Ahem

I'm pretty certain the cats are not to blame for this:

It's a pretty thorough disembowelling of the futon.  Notice the yellow throw that was moved over first. With added cardboard box shreddings for a scene of complete devastation.

The process:
Firstly Digger notices the cotton tassels that tantalisingly hold the filling in place
Then Mojo decides to have a lie down which requires a quick dig before circling a few times and going flump.
The digging opens a tiny rip, right next to a tassel which Digger is keeping an eye on.
They take turns to poke said hole.
They take turns burying a tennis ball in the hole to surprise themselves with.
As the daleks would say: EX-CA-VATE, EX-CA-VATE

We used to have another futon sofabed years back, which Mojo dealt with in her puppyhood. Some things never change, eh?

Pups go wild

In the years Before Airedales we used to love going camping, but since Mojo arrived we've only been twice. At first she was too young for the walking, then I had a broken ankle, then she had a crisis of hip dysplasia, then Digger arrived and was too young. Oh, and the weather. Did I mention the weather? This summer has been the wettest on record, and when the sun shines we seem to be nursing sick dogs. Bah. So this weekend was our last chance and we headed out to our favourite camping spot at Stoke Barton Farm on Hartland Point, north Devon.

While we set up the tent Digger sniffed the sea air and Mojo had her happy grin on.

It's a fabulous campsite, huge and uncrowded, high above the sea. See those spikes on the left in the next pic? That's the highest church tower in Devon but it's hiding behind the hill. Every trip back from the facilities meant a race down the hill.

Digger is fast. He gets down long and low, and thunders past Mojo.

The bottom of the camping field has a gate to this path:

And this is what is on the other side of the hill. Can you imagine a better place to camp?

We headed  to the beach that you can see just peeking out from behind St Catherines Mount. As with any walk along this coast there's a lot of steep up and down, and dogs have to be firmly on a lead because of the cliff edges. But we were in luck as the tide was out.

As usual, Mojo swam but Digger was a wimp and ran away from the tiny waves. Mojo didn't want to leave, but we had a thirst and the pub was a few hills along.

We had a well-earned pint at the Wreckers Retreat at Hartland Quay, beneath the spectacular cliffs. Sadly no dogs allowed on this beach, but plenty of people willing to feed their fish 'n chips to two Airedales who give such sad hungry eyes.

And afterwards a steep haul back up the cliff to get back to the tent.

So did the Dales behave in the tent? Was it an Apocalypse of Airedales? I'll let you know next installment. :)

You ate what?

Digger spent most of yesterday miserable and horribly inert at times. No barking at the postman, no drooling over our dinner, only eating under sufferance when I hand fed him morsels of rice and fish. He wouldn't walk more than a few steps before giving up - I guess because of stomach cramps. My poor sweet boy did manage a momentary grin at me when I came back from walking Mojo. Needless to say we were getting really concerned, and he slept in our room so we could keep an ear on him. Throughout it all his breathing and heart rate stayed normal, so we thought we'd wait till morning before taking him back to the vets and scheduling an x-ray. (It's odd, but whenever one of our four-legged family has a crisis, it's always a bank holiday.)

Anyway, this morning he had the poop to end all poop. A proper Digger dumper.  And most of it was tough plant material (not sticks, thank goodness, so no perforation scare) that was instantly recognisable as reedmace. There was one particularly tough chunk complete with roots.



Mojo discovered reedmace a long time ago. We live along a canal with wild vegetation on the banks - in fact, the exact conditions that Airedales were originally bred to hunt along. Mojo pulls the tall stems up, then peels the tough outer layers to find a soft, floury core that's totally yummy. It was a food source our ancestors probably used before agriculture. Smart Mojo figured it out very quickly. Digger, on the other hand, has very little common sense, and seems to have just devoured the lot.

Anyway, he's feeling much better since his apocryphal toilet time. He's going to take a few days to get back to his usual self, but his appetite and joy for life are back.

Many thanks for your Airezen. It worked! Especially on a mummy who was feeling helpless and worried sick.

