Top of the plops

My mother was the first to note a certain family trait; no matter the topic at hand, any conversation involving one or more of us will turn to shit. Or piss. Anything lavatorial, really.

Julie isn't a family member in the genetic sense, but when it came to integrating with my family, she hit the ground running, and has barely slowed down since. Certainly, when it came to my father, she could do no wrong. Anything she said, no matter how ribald or piss-taking it was, was greeted by a full-on snigger from Dad. Seriously, she got away with stuff we would never have even dared contemplate broaching with my father. The bald patch received special treatment, as I recall...

And yes, this does mean that Julie often joins in with phrases for flushing.

Today, for example, Julie decided to call it a night. Wearily dragging herself up the stairs, she decided to parody a certain little ditty made famous by the nephew of Kermit the Frog.

Yes, I know the word is 'down', but that doesn't really matter, does it?

"Uncle Kermit? That's not right, is it?"

He's right. It's not. Here's the original.

Equal ops for children.

Taking Roxy for a walk yesterday, I stopped for a rest (Roxy's request - she refuses to go past a certain stretch of low wall until we have sat there for a few minutes). Sometimes, Roxy will hop up onto the wall to sit next to me. This time, however, she simply flopped to the ground (a sure sign I needed to get her home soonish) and basked in the warm sun.

As we sat there, a small group of schoolchildren came along with a couple of adults carefully shepherding them in the right direction. When they were encouraged to ask questions of random people, I realised they were on a field trip.

A couple questions later, it seemed they had fulfilled their quota, and were preparing to head up onto the pier. Before they did so, the teacher wanted to make sure her charges understood what they needed to do and what to look for.

At that, the teacher held her clipboard over her face to hide a smile, while the less restrained man at the back of the group wheeled away, doubling up in silent laughter.

My own laughter was not silent, and I felt moved to literally applaud the young boy for an apparently progressive attitude. The teacher, may or may not have been impressed, commented to me that, "in all the years I have done this and asked these questioned, not once have I had that answer."

Win.

The gag reflex

Say hello to Bongo

Bongo is a staffie/labrador crossbreed, and a rather handsome chap. One of many dogs at the Last Chance Animal Rescue centre, he is also a long-term resident (just as Roxy was). Indeed, every time that we visited the centre, we would make a point of dropping by Bongo's pen. A lively, happy chap, he always had two tennis balls in his mouth. If he happened to drop one, he would then chase after it, retrieve it, and get it back to its rightful place.

In fact, we would like to have taken Bongo on, but he's just too big and boisterous. I hope somebody does take pity on him.

I only mention Bongo because every time Roxy feels like playing with one of her tennis balls, both Julie and myself are immediately reminded of Bongo and the two-ball grin.

As my mother will know, normal tennis balls never last too long with a dog - they are chew toys when fetch time is over, after all. However, most pet shops stock a hardier breed of ball - just don't use them to play tennis, because they will hurt like hell if they hit you.

Mind you, even those balls will not last too long with a determined doggie. Roxy's current ball has developed a weakness, one which means that it sort of folds in on itself to a degree. Unfortunately, this means that a tennis ball which is only just on the right side of 'large enough' is now in danger of being a little too small for safety. Naturally, we are always aware of safety, and Julie happened to notice that Roxy was chomping on the ball a little too much.

That last bit was directed at a husband, whose mind was dallying in the gutter once more...

That said, I went looking for link or images of these tougher tennis balls. It looks like I'm not the only puerile person around...

Can't see for looking

I realise that the title for today's Gem may be an odd one for none-British people. Essentially, it means that the seeker is looking so very hard for something that they have missed the fact that it is usually right under their noses. Or, in the case of spectacles, on the nose.

For a brief time, Julie and myself worked at the same place. This meant, if the weather was clement, we would have a leisurely stroll home along some of the quieter roads. In addition to being quieter and less polluted, these roads were pretty much residential, and it was nice to see what people had been planting in their gardens.

One garden had some tulips, although not the botanical sort.

This was the first time I had seen these charming solar-powered lights, and I pointed them out to Julie. Unfortunately, Julie couldn't see what I was pointing at...

You see, Julie had a double issue; not only was she looking too hard for these lights, she was also wearing her distance glasses, and the lights were well too close for the limits of the glasses she had on.

Love that turn of phrase though.

Yawn porn

Roxy is a very affectionate dog, and misses us terribly if we aren't around. Dogs are very social animals in any case, and you aren't supposed to leave them alone or outside for too long a time. It must have been a lonely time at the rescue centre; three years on no family, just a rota of centre staff (who were wonderful) and an uncarpeted pen. This is why were indulge Roxy a little more than we perhaps should.

