What do you do when you've nothing to do?

Even the busiest of us have times when we do nothing. Those times when we're at home, no-one else is around, or if they are, they're occupied. I'm feeling the need to have something that's my "go-to" thing. Some kind of default activity that's just there, waiting for me.

If I had a sewing room, maybe I could have a lovely patchwork quilt project (this is a secret aim of mine... not so secret, really). But I can't default to it for the odd hour here and there, if it's always going to involve clearing the dining room table and setting it all out.

I have a tapestry on the go. My children laugh at me, because I tell them how Husband gave it to me the first Christmas we were married. That's 17 years ago. It's not my speediest project.

I've long given up having houseworky projects as defaults. It's just too depressing. You never finish them all. You never have a perfect house. Better by far to accept your imperfect house and find other things to do.

I'm not going to join Facebook or Twitter, because I want a default activity, not an addiction.

There's always blogging, but... sniff... blogging is so lonely these days, now that all my comments go into people's spam filters. It's a sad, one-way conversation. It makes me feel voiceless and frustrated (please, rush off and rescue me from your spam filter, and click on the "this is not spam" option, before I give up blogging altogether).

My children spend hours petting the dog, and rubbing his tummy as he lies goofily on his back. But he is too smelly for me to want to engage in that. I do quite often walk him in an idle half hour. He's so pathetically eager and grateful, that it's easy-pickings in the "emotionally rewarding activity" stakes. But I'm looking for an indoor activity.

Half an hour is usually enough to catch up with The Archers on iPlayer, or a quick burst of something recorded on TV (an episode of Scrubs is my current fix of choice, or Downton Abbey if I have a little longer).

If I was a generation older, I would read the paper, but these days, if I buy a paper, I find I recycle it unread, while browsing the news online.

I sometimes browse recipes, and think about delicious dishes I could cook, or sweet treats I could bake. Then next time I have a window of empty time, I do cook them. Sometimes. You have to be quite organised to cook in that way.

I often write emails to friends. "Haven't been in touch for ages. How are you?" I like doing that. Or I phone my mum for a chat. I like doing that too.

I have a book on the go, but I find it hard to settle down for a read, unless it's bedtime. Why is that?

I wish I could be that person who will do just a few yoga poses, or abdominal exercises. Then I would be more toned, and less wibbly-wobbly in the midriff area. But the journey from knowing that would be a good way of spending 20 minutes, even 10 minutes, to the actual doing of it is such a very, very long road. I did buy a yoga mat. I do have yoga dvds. They are in what is called "as new" condition.

I do enjoy a quick canter round hilarious videos on Youtube, but don't tell my children. Obviously, Youtube videos are a waste of time. You don't want to grow up to be the kind of person who fritters away their time watching cats slipping on wooden floors, or dogs looking very guilty, do you? And that's what happens if you don't develop other interests. We all know that.

Writing. Whatever happened to writing? I used to do more of that.

So what about you? You're at home. You don't have anything that HAS to be done. You can do what you please. What is it you turn to?

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Dog poo

Ye-e-e-es, I thought that would get you reading.

While the rest of the blogosphere is bursting with Hallowe'en spook, I break my blogging silence to bring you my reflections on one of life's imponderable questions.

Why is dog poo brown?

And specifically, why is it brown, in autumn?

We dog owners, we have a hard life. If the dog is squatting, unless we fix our eyes on the exact spot, and march swiftly to said spot, without looking to left or right, or even blinking, we will find ourselves looking for a poo among multi-coloured-but-all-of-them-a-variation-of-brown fallen leaves, which said activity makes looking for a needle in a haystack seems as easy as pie. Incidentally, that's a ridiculous metaphor, because baking a good pie is actually very hard, as any Great British Bake Off viewer will tell you.

