Henry, if you must eat rancid dead things on our walk (against my instructions I might add), then could you at the very least puke under my desk rather than that of one of my colleagues.
I know they love you, but if you carry on like that, they won't love you for much longer.
Thank you.
Honestly! Spaniels! Who'd 'ave 'em?!
Tuesday 20 July 2010
Sunday 18 July 2010
Introducing feather
We just did it. I was a bit worried he might eat it, but so far, so good...
The feathers here are the wing of a pheasant I found out walking today - most likely a fox kill. At first there was the leg of an old pair of tights covering the wing, but he did so well we soon took that off and moved on to the big dog stuff.
Good boy Henry!
The feathers here are the wing of a pheasant I found out walking today - most likely a fox kill. At first there was the leg of an old pair of tights covering the wing, but he did so well we soon took that off and moved on to the big dog stuff.
Good boy Henry!
Saturday 17 July 2010
big hills
Of course we're not lost!The Peak District is one of my favourite places in this country. Goodness knows how I ended up in East Anglia - we don't have hills here, although we do have a small slope. Sledging in winter was challenging, involving several people pushing to get moving at all.
Last weekend The Family (they're a bit like the Mafia, my lot, only with fewer horses' heads in beds), Henry and I headed for the hills, quite literally, to stagger up Kinder Scout. It was fantastic, if somewhat painful (for some reason,my hip joints decided they'd had enough 6 miles in - hmph) experience and one I intend to have again soon (apart from the painful bit).
Henry met his first sheep, and conducted himself like a champ, running for cover - i.e. me! (well they're bigger than me! - Henry). Unfortunately the second sheep he met was a little less brave, and Henry chased it for all of three steps before he remembered that they were indeed bigger than him and ran away again. I don't think I have a potential killer on my hands here, thank goodness.
After we'd staggered back down again after getting slightly mislaid at the top due to a path which had been eroded away to invisibility, The Family went home. Henry and I stayed out and camped at this place. Henry made friends with a little Dutch (I think) girl who had a lot to say to us - shame we couldn't understand a word! (Speak for yourself ignoramus, I got every word - Henry). He is the most gentle, trustworthy dog with children - he will sit for ages, shaking paws with them and letting them play with his ears.
I was very taken with the panniers several other dogs we met were wearing. I think Henry needs a set of those - it's about time he earned his keep around here. (We'll see about that - Henry).
It was so hard, driving away from the hills. We're going back soon.
Henry can always find water - he'd be great in the desert
The Noble Spaniel surveys his domain
Not a bad view, no?
No picnic is safe, not even The Family's
He was very proud of fishing that stick out
Henry's nemesis - don't turn your back on them!
Wednesday 14 July 2010
Eeeek!
I think we may have found a good shoot for Henry to start out on. Oh. My. God. I hope my friend warns them what they are letting themselves in for!
On another note, I think two hares on one little lunchtime walk is a little unnecessary, don't you? There's just No Need.
I think we'd better go and do some training...!
On another note, I think two hares on one little lunchtime walk is a little unnecessary, don't you? There's just No Need.
I think we'd better go and do some training...!
Friday 9 July 2010
Picnics, and how to protect them
Henry likes picnics.
That's all there is to it really. He loves people, almost everyone he meets loves him, and he adores food - especially food he's not meant to have. (Adds to the thrill - Henry).
Unfortunately, this means that no picnic (well almost no picnic) is safe while Henry is on the loose.
I made this unwelcome discovery a couple of months into owning him. I had just got to the stage of letting him off the lead, and my family had come to visit for the day so naturally we headed off for a walk on the beach. Lovely.
These days I scan the horizon for possible Henry hazards with an intensity that would put your average fighter pilot to shame, but back in the day I was foolishly relaxed, and was happily engaged in conversation with my relatives. Thus it was that I did not notice the innocent picnickers up ahead until the same moment Henry did. Henry shot towards them like a rocket, with absolutely no intention of returning until he had thoroughly checked out every piece of food in their possession and tested everything, presumably for food safety reasons.
