFHT on account of the subject matter. She claims that this month's phrase "I can't believe I ate…", will encourage glorification of the baser side of our natures.

Does she not realise that the urge to break the boundaries of the conventional 'approved' diet is not confined to non-human species but has a distinguished lineage including some of this country's most illustrious scientists.

No less than Charles Darwin, top of my (and Gail's) list for 'Greatest Ever Briton' had an adventurous appetite in more ways than are usually recognised.

At Cambridge Darwin was a member of a dining club which met weekly in order to eat, basically, roadkill. He enjoyed hawk and bittern, but balked at a dish of old Brown Owl, describing it as 'indescribable'. On the Beagle voyage he ate armadilloes ('taste like duck'), puma ('veal'), iguana and Giant Tortoise. A Phylum Feast is a shared meal containing as many different species as possible, eaten by biologists on February 12th to celebrate Darwin’s birthday.

Before Darwin, the noted English geologist William Buckland, who wrote the first full scientific description of a dinosaur and later in his life promoted the notion that glaciation explains many of the landscape features formerly ascribed to the biblical flood, took exotic eating to another level (you may have to click on the image below to enlarge and read):

One suspects that "I can't believe I ate…" was not a phrase much heard in the celebrated Reverend Buckland's Oxford household...