But, dear Bloggy Friends, here is the magic of blogging. I present this as a problem, and then I turn it into a business opportunity! Ta-da! I am going to invent some kind of non-toxic food colouring that shows up in poo in a neon colour. It's probably been done already. The medics love that kind of thing, don't they? They're always putting odd substances inside you and then filming it, or scanning it, or chopping it up. I'm going to patent a dog food that produces neon glow results!

Better still, I'm going to find a way of putting into dog food that infra-red (or is it ultra-violet?) substance that they use to stop bank note forgery. It's ultra-violet, isn't it? Not infra-red. No. Anyway, where was I? Then I'll sell some kind of wand-y thing, that dog owners can wave over the ground, to locate the purple poo. This is better than the neon glowing poo, because the poo will remain invisible to the general public, and only be visible to the guilty dog owner. We don't really want the parks of Britain to be littered with neon splodges, though our trainers and wellies might thank us for it. It wouldn't be very sightly. Although let's get back to the seasonal subject of Hallowe'en here. Dotting the park with neon splodges would actually be a rather Hallowe'eny thing to do, wouldn't it? It would really put the poo into spooky (see what I... never mind).

OK. Back to blogging silence. Enjoy Hallowe'en!

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Ode to a cocker spaniel

Thank you for your comments on dryers. Everybody loves a laundry post! On the basis of what you advised, and of what was on offer at Curry's, I've purchased a condenser Beko. Long may it dry! And I hope it doesn't cause me the need to vent. (See what I did there. But thinking about it, whatever happened to the word vent? It's seriously out of use now, and when I started blogging, people vented all the time. It was what made blogging great.)

When a cocker spaniel enters your life, there is a serious increase in earage in your daily life. As we walk Hector, we often sing that song:

Do your ears hang low?
Do they waggle to and fro?
Can you tie them in a know?
Can you tie them in a bow?
Can you swing them over your shoulder, like a regimental soldier?
Do your ears, hang, low?

It's a good song to walk to. Alternatively, one of us sits Hector on our lap, and acts it out with his ears. (No, it's not unkind, and let's face it, there's got to be some use for those appendages.)

9-yo and I have made up a couple more verses.

Do your ears hang high?
Do they point up to the sky?
Do they startle passers-by?
Can you flap them till you fly?
Could we make them into a hat, and then what would you think of that?
Do your ears, hang, high?

Do your ears twist round?
Can they reach down to the ground?
Do they make an awful sound?
Are they really world-renowned?
You'll be king of all things furry, and you'll never have to worry,
When your ears, are, crowned!

Gotta love a cocker spaniel!


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Killer dogs or miracle dogs?

The first paragraph of the lead story on the BBC news website today reads:

"The maximum jail sentence for the owners of dogs that attack and kill someone could be raised to life, under proposals for England and Wales."

On a first look, my attention was arrested. I do understand what it means, but I had to read it through 2 or 3 times to be absolutely sure the writer wasn't trying to say something else, rather extraordinary.

Photo courtesy of the BBC news website, and apologies to my brother for putting up a picture of a staffie in this context. I'm only copying the BBC...


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Having a dog is like having a small child

This is why:

• You can kiss goodbye to lie-ins. You may know that it's the week-end, but the dog's body clock doesn't know that.
• You have to be consistent, if you want good behaviour. Being consistent is really hard. Really hard.
• You feel bad when you shout at him. But not bad enough that you don't do it again.
• You feel slightly aggrieved when you meet another dog with the same name as yours. Yes, it's a vote of confidence that it's a good choice of name, but harrumph, you don't want too many of them around.
• You feel guilty when it's the end of the day and you feel you haven't paid him enough attention.
• You hear yourself saying things to him in public in a slightly-too-loud voice, like "you're being very noisy... you're not usually like this...".
• It's embarrassing when he doesn't play nicely with other dogs, even though the other owners are very understanding and say things like "oh, he's just full of energy".
• Lots of things are "just a phase".
• There's always something in your pocket that, in an ideal world, wouldn't be there, but which you can't leave the house without. With a small child, it's a stock of manky tissues. With a dog, it's a few crumpled dog poo bags.
• His separation anxiety is both rather endearing (it's nice to be so needed) and very irritating (it's a drag to be so needed).
• Gardening is impossible. You really think he's going to occupy himself quietly elsewhere in the garden while you pay attention to plants?
• You spend more on his haircuts than on your own.