Eventually he came back - and that's where I made my second mistake. I put him on the lead and walked up the beach and scrambled up a path in a relatively low cliff, at which point I thought it would be safe to let him off again.
I couldn't really make out what the irate picnickers were shouting as Henry went bouncing back to raid their picnic for the second time in ten minutes, but I think we can safely assume it was not complimentary.
These days Henry adopts a more subtle approach to picnic raiding. It's less a sledgehammer now, and more a surgical strike.
His tactic is as follows - gambol up to the picnickers (or marks as he calls them - I think he's been watching Hustle) and make nice with them. Most people are quite pleased to see a cute spaniel heading their way, and are initially charmed. While they are busy making googly noises, lean casually over and dip into their picnic basket. The soundtrack to this smooth move generally starts off something like 'Awwwwwwwww' before rapidly turning into an 'Arrrrrggghhhhhh!' as the hapless food donors realise the ulterior motive behind this visit. Shortly after that is normally when I arrive, puffing and panting, red in the face and burbling apologies as I tackle my dog and remove him from the crime scene. Sadly Henry's picnic detection mechanisms are far more sensitive than my own, which leads to several embarrassing incidents each summer.
There are several defence mechanisms to try in the face of this one-dog canine crime wave. You could attempt a flying leap, like the lady on the beach who tripped and fell flat on her face as she dashed back to save her picnic from the marauding wretch. Fortunately her own dog saved the day that time - Labs aren't too keen on sharing picnics with random spaniels, and Henry left with a flea in his ear.
However only one has ever proved effective. The one picnic Henry sheered away from was the one being conducted by several hardy naturists on Holkham beach earlier this year. Which is a good job really, because they were on their own as far as I was concerned...
That's all there is to it really. He loves people, almost everyone he meets loves him, and he adores food - especially food he's not meant to have. (Adds to the thrill - Henry).
Unfortunately, this means that no picnic (well almost no picnic) is safe while Henry is on the loose.
I made this unwelcome discovery a couple of months into owning him. I had just got to the stage of letting him off the lead, and my family had come to visit for the day so naturally we headed off for a walk on the beach. Lovely.
These days I scan the horizon for possible Henry hazards with an intensity that would put your average fighter pilot to shame, but back in the day I was foolishly relaxed, and was happily engaged in conversation with my relatives. Thus it was that I did not notice the innocent picnickers up ahead until the same moment Henry did. Henry shot towards them like a rocket, with absolutely no intention of returning until he had thoroughly checked out every piece of food in their possession and tested everything, presumably for food safety reasons.
Eventually he came back - and that's where I made my second mistake. I put him on the lead and walked up the beach and scrambled up a path in a relatively low cliff, at which point I thought it would be safe to let him off again.
I couldn't really make out what the irate picnickers were shouting as Henry went bouncing back to raid their picnic for the second time in ten minutes, but I think we can safely assume it was not complimentary.
These days Henry adopts a more subtle approach to picnic raiding. It's less a sledgehammer now, and more a surgical strike.
His tactic is as follows - gambol up to the picnickers (or marks as he calls them - I think he's been watching Hustle) and make nice with them. Most people are quite pleased to see a cute spaniel heading their way, and are initially charmed. While they are busy making googly noises, lean casually over and dip into their picnic basket. The soundtrack to this smooth move generally starts off something like 'Awwwwwwwww' before rapidly turning into an 'Arrrrrggghhhhhh!' as the hapless food donors realise the ulterior motive behind this visit. Shortly after that is normally when I arrive, puffing and panting, red in the face and burbling apologies as I tackle my dog and remove him from the crime scene. Sadly Henry's picnic detection mechanisms are far more sensitive than my own, which leads to several embarrassing incidents each summer.
There are several defence mechanisms to try in the face of this one-dog canine crime wave. You could attempt a flying leap, like the lady on the beach who tripped and fell flat on her face as she dashed back to save her picnic from the marauding wretch. Fortunately her own dog saved the day that time - Labs aren't too keen on sharing picnics with random spaniels, and Henry left with a flea in his ear.
However only one has ever proved effective. The one picnic Henry sheered away from was the one being conducted by several hardy naturists on Holkham beach earlier this year. Which is a good job really, because they were on their own as far as I was concerned...
