The peacemaker

Once again, Mrs Bitey has proved her worth in spreading joy and defusing situations that had all the ingredients for me to get a kicking.

I hate it when people abuse facilities that are there for a reason. A particular bug bear is people using blue badge spaces when they don’t have a blue badge. I’ve yet to come across a situation, other than in a hospital A&E entrance, where those lucky enough to be healthy and mobile have an absolute emergency of life and death need to park next to the building they are visiting. Sure, it is a pain having to trek across a car park, especially when lugging a heavy load or being dragged by a squirrel hunting Jack Russell, and indeed, it always seems to rain hard whenever the only available space is miles away, but hey, that’s life.

So when a car pulled into the blue badge space in an otherwise empty car park to the insistent thump of tacky drum and bass, I could feel my hackles rising, a la Mrs B spotting a fox. My withering glare was deployed at the car, devoid of any blue badge, and it’s occupants, 4 Lambert and Butler toting young women who looked and sounded like a end product of a breeding experiment between the Wurzels and some particularly skanky Jeremy Kyle guests.

Bitey and I were doing the monthly Pets at Home food and treats shop, this time in a less salubrious area of a west country city famous for being the former home of a seedy sex and DIY obsessed serial killing couple. It also happens to be my birthplace and hosts the nearest PaH when I’m in the shire. It’s rougher than a geriatric badger’s arsehole and certainly not an ideal location for a showdown over parking.

These days I tend to find groups of young women more intimidating than men. I’m not afraid of the actual individuals but am wary of the animal instincts of human group behaviour especially when aggressive peer pressure comes into play. So when the gang of 4 hauled themselves out of their car and lumbered in an ungainly but purposeful fashion towards me, I felt that sinking feeling that I was probably going to get some uninvited advice on weight loss and perhaps the need for cosmetic surgery, before getting some clear suggestions about minding my own business and going away rapidly to copulate with myself.

Thankfully Mrs B turned on the charm in a masterstroke of brilliance, distracting and dissolving the gang into a cooing, grinning gaggle long enough for me to spot a warning sign about clamping which I pointed out in my best wide eyed innocent manner.

So, I found myself the bessy mate and car park saviour of the gang, one of whom had two Jack Russells of her own. Treats were offered and Mrs B obliged with her party tricks of begging in a particularly cute way and giving a paw. The car was moved ‘just in case’ the clampers were in the vicinity and I returned to my car unscathed and, to be honest, just ever so slightly relieved…

Houdini and the Halti pt II

Today was one of those fabulous winter days when the sun is shining and everything is bright and clear. There was no sub arctic temperatures to contend with, no pale, watery sun, no rain… in short, perfect walking weather.

Being in the Shire gives a lot more scope for walks and today was most definitely a Big Park day.

The Big Park is one of my favourite spots in the world which is why I’m not going to name it- some of you will know it anyway- as there are quite enough people trampling through it already.

Big Park is, as the name suggests, huge and runs down through a steep sided wooded valley. There’s a half built Victorian Gothic Mansion slap bang in the middle of it, an ice house, a boat house, 5 lakes and the remains of a quarry and some 18th and 19th century cottages. It also is home to some rare horseshoe bats. (Thank you Wikipedia).

On a more personal note, my mum played in the park and mansion when she was a kid as she lived near to one of the entrances. The mansion was abandoned for many years but because it was so isolated and remote in location, it thankfully did not get demolished, trashed or developed into luxury flats.

Mrs Bitey has been there before and loves it. A group of us walked the length of the valley and had a picnic mid point. As there was plenty of food about and Mrs B likes to be the centre of attention, she was free range off the lead but didn’t stray too far running and probably did double the distance at high speed. However, given recent Bad Behaviour, especially running off hunting, warning signs about sheep and also for my own sanity, I decided to keep her on the lead.

Big mistake no 1 was to use the short everyday lead. Granted it is more comfortable and lighter to use as I can hook it on my arm, but it did mean that Mrs B pulled like hell. She pulls on the extendable box lead too but not quite so much.

Big mistake no 2 was not starting with the Halti and fitting it on her at home. I am soft hearted so thought we’d start with the just about tolerated harness and keep the Halti in my pocket in case of heavy duty pulling.

Big mistake no 3 was walking past a field of Belted Galloway cows, a lovely breed I’ll freely admit, but ones that Mrs Bitey likes to chase and round up as they run quite fast.

As the pulling situation got worse, I decided to stick the Halti on. Mrs B was not happy at all and showed it. Thankfully the one thing that I did do right today was to clip the additional Halti safety link onto her collar.

Good job I did too as with a squirmy, wormy manoeuvre, two backward steps and a charge forward, Mrs Bitey has wriggled her way out of the Halti.

My first thought, after a lunging grab to prevent Mrs B from reenacting an episode of Rawhide, was that I’d put the Halti on wrong. Pilot error so to speak. So I refastened it, checked it, pulled the straps tighter still, checked it again and off we went.

30 seconds later after a second squirmy, wormy manoeuvre, the same thing happened. Further attempts yielded a similar outcome. In short Mrs B was in the Halti for about 30 seconds each time.

After 5 escape routines, I gave up. The harness was pressed back into service and it was time to be dragged. The first half a mile was the worst, requiring frequent changes of direction trying to correct her. Negotiating two sightings and a walk past of sheep was hard work. Thankfully there were no squirrel observations on the slippery steep bit or I’d have ended up in one of the lakes.

Just to add to the fun, there has been recent rumours of a ‘big cat’ roaming wild in the park after a semi eaten deer was found. Early on, there was a brief moment of defeated temptation to jettison the lead and let Mrs B risk being eaten by a tiger, panther or whatever but I did not give in and gradually, over time, Mrs Bitey settled down into a tolerable pace of mild pulling.