But... there are moments when he is visibly enjoying life so much, that your heart is warmed, and you resolve to live in the moment like he does. At this point, you'd have a lovely picture of Hector, running over the grass, ears flapping, tongue hanging out, eyes bright. But that's another thing that's like having a small child: action photo opportunities are over so fast that you miss them all.

Instead, here is a video of his latest trick, because - and here's another illustration of the comparison - one can't help being ridiculously proud of every small achievement. (And this one is a double reason for maternal pride, since I had nothing to do with it. The children trained him.)

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Role model

Thank you, lovely Bloggy Friends, for being with me through my insecurities.

Over the past few months, I've thought it best to keep blogging, because then, at least, I am writing. And that is better than not writing. Then occasionally, just occasionally, I write a post and decide not to publish it, but to keep it for my book. So there are just a very few pages written. A very few. But that seems to be where a lot of bloggers are, if your comments are anything to go by, and it's always good to know you're not alone. Thank you.

9-yo asked me a little while ago, about jobs and being a mum. I don't know what prompted the question. I didn't want to get too heavy about it all - she's only 9 - but I said that it seems that most women have to make choices that men don't have to make in quite the same way. I said that you don't have to have children, but if you do, you either have to look after them, or have someone else do it. I said that it was super-fun and very wonderful to be able to do it yourself, but that did mean you couldn't always be concentrating on other things. I said that anyway, it might all have changed a bit by the time she's grown up, but probably not, and she will have choices to make, but it will be ok. You just do the best you can.

She thought about it for a few seconds, and then replied,

"I think I'll have children, and then I'll chillax and get a dog".

So I'm a role model... of some kind?

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For all you spaniel lovers out there

(And I include myself in your number, by the way. I'm in a good phase with Hector - though any tips on how to stop early morning barking would be appreciated.)

This isn't Hector. This is a cocker spaniel who belongs to a friend of mine, living in France. You have to watch to the end (go on, what better things have you got to do for 2 minutes and 25 seconds?) to appreciate fully the dog's artistic sensibility.

Oh, Hector

I've been asking Husband for ages if he could help me fix the Lindam gate (for "help me fix", read "fix") that we have between the kitchen and the utility room, so that I can leave the house without Hector free-roaming in the kitchen. Husband fixed the gate yesterday. So this morning, you would think that I would leave Hector in the utility room, with the gate shut. You would think.

But old habits die hard, and I didn't. When I came home from Sainsbury's, this was the scene that greeted me.

I still haven't worked out how he got the packet down from the table, since I'd carefully tucked the chairs in and moved everything away from the sides. There have been two occasions when I've been puzzled by a pair of my gloves appearing in his crate. Both times, I was sure I'd left the gloves on the table, but had concluded that I must have dropped them, or left them somewhere in reach. I couldn't believe that Hector could have got up onto a chair, wriggled round to get up onto the table, tidily selected the most interesting item without disturbing the rest of the selection on offer, and got back down again. But with this morning's event providing a new piece of the detective jigsaw, I conclude that that is exactly what he did. (Unless he can jump straight onto the table from the floor, which I suppose is another possibility.)

And just in case you want to leap to his defence, I have photographic evidence of his guilt.

I think that's conclusive proof. Caught red-pawed, wouldn't you agree?

For the eagle-eyed among you, yes, someone in the family had edited the front of the cereal packet, to read "Special Kat". Do you think that's why Hector couldn't resist the temptation?