Thursday 8 July 2010
Why gundog training?
Well, why not?
But seriously - because I have a gundog, and I had a serious problem. Henry had a nasty case of SOD, with which all dog owners are familiar - Sudden Onset Deafness. Basically, his nose ruled his ears and everything else - the lure of sniffing and hunting bunnies was stronger than anything a mere human being could muster. To make things worse, the fitter and leaner he got, the more stamina he had, and the worse his behaviour got, to the point that a year after taking him on I was starting to contemplate a future where he could never be let off lead again. For such a bright and active dog, this would be nothing short of cruelty. (Damn straight - Henry).
Gundog training offered a way to channel these instincts, allowing us to work together instead of against one another.
Pardon the silly hat. It was really quite chilly. Oh, and I said there was a lot less of him these days, didn't I? (Never mind that, I want my reward for bringing the dummy back - Henry).
I hope that we will go to our first shoot in the new year, although we both have a lot to learn before them!
But seriously - because I have a gundog, and I had a serious problem. Henry had a nasty case of SOD, with which all dog owners are familiar - Sudden Onset Deafness. Basically, his nose ruled his ears and everything else - the lure of sniffing and hunting bunnies was stronger than anything a mere human being could muster. To make things worse, the fitter and leaner he got, the more stamina he had, and the worse his behaviour got, to the point that a year after taking him on I was starting to contemplate a future where he could never be let off lead again. For such a bright and active dog, this would be nothing short of cruelty. (Damn straight - Henry).
Gundog training offered a way to channel these instincts, allowing us to work together instead of against one another.
Pardon the silly hat. It was really quite chilly. Oh, and I said there was a lot less of him these days, didn't I? (Never mind that, I want my reward for bringing the dummy back - Henry).
I hope that we will go to our first shoot in the new year, although we both have a lot to learn before them!
How did I end up here?
Which is, in Norfolk, trying to train a mad and wicked spaniel named Henry to be a real grown-up gundog?
Well, it started the day just before Christmas 2008, when I went to the Dogs Trust in Snetterton. After losing our old family dog Barney the Lab that autumn I had missed having a dog to at least visit at weekends dreadfully, and had finally plucked up the courage to ask my landlords for permission to keep a dog of my own. As recommended by all right thinking people, I had carefully researched breeds, and had come to the conclusion that a greyhound, or maybe a lurcher, would fit into my life beautifully. I was all fired up to see what skinny dogs they had to offer me.
After filling in the forms designed to make sure I at least had some clue what I was letting myself in for, I was allowed into the kennels to look at the dogs ready for rehoming. I'll tell you now - be prepared for an emotional trip if you do this. Even though the Dogs Trust kennels are bright, clean and cheerful it is still hugely sad to see so many dogs that have ended up homeless for one reason or another - and very, very tempting to try and take all of them home.
In the interests of being sensible I carefully selected a couple of sighthounds to ask about, and headed back to the desk. When I got there however, it became quickly apparent that neither of these dogs would suit - I needed a dog which would come to work with me and share an office with a terrier, which these dogs, with their drive to chase small furry creatures, could not do. I must have looked completely crestfallen, or perhaps not anything like a potential sighthound owner, because the lovely lady offered to come and look through the kennels with me to see if another dog might do.
Which is how ten minutes later I first met Henry, then known as Sammy. I had seen him in his kennel and thought he looked a lovely, happy (and tubby!) dog but had discounted him as he was wearing a buster collar - I didn't want to lose another dog so soon after Barney. It turned out that there was nothing wrong with him other than having just been neutered (What do you mean 'nothing'?! Didn't feel like nothing to me - Henry), so after chatting about him and whether he would suit the life I led, he and I headed off down the road to get acquainted. Two things became instantly obvious - that he had no idea of how to walk on a lead politely, and that he loved to be out and about! After we got back I sat outside the centre with him, waiting for someone to come and take him back to his kennel, stroking his head, promising him that a home with me would be a home for good and fighting the temptation to stick him in my car there and then and speed off in a squeal of burning tyres and a plume of smoke (Well that's how you normally drive - Henry).
