Dog poop - it's a gas!

Doggie pals, are you fed up of being thought a drain on our planet's resources?

Would you like to 'DO' something for the environment?

Then how about this for a fine idea from the Park Spark project?

You know how, when you go to the park, you take a human servant along and they will pick up any 'little messes' you leave behind and put them in a smelly old bin.

Well, what if, instead of a smelly old bin, your poo got fed into an 'anaerobic digester'? That's a fancy term for an underground container full of microbes which can transform your poop into methane gas and so produce renewable energy.

Here's how it's supposed to work:

The energy generated could be used to light the park at night. Or to fuel an ice-cream cart (just wishful thinking....)

I don't think that they have any of these systems up and running yet.

Spiffing wheeze though isn't it?

PS from Gail: Readers may not know that my day job is co-ordinating a project called MethaneNet, which aims to promote communication between methane researchers. It's amazing what you come across in the line of duty....Meanwhile, Bertie is being rested up this week after Sunday's exertions.

A Simply Splendid Sunday Stroll in Sometimes Sunny Scotland

Actually it wasn't a stroll at all it was a VERY LONG WALK with Gail and her friends Kate and Henry.

And I had SO much work to do. For instance, waking Henry from his post-lunchtime nap.

Meanwhile, I am learning fast about this posing business.

But I have no idea what Kate thought was so funny at this particular moment.

It was a lovely walk, but also VERY LONG.

And I was very happy when, eventually, we got back to Kate and Henry's cottage.

PS From Gail: Bertie has not been weighed lately, but I can report with confidence that he is now far too heavy to carry comfortably in my arms for the last two miles of a seven mile hike....

Nature red in tooth and claw...

Scientists are always arguing about Nature versus Nurture.

One of the things you have to put up with if you live in a scientific household is that your human is endlessly speculating about the origins of your behaviour.

Take toys for example. Just something to play with, right? Some are more fun than others, end of story?

Oh but no.

You see I have this great little mouse (or is it a hamster?) It was given me by a lovely lady called Diane. I have lots of wonderful toys but this one's my absolute favourite. It's all brown and fluffy and if you pull the tail it vibrates as it scoots across the floor. If I'm quick I can catch it in my mouth mid scoot, and after a few seconds the vibrations cease. I find this immensely enjoyable.

So of course there has to be a theory about why I like this toy best. A certain person, a friend of Gail's whom we shall call 'Rhoderick' ('cos that's his name) put forward the idea that when the vibration stops, it's as if the animal has died, and the reason I like the mouse is that it satisfies some primal urge to kill. An urge not otherwise satisfied if one's food supply comes in the form of dried pellets out of a packet labelled 'Burns Mini Bites'.

Well I wonder what you think about this hypothesis?

Should I be insulted by the implication that I may not be quite as sweet and innocent as I sometimes appear?

Or should I be proud of my killer instincts?

[By the way, for this blog post, Gail wanted me to pose for a photo with the mouse in my mouth, dripping tomato ketchup, but I vetoed the plan on grounds of bad taste. Aren't you glad?]

Smelling of roses?

It's a thorny issue isn't it? How to avoid being defined by one's worst moments. (I think Bill Clinton has faced the same problem).

You know, I was SO well behaved for so much of the time on my trip down to Nottingham to stay with Gail's Mum and Dad. Impeccably well behaved, you might say.

There were no 'accidents' leaving marks on the carpet. At least not from me. (A certain person did drop a glass of red wine but that's another story).

Neither did my teeth leave any marks on the shins of my dearest human grandparents. Or on their hands or wrists.

I settled down happily at night in my cosy corner of the utility room, never making a noise or fuss. Of course it helped that I was given my first ever proper bone.

Even though I quickly spotted a hole in the hedge, I never once tried to escape from the garden into the neighbours. (The garden is too nice for that).

There was no hint of car sickness, despite the fact that we drove over a thousand miles.

The white Nottingham lace table cloth remained jam free.......

I performed all my puppy school lessons and Granny was impressed. She's a great believer in education.

So what ever could have gone wrong, I hear you ask?

Well, you know what it's like when someone invades your personal space? I mean, don't tell me, you humans, that you haven't stood in a queue at an airport and spotted some blimp-shaped traveller just in front of you and prayed that you won't be sat next to them?

I had always thought that the rear of Gail's Mini was my domain and mine alone. But then, last Friday, Gail decided we all would go on an outing to Newstead Abbey (ancestral home of poet Lord Byron). It's only a twenty minute drive. So I would travel in the back as usual, and all three humans could fit in the front surely? They're thin, not blimp-like, after all. And these new Minis are much bigger than the originals.

Well. Just imagine my horror when human Granny, despite her arthritic limbs, bent herself into the rear of the car and sat down beside me (I was in my crate). I can tell you, I voiced my disapproval of the arrangement VERY loudly. And yes I can keep going at full volume for twenty minutes, no problem.

Is there something about sound reverberating in a confined space? Human Grandad was sat in front of me in the passenger seat and I guess my mouth was only a few inches from his ear. When we arrived at the Newstead car park he was all dizzy and confused. Gail led me away from him and gave me a right old ticking off.

Luckily, Human Grandad recovered enough for a walk round the Abbey gardens. Just in case he should be starting to doubt the benefits of canine companionship, I took him over to see Lord Byron's monument to his beloved dog, a Newfoundland called Boatswain. On the monument is inscribed Byron's famous epitaph:

NEAR this spot

Are deposited the Remains

of one

Who possessed Beauty

Without Vanity,

Strength without Insolence,

Courage without Ferocity,

And all the Virtues of Man

Without his vices.

This Praise, which would be unmeaning flattery

If inscribed over human ashes,

Is but a just tribute to the memory of

"Boatswain", a Dog

Who was born at Newfoundland,

May, 1803,

And died at Newstead Abbey

Nov. 18, 1808.

But do you know, I don't think, that particular afternoon, that Gail's Dad was quite in agreement with Byron.

What do think will be remembered of my first trip to Nottingham?

Do you think I came out smelling of roses?