Thank heavens for Dysons. That's the moral of the story. But before I go, I must just share one rather revolting detail with you. When I found him, Hector was acting in a slightly deranged way. He was rearing up on his back legs, Pudsey-style, stroking and batting at the sides of his jaw with both front paws. He was licking his lips and throwing his head around, and it became obvious to me that there was something stuck in his mouth. On investigation, I found a great cloying wad of Special Kat, mashed together and compressed onto the roof of his mouth. I suppose evolution didn't design the spaniel jowl for the efficient mastication of breakfast cereal. He didn't seem to be making progress in dealing with the situation himself, so I had no choice but to hold his mouth open, and scrape the Special Kat wad from the roof of his mouth with my index finger. Look away now, if you don't want to know the result. (The Sharpie and the pound coin are for scale.)

I've totally put you off your flapjack, haven't I?

Oh, Hector. You're in the doghouse again.

Name corruptions

Good to know that we're not the only family which has a ridiculous range of names for its dog. Thanks for your comments. Hector is also Hectorious, Hectoroo, What-the-Hec, and probably several others that have slipped my mind.

Over Christmas, and as a result of the influence of my sister, 8-yo got very interested in Strictly Come Dancing. She joined the "Can't Bear Bruce Forsyth" club, and was generally very taken with the glamour and glitz of it all. Hector played his part. She would pick him up, hold him tight, and whirl round the room with him, saying "This is Strictly Come Dogging! This is Strictly Come Dogging!"

Oh dear. Perhaps she'll have forgotten, by the time next season comes round.
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What's in a name?

It takes a while to adjust to family life with a puppy. We're still in that process. It's very much like having small children. Just as you've got used to one stage, they're on to the next. You can never relax and think you've cracked it (though foolishly, you do). For example, Hector's now getting more adventurous, and likes to wander off on walks, and won't come when I call, not even for a little lump of cheese. Not even for cheese! Cheese has always worked up till now. It's lost its magic overnight.

On the positive side, he managed the 400 mile drive to my mother's house, with only one stop at a motorway service station for food, water and pee, in exemplary fashion. He was in his crate in the back of the car, in total silence. I even wondered if we'd left him in the service station car park by accident. The great thing about travelling with a puppy, is that you don't have to listen to endless nursery rhyme CDs, or play I-Spy.

Hector spent three nights with a home boarder while we were away for New Year (cheaper than kennels, actually, before you think I've totally sold out on the dog comforts front). I think it knocked him into shape a little. He was rather subdued for a day when he came home. There was an older, bigger dog there, and it made him realise his place in the pecking order. I've got this dog psychology down, you can tell.

The woman texted me on the first evening, saying that he'd settled well, and that they'd enjoyed a walk, and how good he was on the lead for a puppy. My owner heart swelled with pride. "Good on the lead for a puppy" - yes!  I deliberately didn't get in touch for the next couple of days (he's a dog, not a child), but when I texted to make arrangements for picking him up, she texted back that he'd been doing fine, that they had loved having him, and that he'd been behaving "just as a puppy should". I thought that said it all. Bless her euphemistic heart.

8-yo was chatting to Husband the other day:

"Hector has lots of names, doesn't he? Mum and I call him Hector or Hectie. 12-yo calls him Heckipoo. 15-yo calls him Li'l Buddy. And you call him Foul Beast."

Here's a picture of him, getting on for 6 months old, in (somewhat uncharacteristic) reflective mood.

And here's the sign that hangs above his crate.

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Last night, I dreamt I photocopied my puppy

It's true. Most of the dream was trying to hold him still while closing the lid, which was not easy. The dream ended with the picture emerging: four paw prints, and the underside of his chin.

Why would I dream that?

A friend suggested that I'd really wanted to buy two puppies. Actually I didn't. Good suggestion though. Any other ideas?

PS Don't you so much prefer the old fashioned spelling "dreamt" over the more modern "dreamed"?

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Hector is back in favour

Yesterday I took Hector for a walk round the school playing fields. As I was going home, I came across 11-yo and his class-mates, on the way back to the boys' changing room. 11-yo's face suddenly made it all worthwhile, when he saw Hector, called him, scooped him up into his arms, and showed him off to his friends. "Hector, my puppy", he crooned, to the admiration of the other boys.

