We’re not horticulturists really my husband and I. Our garden is more Sahara than Chelsea and the plant life has a sort of post-apocalyptical look to it but there is one plant that seems to have taken a sudden growth spurt. Where once there was a fairly meek, spindly looking shoot, there is now a distinctly thicker, healthier chilli plant. It’s evolved from lack lustre to luscious in just a few weeks. The question is why. We live in damp England and we’re enjoying the usual pendulum-like summer weather that swings from blisteringly warm to wintry cold on the hour each day. We’re certainly more chilly than chilli. So how was this chilli plant suddenly thriving in our erratic British climate?
This would have remained a mystery had I not caught sight of the pesky little beagle out there early yesterday morning and again today and I counted only three paws on the ground. The fourth leg was stretched haughtily into the air in a ballerina pose whilst the telling amber stream arced with impressive precision into the centre of the pot.
Mystery solved.
The only question that remains is whether to tell the husband who has been painstakingly nurturing his seeds into life and wondering why oh why they weren’t growing well. Having moved them “into more direct sunlight” he commented on the sudden and vast improvement and his little face has been the picture of pride. Should I let him believe in his gardening know-how and decision-making skills or spill the truth and dash his confidence? There is the argument that it does no harm to the plant and won’t actually affect the health of the consumer but in my mind now, every little chloroplast or mitochondrion will be saturated with the pee pee of Monty. Each miniscule membrane is passing his water so to speak.
What a dilemma. I’ll be holding back on the spicy food for a little while I think.
Friday 16 July 2010
Thursday 15 July 2010
Monty goes for a walk.
It's been fairly quiet in the Monty camp the past few months and little to report. I took him into a school recently to take part in a long country walk and he was really quite well behaved! Thinking about the main potential embarrassment being the poop-scooping inevitability, I decided to take him out for a walk beforehand and let him 'relieve' himself. He did this with his usual joie de vivre (!) and off we trotted to the event.
I think he finally gave up at the fifth poop. It’s never an event in itself to cause facial reddening until you’re being watched by swarming teenagers doing the one-two-invert-plastic-bag shuffle. Eugh.
Anyway, to his little beagle credit, he trotted along the seven miles along country paths with fairly few incidents. The only problem in his tiny mind was that I was keeping him on the lead; something he’s not used to on long walks. He kept lurching forward to be let off. He looked just like those mammoth muscle-building men who drag whole trucks behind them with a just a skipping rope over their shoulder. He was hunched forward and straaaaining the whole way. To add to the tension, I’d bought a cheaper than cheap extendable lead from www.ineffectualpetproducts.com (having now exhausted a great deal of my salary on leads that he just merrily chomps right through). Unfortunately for me, it wouldn’t hold a sloth with a hangover. The locking mechanism gave up as soon as he thought about moving forward and made the loudest noise possible each time the lead was ripped out. It sounded like how I’d imagine a goliath angry duck might sound if someone mentioned plum sauce. After a while, I decided to just keep the lead at full stretch to avoid the angry duck (and to stop scaring the poor kiddies with the noise) which led to me walking with my arm out at full stretch as if pointlessly pointing the way or, when the beeg decided to stop for a little sniff (which each time caused a little pile up of children bumping into each other and stepping over the oblivious and content sniffing below) leaving the slackened lead to weave its way in and out of the muddy mire and ‘country pancakes’.
Note: for our American friends, a country pancake is a euphemistic term for grass...after several hours of digestion by a cow. And this was pancake city.
Oh and it was raining. All day.
Apart from this however, he’s been quiet. No plotting. No destruction (well, it’s all comparative isn’t it?) and no interesting stories of attempts of world domination. The next big day in his calendar is this weekend however. The local villages all host various festivals throughout the summer and there’s a dog show this coming Sunday with all sorts of categories ranging from ‘Best Trick’ to ‘Cutest Puppy’ and ‘Waggiest Tail’. Seen as Monty’s best trick (and let’s be honest, ONLY trick) is to ‘sit’, I don’t envisage a standing ovation and a fast-tracking to Crufts anytime soon so I think we may try him out for the others. I might pitch for a new category. Perhaps, 'Most like a piranha award' or 'Quickest to find the algae-covered ditch'?
Watch this space....
I think he finally gave up at the fifth poop. It’s never an event in itself to cause facial reddening until you’re being watched by swarming teenagers doing the one-two-invert-plastic-bag shuffle. Eugh.
Anyway, to his little beagle credit, he trotted along the seven miles along country paths with fairly few incidents. The only problem in his tiny mind was that I was keeping him on the lead; something he’s not used to on long walks. He kept lurching forward to be let off. He looked just like those mammoth muscle-building men who drag whole trucks behind them with a just a skipping rope over their shoulder. He was hunched forward and straaaaining the whole way. To add to the tension, I’d bought a cheaper than cheap extendable lead from www.ineffectualpetproducts.com (having now exhausted a great deal of my salary on leads that he just merrily chomps right through). Unfortunately for me, it wouldn’t hold a sloth with a hangover. The locking mechanism gave up as soon as he thought about moving forward and made the loudest noise possible each time the lead was ripped out. It sounded like how I’d imagine a goliath angry duck might sound if someone mentioned plum sauce. After a while, I decided to just keep the lead at full stretch to avoid the angry duck (and to stop scaring the poor kiddies with the noise) which led to me walking with my arm out at full stretch as if pointlessly pointing the way or, when the beeg decided to stop for a little sniff (which each time caused a little pile up of children bumping into each other and stepping over the oblivious and content sniffing below) leaving the slackened lead to weave its way in and out of the muddy mire and ‘country pancakes’.
Note: for our American friends, a country pancake is a euphemistic term for grass...after several hours of digestion by a cow. And this was pancake city.
Oh and it was raining. All day.
Apart from this however, he’s been quiet. No plotting. No destruction (well, it’s all comparative isn’t it?) and no interesting stories of attempts of world domination. The next big day in his calendar is this weekend however. The local villages all host various festivals throughout the summer and there’s a dog show this coming Sunday with all sorts of categories ranging from ‘Best Trick’ to ‘Cutest Puppy’ and ‘Waggiest Tail’. Seen as Monty’s best trick (and let’s be honest, ONLY trick) is to ‘sit’, I don’t envisage a standing ovation and a fast-tracking to Crufts anytime soon so I think we may try him out for the others. I might pitch for a new category. Perhaps, 'Most like a piranha award' or 'Quickest to find the algae-covered ditch'?
Watch this space....
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