Week one

Thursday - 1.6 miles
Friday - 1.81 miles
Sunday - 3.83 miles

Total this year so far - 10.96 miles for me. The bloke has done 11.35 miles as he did Saturday's walk without me (Hmph.)

Only another 373 miles to go!

Challenge!

Uh-oh... This is what happens when you have a bright idea... It grows of its own accord!

After doing some sums, it looks like I can expect to average at least 6 miles every working week, plus of course extra distance at weekends - so I've set myself a target of covering, with Spud, 384 miles this year, which is the distance of the Coast to Coast walk twice.

Now the bloke has decided he must match this, or beat it.... Apparently there is going to be a database and everything(!)

Spud says his feet hurt already...

We're back

Here is the Festive Spud, warming his bum on the oven as the turkey cooked:

This year, as a little experiment, I aim to keep track of how far Spud and I walk together. Although in fact this will only cover how far I walk - Spud will no doubt do at least double my mileage, given all the running about he does!

So - today we have travelled 1.02 miles, and yesterday we did 2.7-ish miles... a running total of 3.72 miles.

Hmmm. I think that might have gone up a bit by the end of the year!

This is unbelievable...

...says Henry.

So there I was, (he continues) minding my own business - sniffing smells, looking for dead stuff and poop to roll in, hunting bunnies and squirrels and so on. It was great. Although there was all that cold white stuff coming out of the sky. And it was a bit chilly. And I was a bit damp. So what with me being a dog disadvantaged in the hip department, it did make me feel a bit stiff. Apparently, according to the human, I was 'waddling' (what an unkind description!). Which she seemed to find quite worrying, although me and the bloke weren't that bothered.

So I got home and dried off and thought no more about it - then, today happened. We went for a walk at lunchtime, and she made me wear my jumper! My stupid damn red jumper in the picture down there, that she always said would stay in the house! Unbelievable!

And it gets worse! Tonight, instead of taking me home for my tea, we went to a horrible shop, where I got told off for yipping at the bunnies in the boxes (I thought it was like a takeaway, and you ordered the one you wanted, but apparently this is not the case?), and made me try MORE coats on, and then she bought one. She actually bought me a coat. She says I have to wear it when it's cold and wet so I don't get limpy any more. It's just. Not. Right. AND we're going to see the vet on Friday - what's all that about? Hope they keep their big needles in the box!

Am hoping for good weather so the coat stays in the car where it belongs! Please keep your paws crossed for a heatwave...

Jordan Shelley

Goodness me.

If you haven't seen this, where HAVE you been? All the updates are here:
http://coldwetnose.blogspot.com/

I am not an expert, never claimed to be, but for goodness sake, if you have a dog that guards its food please, please do NOT follow this person's techniques. It is a surefire way to get some teethmarks and to really, really confuse your dog. It won't teach them anything - except that they might just stop warning you to get off their food, and go straight for the bite instead.

Instead, please find a good local behaviourist or a trainer using modern, positive methods and enlist their help.

Resource guarding is a relatively common, and solveable problem - but Mr Shelley most certainly does not have the answer.

Shame on the BBC for promoting this.

Homicidal maniacs

I think I have one. Henry clearly thinks I have taken out life insurance with him as the main beneficiary (I haven't) or have left all my worldly possessions to him in my Will (that would be half a bar of Galaxy and a ropey Ipod Nano - and anyway, I haven't) because I think he's trying to kill me off.

It all started as a result of me meeting A Man. Yes, that's right. An actual human man. A person in my life without paws. Someone who doesn't roll in fox shit for fun (well, not in front of me yet anyway), and whose idea of taking me out to dinner does not involve looking through hedges for decomposing roadkill. As you can imagine, this is a definite step up from young Henry's social skills.

Not that Henry should be feeling left out, mind you. He has played an integral role in this relationship so far (this has been borne with great stoicism by said man), with several dates revolving around taking the dog for a walk.

However, despite this, it's clear his nose has been put out of joint and it seems that he's decided that killing me off is the way forward. It started with a subtle campaign of shame. I'm not sure if anyone has actually ever died of shame, but obviously Henry thought it was worth a try. We started with the 'run around barking and jumping up' technique whenever the poor guy was in range. This was accompanied with a side-order of 'get wet then take a flying leap at him'.

Then, we moved on to 'muscle our way into every situation going'. For instance, don't think you can sit about holding hands without a large furry paw being plopped into the mix. In fact, for Henry the ideal sofa arrangement is him in the middle, with the humans as bookends.

When this didn't work, he tried 'stealing food from the guy's very mouth', although this did not quite have the desired effect as he was simply removed from the room at mealtimes and has not been allowed back in yet.

His latest tactic has been chemical warfare. It has to be said that over the last few years my sense of smell has atrophied to a worrying level (most likely as a defence mechanism) but the complaints rolling in from every angle were enough to convince me that we had a problem. Quite how he had achieved such an impressive level of stench is beyond me, but it was enough to necessitate open windows, followed by a bath. That's open windows for the humans, with a bath for Henry. So far, so good on that front.

Which brings us to his final, last-ditch attempt at murder - the Spaniel Induced Heart Attack. You see, we went to the sea-side on Saturday, and after a stroll into town, a pint at the pub and some fish and chips, we decided to take Henry for a run on the beach before heading back. This was an error.

The cliffs at this particular beach are not high, but they are sandstone and have crumbled in places until they are more of a very steep slope, with plenty of cover growing. It's an ideal place for rabbits, and Henry was in his element, scooting up and down like a very small furry mountaineer.

And then it happened. I called him down, and for once in his life, Henry actually did as he was told. It's the unusual nature of that which makes me think that this was deliberate. He flew down the slope, got to the drop - and launched himself into space. Now, admittedly this was a fairly small cliff. The drop was only about 6 feet. But that's a long way if you're Henry sized! In fact, I think I may have squeaked a bit: my heart certainly missed a beat. He face-planted into the sand, looked a bit dazed - and then, thankfully, was off with no ill effects. In fact he gave a repeat performance about 5 minutes later (after which he was put back on the lead on health and safety grounds).

That was Saturday - today is Monday, and I fear the worst. The man is coming over in a bit, and Henry appears dormant. I'm not fooled though - he's just plotting his next move. Who knows what diabolical plan he may have come up with now?

Oh honestly

I don't know what he's done, or how he did it. In fact, I don't even know what it is. All I know is, Henry has done himself an injury. Again. He has spent most of this week hobbling up and down the stairs like a geriatric sloth, looking mournful, sitting by the sofa looking mournful as he found himself lacking the spring needed to get onto it, looking mournful, forgetting temporarily to look mournful and leaping about, yelping, then slinking over to me and looking mournful, and looking mournful about not being allowed off the lead.

I have spent most of the week worrying, manipulating all his limbs, worrying, debating on whether or not to take him to the vets, worrying, making him get up and pootle up and down the corridor every few hours to stop him seizing up, and worrying.

Fortunately he is now staging a recovery. This is fortunate, because if I had spent months doing physio exercises to make sure I can go walking next weekend only to have it scuppered by the damn dog, I would have sunk into a decline.