He put Hector down, and I turned for home. Suddenly, Hector was disappearing in the opposite direction. He'd found a piece of orange peel, picked it up, and, suspecting (correctly) that I'd take it away from him, rushed off. Heading for the nearest hiding place, he dashed straight into the boys' changing room. He was so quick that I didn't see where he'd gone, but I knew, from the shrieks of laughter and excitement coming out of the door. 11-yo sprinted after him, there was more shrieking and hilarity, and then 11-yo emerged, Hector in his arms.

Hector. You brought mirth to the First Form, raised their spirits, and gave them a story to tell over tea. You elevated 11-yo's status among his peers. Oh, the kudos of having a puppy, and a puppy who naughtily ventured into the boys' changing room!

You can stay. (But try harder on the house training, would you?)

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Why Husband is like Obama (and why I am not like the First Lady)

So Obama is President again. As he made his victory speech, there was a small, seemingly insignificant phrase, that resonated in the Manhattan household. You possibly missed it, amidst the background noise of the whole world beyond America breathing a huge sigh of relief. As he paid tribute to his daughters and talked about their return to the White House, he joked "but one dog is enough".

"Too right", muttered Husband, stirring his porridge, as the furry whirlwind which blows floor level through our kitchen at breakfast-time twirled and yapped at his feet. "Though I would go further, and say that maybe one dog is too many."

I was thinking about life in the White House, and I bet Michelle's experience of puppy-owning is very different to mine. I bet Michelle has a cleaner who mops her kitchen floor. I bet Michelle didn't have to spend time measuring the boot of her car and looking on Gumtree for a crate that fits. I bet Michelle doesn't have to get her children to take the dog out into the cold while she cooks dinner, because his behaviour is so uncontrollable when the smell of food permeates the kitchen, saying "you wanted a dog, and this is part of having a dog". I bet Michelle had a puppy trainer who took Bo, and in patriotic duty, faced the hours of lonely frustration on behalf of the First Family: "Sit... no... Sit... no... Sit... no... Sit... oh, Good Dog! Good Dog! Good Dog! Sit... no... Sit... no... Sit..." I bet Michelle doesn't have to load her own dishwasher, pushing a persistent nose away and repeating "snout out, snout out", in the knowledge that the command will never either be obeyed or appreciated for its linguistic finesse.

One of the things I think blogging has achieved, is to demythologise motherhood. Gone are the days when mothers had to say that life at home with a baby or toddler was one long road of joy and contentment. Now, it is ok to confess to days when if the baby doesn't stop screaming, you will join in but louder, or that ONE MORE game of ludo will send you over the edge. (Ludo... my personal nemesis...) I do truly believe that mummy blogging has been hugely influential in effecting this liberating sea-change. So with that in mind, let me start blazing the trail of honest reporting for puppy-owners everywhere. It's lovely having a puppy. Everyone says so. They are cute and fun and life-affirming. But, they are also THERE... ALL THE TIME... and if you've been used to the freedom of organising the school hours of your day around your own needs and wants, then having a puppy will seriously clip your wings. It's not the poo and the puddles on the kitchen floor, or the yapping when you're trying to make a phone call, or the feelings of guilt if you're out for more than a couple of hours,  or the chewing-through of the internet cable twice in two days (though that was pretty bad), or the thinly disguised competitiveness of puppy training classes, or having to go down to breakfast in boots because slippers are irresistible to a teething puppy, as are naked ankles, which are also very tender when nipped by dagger-sharp teeth, (...deep breath...), it's the knowledge of something depending on you for absolutely everything in its daily life, lodged in that whispering layer of the brain just below the surface. The white noise of responsibility. It's taken me years to drive along a road without looking out for tractors and diggers to point out to a long-since-grown small passenger in the back, and now I find I can't cross a street without a reflex sparking that wants to twitch the lead a little closer to my legs, even when Hector is at home, curled up safely on his cushion or - more likely - squatting productively in the middle of the kitchen floor.