One of the ways we interact with Roxy is kissing - in the dog sense. If they lick your face, it is a sign of affection, and of admitting you are higher in the social standing than they are.

For the longest time, this was seen as being unhygienic and unhealthy. Now, while the first may be the case (until you have been woken up by dog breath in the morning, you may not agree), it seems that being licked by your dog is beneficial in many ways. It improves your mood - and the dog's; it helps with social bonding; it also can boost immune systems.

These days, kids are being wrapped in a sort of sterile bubble, not being allowed to play in in rough areas or rough ways. Lots of sterilised surfaces, sanitised this, anti-bacterial that. Unfortunately, this gives our immune systems nothing to do, and they dwindle through lack of use. This means that when something does come along which the system needs to face, it finds it is trying to fight a battle after the equivalent of military cutbacks has slashed its effectiveness drastically.

That said, Roxy can become a little too enthusiastic when she shows her affection - especially if you happen to mention the word W.A.L.K. On more than one occasion, I have been pinned to the armchair by 29 kilos of excited, slobbering dog.

Sunday mornings are a little different. We take a bit longer about getting going in the morning. A slow breakfast, followed by a cup of tea as we all sit on the sofa. Since it was morning, I was checking my phone for updates, fairly oblivious to the fact that there appeared to be a yawning contest taking place just to my left.

As everyone knows, it is almost impossible to keep from yawning once another member of your group has already done so. So it was that Julie and Roxy were taking turns in yawning, each apparently gaping wider each time - right up until I heard an exclamation from Julie.

Well, based on what I said about immune systems above, perhaps Roxy was just checking for cavities...

Roxy means no 'arm

Finally, after what seems like forever, I have a job. It's not great pay, it's temporary and part time. But it's work - and it's better money than the benefits route.

Because we now have a dog in the house, there has always been the thought of trying to find something so that Roxy doesn't spend too long on her own. As I have mentioned before, she is a bit clingy, but spending over three years in a rescue centre will do that to you, I imagine. My job, beginning next week, is on the twilight shift, finishing at ten pm. As Julie will be home before I leave for work, there won't be any issues. This week, on the other hand, I am working afternoons, so there are a couple of hours where Roxy has the house to herself.

Where is he?

Four days into the week, and Roxy has behaved herself so far. Only one day where Julie came home to a puddle. However, being very much a family member, she doesn't like it when people go away for a while. That said, Roxy has got the idea that Julie will be back, and back at a certain time. Whatever she was doing before, when it comes near to time, Roxy will make sure she is near the door, or looking out of the window.

In my case, since I drive, every time a car pulls up, Roxy perks up. A pity that we live opposite a church hall that has events taking place every evening...

Of course, when I finally turn up, Roxy immediately demands attention, licking my face, holding herself close to me for a stroke - and then it's straight onto the sofa so the two of us can sit on either end, while she is in the middle, being the centre, as it were, of attention.

As you read this, it will have been yesterday evening that I got home and was mugg... er, greeted by Roxy before being allowed to greet my wife. On the sofa a short time later, I was stroking one of Roxy's forelegs. Roxy, in the meantime, was looking at Julie, who had dared to stop rubbing Roxy's belly.

After a while, Roxy relaxed and lay her head back on my arm, and it was such a cute picture that we had to capture the moment.

Altogether now - "Awwwwwww!"

There was just one problem. I wanted to move, but I didn't want to disturb her now that she was comfortable. Unfortunately, that decision was being taken out of my hands...

Over an hour after I extricated myself, my arm is still sore where Roxy's head was laid. I love ye, dog, but you're no lightweight.

Sad song gone wrong

Roxy, bless her, is part staffie, part American bulldog. This means that she has a double dose of those genes that give a dog a mournful demeanour.

Not Roxy, still looking woebegone. But probably not at all sad.

This even happens when Roxy is happy, excited and various other emotional states that are not in fact 'sad'. Case in point: one day, not long after Julie had come home from work, Roxy was sat in her downstairs bed, recovering from her mad five minutes of greeting her 'mum'. We were sat in our own chairs, watching our dog, who was looking at us with pretty much the exact same expression as that above.

For some reason, Julie felt moved to sing a paraphrased version of a classic tune.

I didn't know if Julie meant the dog made the pies, or that the pies were made of dog. And you know what, I didn't really feel like finding out...