It seems that Mrs B is a terrier version of Houdini. She can get out of her harness and collar when stuck and makes easy work of the Halti- which was hurled into the back of the glove box and probably won’t see light of day until the garage next service my car and get the logbook out to stamp. It’s time to think of a new strategy. Ideas greatly welcomed…

AWOL (again)

Today’s events neatly sum up Mrs Bitey.

We walked the common land early, the sun was up and there were very few souls around. It was so still and peaceful that I found myself slipping into a lull listening to my boots squelching along in the muddy grass- it was really quite hypnotic and I felt at one with the world.

Mrs B was hopping about, sniffing, pausing to look around, having a run… in short just being herself.

Then looming on the horizon we spotted her Nemesis – another terrier she had a nasty scrap with back last summer. The owner was even worse and had sent me a very poisonous threatening letter – I’d apologised profusely and paid the vet fees for her dog to be checked over but clearly that wasn’t enough.

A rematch was the last thing that I wanted so we detoured to the very edge of the common- BIG mistake. There is a small copse of trees clinging perilously to the side of the steepest part of the hill. In places it is practically a sheer drop. Wooded areas are not good news for me as they offer endless scope for hunting and adventure for Mrs B.

I reached out to grab her but was too late- she’d spotted a squirrel or bird or possibly just a stray leaf and took to her heels. Her ears shut down in that infuriating terrier selective hearing way and that was it for 20 minutes.

The 20 minutes I could live with, the climbing down to find her and the state of her when she emerged grinning from under a bush I could not.

She was triumphant and sans collar, harness and half of one of her back claws. The claw had needed a trim I guess. The nearly new harness, posh collar and matching tag remain at large and I can only imagine that somewhere a squirrel has donned the collar, is using the harness as a hammock and wearing the claw hung from a string round its neck as a necklace (thanks Neil for that last unforgettable image!).

The silver lining is that it means that the new Halti will be pressed into service tomorrow.

Can’t wait.

Invasion of the clones

I’ve been in the Shire for over 2 weeks now and worryingly, it seems that some of the inhabitants of my manor, Smugsville, SW London have also migrated westward. It’s not a good thing.

For many years, my home patch of the shire was a largely undiscovered sleepy netherworld of rural small town life. The picture postcard parts are the other end of the county and tended to attract all the tourists and weekenders. However, those bits are now so manicured and contrived as ‘country living’ (as well as being prohibitively expensive and over populated) that townie weekenders looking for rustic idyll have had to migrate a bit further south for the real deal.

About 20 years ago, my home town had an influx of middle class hippies arrive to live an alterative lifestyle. So alternative that they all look and dress alike, have the same arrogant but politically right on kids and all live in the same shabby rural chic as artists or organic yoghurt knitters. It’s a bit like an organic, grungy fusion with a whiff of middle class pretension. The social and political landscape changed quite dramatically initially but over time settled down with a reasonable level of tolerance and good natured mocking between locals and incomers. The hippies do the same things to ease their social conscience and the local yokels do their own thing, pausing occasionally to titter at the hippies’ attempts at street theatre or self expression. However, it must be said that the hippies have thrown themselves into contributing to country life and have been instrumental in recording and preserving local history, trades, traditions and buildings. The yokels should be ashamed as, without the hippies, so much would have been lost a long time ago.

The new force to be reckoned with are the Boden Clones who are gradually creeping in at weekends. They behave and interact in the exact same way as they do in their smug city suburbs, except for a less than subtle sartorial nod to rural clothing- expensive ‘home spun organic’ sweaters, yellow cords, Barbour, Hunter boots… you can imagine. No one else would be seen dead in such attire and there is a delicious irony that dressing with the aim of blending in with the bumpkins, does the exact opposite.

The Clones like the idea of rural life but can’t really cope with it. They will complain and mount vociforous campaigns against cattle and horse shit on the roads, demand that ancient grazing rights are forfeited in favour of cars, push up the prices of pub and restaurant drinks and food, and gush about supporting local businesses before getting into their Range Rovers to drive to Waitrose.

All the things that I try to escape seem to follow me.

It was interesting today on my walk with Mrs Bitey. We went up to a local beauty spot which has amazing views over the Severn estaury and beyond. There was a diverse range of folk up there, dogs of all shapes and sizes, some hippies with kids flying a kite, some paragliders setting up and flying in their very big kites, some doddery old ones getting some air, some hearty ramblers and a few van based workmen parked up with chips for lunch. Somehow, despite the marked differences in background, income bracket and social/political leaning, everyone was just moving along together. Everyone spoke to each other, some minded their own business, others lingered to chat. It was a really nice chilled out atmosphere with a view to die for. The hippies had a muddle of muddy and mournful looking lurchers and assorted mongrels, the oldies had little yappies, there were a few big and scary mutts and a scattering of head strong terriers, Mrs B being one of them.

Then a couple of clone families pitched up. Looking down their noses at others, they proceeded to moan about too many cars, too much noise, too many people, the paragliders spoiling the view, tutted at other peoples’ dogs and were outraged that the ground was muddy and the picnic tables wet. The standard issue cocker spaniels and chocolate labradors were roundly ignored and left to crap all over the grass where it remained as presumably the au pair responsible for crap clearing was off duty that day. Children with names like Clemmie and Zac were dragged away in horror when it seemed likely that Mrs Bitey was going to walk anywhere near them. My cheery ‘It’s ok, I’ve fed her today’ did nothing to lighten the atmosphere and indeed, within a few minutes the clones got the peaceful rural bliss they’d craved as everyone else decided to bugger off home and leave them to it.