I confessed all this in a guilty moment to two other dog owners, who sympathised. "Oh heavens yes... We actually discussed whether, if our puppy got run over, we'd replace him or go back to having our freedom. " "There were definitely days when I thought we'd made the wrong decision getting a dog, and I just had to go into another room to be away from her for a couple of hours." It was wonderful - like those playgroup moments when you find out  you're not the only mother who can't make sticker charts work.

Hector, in case you ever learn to read, I do love you, and I am glad we've got you, so if I'm sometimes a little less enthusiastic than I should be about you, don't judge me too harshly. I think it's normal, and at least I'm being honest. And if you are reading this at some future date, perhaps you could tell me why house-training was really so difficult.

Meet Hector

We have a puppy! He is a cocker spaniel (English cocker spaniels are a bit smaller than American cockers, for my US readers). He is a blue roan, which is breeder-speak for speckledy grey with black and white patches. Here he is.

There are two things that I've learnt about puppies. The first is that they are very hard to photograph, especially if they have black faces, because then it looks as if they don't have eyes. So forgive me the quality of the pictures in this post. The second is that they won't bother about getting house trained, if you don't bother. A lot. A very lot.

Apart from the house training issue (which is my fault, really, because I just can't build my life round taking a dog outside every 20 minutes, and what progress I'd made, we lost when half-term started and my eye was even less on the house training ball than before), he is a pleasure. He is fun, confident, unbelievably cute, and as 8-yo commented the other day "has brought a lot of joy to our lives". Most of our lives, in any case. I could say all but one of our lives... Looking at you here, Husband... You'll bond with him in time... Trust me...

I do particularly like the fact that he is good at nights. I wasn't looking forward to having to get up in the night to a barking or whining puppy, or those horribly early mornings when the puppy body clock says "day begins now". But Hector has got me up only once in the night. From night one, when we firmly shut the kitchen door, and the bedroom door, and didn't borrow a baby monitor, he settled well. He settles in the evening, and even though he hears us next door in the sitting room, he will put himself to bed in the kitchen, not even being offended if I go in to make a cup of tea. When half-term began, I predicted that his body clock would still be on school hours, but he only barks when he hears us get up. Of course the kitchen floor is littered with unwelcome surprises, but I'll happily mop those up if it means I've had an extra hour or two in bed.

I don't really know what else to tell you about Hector (for such is his name). Oh, except that he was clearly destined to be ours. I'd already short-listed Hector as a name (remember that blog post?). We'd decided on a cocker, a male, and my first choice was a blue roan. When I phoned a breeder, I asked if there were any males in the litter, and any blue roans. The breeder replied "There's only one blue roan boy. He's very inquisitive so we've nick-named him Hector the Inspector". We went to see the litter, and fell in love with Hector, but the children also fell for another, whom they nick-named Cuddles. Cuddles, an orange roan (brown and white), was the shy, timid puppy who pulled at heartstrings. The other puppies gambolled about, while Cuddles got tired, and simply fell asleep in the middle of the floor. So we went off to have a coffee and discuss the issue. I phoned the breeder, said we were still choosing between the two, and asked if we could come and have another look, (though I told the children that Hector was my first choice, as I preferred to have a confident rather than a timid dog). But while we had been having coffee, the next buyer - who had said he wanted one of the all-black puppies from the litter - had chosen orange roan Cuddles instead. So Hector was ours! It was meant to be.

Here are another couple of pictures of him. Bless his little, soft, furry, blue roan heart.

I love you all, but...

... no post tonight.

You know you're not in America, when you move house and have to wait over a month for a landline and internet connection. Yes, you read that correctly. Over... a... month... A very long month. Because a BT engineer has to come and activate our internet hub thingy (already installed in the house), before anyone from any other company can do whatever they do to get us connected. Apparetly BT are very busy. 15-yo asked if that didn't count as a monopoly, and if so, why was it allowed. I didn't know the answer.