Of course it wasn't quite that simple - although Sammy was now reserved for me I had to go back and meet him several more times, obtain permission from my landlords in writing as opposed to the verbal ok I had, and have my home checked to see that the fencing was secure and that I had considered how a dog and all the inevitable equipment all dog owners end up collecting would fit in. Then I had to wait until the holidays were over - like many rescue centres the Dogs Trust will not rehome over Christmas, as dogs need peace, quiet and routine to settle into their new homes. I had decided Sammy was not a name that suited him, so I had to pick a new one - Henry was my mum's suggestion and it was a name that stuck. Then of course there was all the shopping that needed doing: this was slightly hindered by moving from a Lab to a spaniel and having no real idea of what size anything needed to be. Poor Henry rattled around his new bed like a pea in a bucket!
And so, on 3rd January 2009, Henry came home with me for good. Things were never going to be the same again!
Henry, the spaniel formerly known as Sammy, the day I met him. Happily, there is much less of him these days!
Well, it started the day just before Christmas 2008, when I went to the Dogs Trust in Snetterton. After losing our old family dog Barney the Lab that autumn I had missed having a dog to at least visit at weekends dreadfully, and had finally plucked up the courage to ask my landlords for permission to keep a dog of my own. As recommended by all right thinking people, I had carefully researched breeds, and had come to the conclusion that a greyhound, or maybe a lurcher, would fit into my life beautifully. I was all fired up to see what skinny dogs they had to offer me.
After filling in the forms designed to make sure I at least had some clue what I was letting myself in for, I was allowed into the kennels to look at the dogs ready for rehoming. I'll tell you now - be prepared for an emotional trip if you do this. Even though the Dogs Trust kennels are bright, clean and cheerful it is still hugely sad to see so many dogs that have ended up homeless for one reason or another - and very, very tempting to try and take all of them home.
In the interests of being sensible I carefully selected a couple of sighthounds to ask about, and headed back to the desk. When I got there however, it became quickly apparent that neither of these dogs would suit - I needed a dog which would come to work with me and share an office with a terrier, which these dogs, with their drive to chase small furry creatures, could not do. I must have looked completely crestfallen, or perhaps not anything like a potential sighthound owner, because the lovely lady offered to come and look through the kennels with me to see if another dog might do.
Which is how ten minutes later I first met Henry, then known as Sammy. I had seen him in his kennel and thought he looked a lovely, happy (and tubby!) dog but had discounted him as he was wearing a buster collar - I didn't want to lose another dog so soon after Barney. It turned out that there was nothing wrong with him other than having just been neutered (What do you mean 'nothing'?! Didn't feel like nothing to me - Henry), so after chatting about him and whether he would suit the life I led, he and I headed off down the road to get acquainted. Two things became instantly obvious - that he had no idea of how to walk on a lead politely, and that he loved to be out and about! After we got back I sat outside the centre with him, waiting for someone to come and take him back to his kennel, stroking his head, promising him that a home with me would be a home for good and fighting the temptation to stick him in my car there and then and speed off in a squeal of burning tyres and a plume of smoke (Well that's how you normally drive - Henry).
Of course it wasn't quite that simple - although Sammy was now reserved for me I had to go back and meet him several more times, obtain permission from my landlords in writing as opposed to the verbal ok I had, and have my home checked to see that the fencing was secure and that I had considered how a dog and all the inevitable equipment all dog owners end up collecting would fit in. Then I had to wait until the holidays were over - like many rescue centres the Dogs Trust will not rehome over Christmas, as dogs need peace, quiet and routine to settle into their new homes. I had decided Sammy was not a name that suited him, so I had to pick a new one - Henry was my mum's suggestion and it was a name that stuck. Then of course there was all the shopping that needed doing: this was slightly hindered by moving from a Lab to a spaniel and having no real idea of what size anything needed to be. Poor Henry rattled around his new bed like a pea in a bucket!
And so, on 3rd January 2009, Henry came home with me for good. Things were never going to be the same again!
Henry, the spaniel formerly known as Sammy, the day I met him. Happily, there is much less of him these days!
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