So, Digger...
You were only a few months old when you ate a visiting child's sock and had to be rushed to the vet.
You were about a year old when you tried to eat a fishhook with three barbs and mummy had to catch it just before it went past the root of your tongue and down your throat.
And at a year and half you've tried to top yourself with a reedmace.
Pack it in!

pear shaped

There's a great British phrase - things going pear-shaped. It's when everything just goes a bit awry. And that's been the story of the last few weeks. So the Olympic tribute went out the window.

Once the extra menagerie went home and we didn't have to keep the doors shut and half the house barricaded (dog in season), we thought we'd relax. But then my computer started having fits and I spent forever sorting out the problem. Good job too, as I've been asked to do a bit of post-production on some photos for a charity calendar. The photos are of people who work in a beautiful National Trust garden near here, and in keeping in the spirit of charity calendars they are all naked save for a strategically placed plant or watering can. Ha! I'd love to show you but I think that might be a bit too much!

Anyway, the real pear-shaped moment is Digger, who is not well at all. He's been a bit peaky for a few days and has vomited a few times; not unusual for a dog who likes to eat everything. But last night he was sick everywhere, and today he's carried on the same. He's so miserable. The vets can't feel a blockage and his temperature and heart rate seemed ok so he had an anti-vomit injection and we see how he goes. But he's not a happy chap. Completely off his food, and feeling lousy. If he's the same tomorrow we'll be back to the vets. Even if they x-ray him they may not be able to see soft blockages, and which bit to open up? I must admit we're feeling really tense and worried right now. So any Aire-zen would be appreciated.

Here's a pic of the little chap exactly a year ago, when he decided to check on my painting with a nose-poke or two.

Olympics day 8

So what Olympic sport suits a pack of four dogs? All kinds of running, of course.
Running one way:

running the other way:

and running all ways at once:

Things were going just fine until we tried to organise a proper start. Time after time, a certain young Airedale boy with fast-twitch reactions kept doing false starts:

 The starter man had to step in and read him the riot act. One more false start and you're out. Okay, okay, I'll be good, says Digger.

Oops.

D is for dog.
D is for Digger.
D is for disqualified.

Olympics day 7

Now if there's one thing the humans in this house disagree on, it's how much football is enough football. So although one of us was hoping to avoid a football tribute, it's inevitable considering there are two bears who never tire of playing it.

There are serious tackles:

some serious teeth:

 and some serious attempts to run over the photographer:

We confess that our Olympic tribute is a little lacking in verve today, because canine chaos has arrived in our house. See the big fella below?

That's Sol, who we have for a couple of weeks every year while his people go on holiday. Well, a day before they were off this time he was hit with a horrible gastric thing that had him vomiting and pooing blood. So for the last week we've been doling out an endless array of tablets that all happen at different points throughout the day, and having to cajole him to eat. We even had to syringe water into his chops as he just wasn't drinking. Well, he's feeling much better now, thank goodness. Meanwhile, his sissy was staying with another family, but she's come into season and they have an entire male... so now we have her too. Daisy is hormonal and can't be let off the lead, Sol is feeling well enough to try to mount her continually (even though he's been 'done') and Digger is having serious issues with mummy's divided attention. Mojo is just being perfect, thank goodness. We're going to need that bottle of Ouzo when our friends get back from Greece!

Walkies looks like Ben Hur's chariot race but with the perfect country collection: two Airedales, a huge lurcher and a spaniel/lab cross. Or as we call them: two bears, a wolf and a beaver.

Wish us luck!

Olympics day 6

The best thing about the Olympics is that you find yourself watching sports you know nothing about and still end up cheering like crazy. I've been fascinated by the judo all week, but today things reached a peak with the finals of the ladies 78kg. I shed a tear or two, for the British woman competing in the memory of her mother, and the American winner who had to overcome appalling circumstances to get there.

Anyway, I still know little about judo. I can tell you that there are points scored for different throws. The lowest points are given for a yuko, which throws the opponent on their side. Here Mojo (at 5 months old) demonstrates how:

The highest points - and an immediate win - is for a ippon, which involves throwing the opponent onto their back. Mojo demontrates here with her pal Harvey:

 

Harvey was only 6 months old in these pics - he's part Saluki and is now twice the size. Even at 6 months he gave as good as he got:

Opponents can signal submission. Either by grinning:

Or by making noises like a whoopee cushion:

It didn't take long for Digger to get the rules. Just squash your sissy and bite!