All I do know is that not having a landline or the internet is a pain in the proverbial, though also strangely useful. It does mean that life is remarkably uninterrupted, and that unpacking can happen at our own pace. On the other hand, it also means that you can end up driving for over an hour round the city, because you're using the GPS to tell you where things are, instead of looking them up on the internet. The GPS tells you that a vet surgery (more on that in a minute) is 3.5 miles away. What it doesn't tell you is that the vet surgery it has in mind is the other side of the city centre, where there are serious semi-permanent roadworks, a zillion tourist buses, roads closed because of some international arts festival or other called "The Edinburgh Festival", and that it's lunchtime. I resorted to stopping at a petrol station and asking the way to the ring road after the vet surgery, which actually was a very clever move. I've only lived here six days and I'm already more savvy than the GPS. That's a relief. I hate being out-smarted by a GPS. That smug tone of voice... That know-it-all superior attitude... Though it has given me a good idea for an epitaph. I think I might have "Recalculating your route" written on my tombstone.

All of which is to apologise for the fact that I'm not posting much at the moment. BT are too busy to connect us up to the internet at home. When I do sneakily find internet access, hidden away in Husband's office (it takes three keys to get in here, but I get a splendid view of the city from the window), I have a whole list of boring admin things to do. Plus I did absolutely promise the kids that I would look at the Scottish Kennel Club website. A promise is a promise, so I must do so (though they are incorrect if they think it will make me more likely to get a puppy in the next three weeks before their term starts, rather than waiting sensibly until we are a little more settled in - as I have explained to them more than a few times). Faced with the choice of engaging with my beloved, but patient and far-flung, bloggy friends, or satisfying the impatient and close at hand demands of my children, I'm afraid I'm opting for the Scottish Kennel Club website.

This dog lark... it's a part-time job, I tell you, and I haven't even got the blessed thing yet.
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The cat is out of the bag: Part ll

When we were first thinking of getting a dog, I filled in a questionnaire on a website to help pick a breed. Did I want a big dog? Did I want dog that didn't moult? Did I have a garden? That kind of thing. I eagerly waited while it loaded the results... "We're sorry. We have no suggestions for a breed that suits your requirements." Hm. Well, I had been a little idealistic. I wanted a dog that was good with children, strangers, other dogs, didn't moult at all, wouldn't need too much exercise, wouldn't mind being left alone, wouldn't slobber, would be easy to train, probably would be prepared to stand for Parliament too. I tried again, tempering my answers with realism. It came up with one suggestion: the Mexican Hairless (which looks somewhat like a rat, in my opinion). I clearly needed to loosen up on the "no moulting" issue.

I've moved in my thinking since that questionnaire. I'm torn, though. I have two requirements that pull in opposite directions. I want a dog I can train. I'm prepared to put in the time and effort, and learn how to do it properly. I want a dog who's obedient, reliable, and who will come when called (crucial if you're living on a boarding school campus, don't you think?). I'm thinking Labrador, in spite of it being such a cliche. But I also want a small dog, because our house isn't huge. I grew up with Border Terriers, so I'm comfortable with them, and I also like the idea of a Scottie or a Westie. Because I realise I can't have a terrier-sized Labrador, or an obedient Terrier, I've started thinking about a middle option, but nothing seems just right. What I'm really hoping, though, is that we won't find a dog, but that the dog will find us. I'm hoping our paths will just cross. Perhaps when we move to Edinburgh, someone will know someone who has a bitch who's just whelped, and that we will get a puppy on the basis of the known loveliness of the mother.

I'm rather prejudiced against rescue dogs, though I know they can be a big success, (so no offence intended to those of you with rescue dogs). First, we want a puppy, and those are rare in rescue centres. Second, I witnessed a sad story involving a rescue dog that seemed fine, but wasn't, and it put me off the idea.

As for names, currently we're on Bracken for a bitch, and Hector or Mungo for a dog. The dog names are from Hector's House, and Mary, Mungo and Midge. Thank heavens for Youtube, with which we've been able to educate our children on those favourites from our childhood past. Remember Hector? He really was a very splendid dog. I'll include a little snippet at the end of this post for you. You'll enjoy having your memory cells tickled with the theme tune.

Our favourite name, but one we will never be able to use, is Headmaster. Husband told us that in a boarding school, the Principal is usually addressed as "Headmaster". It occurred to me that if we named our dog Headmaster, that would give rise to endless opportunities for mirth. "Get down, Headmaster." "Time for walkies, Headmaster." "What are you doing in those bushes, Headmaster?" "Stop sniffing your friends' bottoms, Headmaster." We've had a lot of fun with the idea. I just hope the children keep a straight face when they meet the man.

Well, we didn't manage to shock our children visibly with the announcement of our decision, but we do shock them every time we talk about dogs and bitches. "Ooooh, Mummy used the B word!" screeches my daughter, in horrified delight.  11-yo and 8-yo genuinely didn't know that the word 'bitch' was anything other than a crude insult. Even though we've explained the original meaning of the word, they still experience a shiver of something naughty every time it comes up.

Now it's time for Hector. (Amazing, by the way, how expressive he can be, though he has no moving facial features - well, I suppose the bottom of his mouth goes up and down, but that's not a great boon for expression, is it? It's all in the voice. Even if you don't want to watch all five minutes, watch just a little bit.)

The cat is out of the bag: Part l

Except it's not a cat. It's a dog.

Yes, Bloggy Friends, we have succumbed. And now we have to explain to our children why it is, that having argued very vociferously and effectively against having a dog for the past, ooh, ten years or so, we now think it's a good idea. The parental u-turn (great post on that subject here, by the way). We do, however, have very good grounds for a change of mind. Or is it a change of heart? Perhaps both. For starters, we didn't want to obtain a dog which, one day, we'd have to ship from one continent to another. We didn't want a dog when we were in the habit of spending over two months away from home in the summer. We didn't want a dog in a climate in which for several weeks of the year it's either too cold or too hot to exercise it. We didn't live near an open space. But now we're moving, the children are getting older and therefore able to take more responsibility, and financially we're in a better position too. So we do have reliable reasons. Wow. Writing that list, I've even persuaded myself. I also think it will help us all settle in a new place, if help is needed.

I had been looking forward to telling the children. They've wanted a dog for so long, and have raised the topic of conversation so many times. A couple of years ago, they even did a PowerPoint presentation to us on the subject. When Husband and I had finally decided in favour of a canine addition to the family, we wondered if it would be fun simply to wait until the next time one of the children tried the opening gambit of "can we get a dog?", and casually reply "yes, okay then". We knew we probably wouldn't have to wait long. But in the end, we decided to tell them straight out (I was getting a bit bored of having to delete all my browsing history on the computer). I was anticipating the moment with relish. I imagined them jumping up and down with excitement, eyes wide, faces bright. What actually happened was a rather puzzled and subdued response. "Really? For real? Really?" They didn't believe us. I think they knew that we wouldn't be mean enough to tease them, pretending we'd decided to get a dog but not following through. But somehow they couldn't fully embrace the alternative, that we really had decided to get one.

Well, the initial response might have been subdued, but since we told them, the excitement has been mounting. Breed choice, gender choice, name choice, and general dog talk, have dominated the conversation. Much browsing on the internet has been done, usually involving terribly cute pictures of puppies. We've got a couple of doggie magazines (also with cute pictures). I originally wanted a dachshund named Jasper, but neither breed nor name has met with enthusiasm from the rest of the family. Ultimately the decision will be mine and Husband's - predominantly mine, since it will be me who will take most of the responsibility for the dog. But I don't want to make an unpopular choice, so the field is open. More about that in the next post.