Westie Pup

I should hate to disappoint a newly ennobled Octavia by refusing to comply with her request. So here are some pictures of Her Puppyness with all her dishevelled charm.

She may grow into her ears one day.

Getting photos of her awake and still is a challenge in itself. She is full of life, loves being with people and has a Miss Marple like interest in everything around her.

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Duvet Days and Cultural Craic

It's weather that tells you to curl up on a sofa with the papers or a book. Yesterday I *babysat* the puppy while everyone else attended a funeral. There were three funerals locally. Some wanted to show their faces and pay their respects at all of them.

Cousin lit a fire before she left. Yes it was that cold. Pip thought it was a great idea.

The two adult dogs, no doubt correctly reading the attitudes of the humans around them, also decided it was a day for little activity. A duvet day, Cousin called it.

The puppy, aka the Thuglet, was not on the same page. As Pip and Westie Boy snuggled into warm beds, she had just one idea on her mind; to make them play. She really didn't want to take no for an answer. Even when that no was uttered in increasingly impatient and irritated growls.

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The Sea Inside

I think it was Pat who called it the sea inside. It’s an image that has stayed with me because it fits so well. One minute it’s a limpid blue Mediterranean sea on a hot calm day. Suddenly a careless speedboat goes by and the waves appear, a bit choppy and unsettling. All very well if you have something to hang onto; less good if you have been snorkelling face down, looking at the water through your mask. If you are lucky it stops there, but some mornings you wake up to grey seas with menacing, angry surf, noisy waves that drag back the shingle, shredding you, and you are supposed to climb into your canoe and get out there.
Friday I felt like I had been crying even when I wasn’t. My eyes were salt sore. Finally, I took my doctor friend’s advice and called the surgery. They advised a week or two away from one of my places of work. I steeled myself and informed the boss, and thanked the heavens that the response was sympathetic. Yesterday, a month since mother died, I had my life jacket in place and the day got easier, ending with an evening spent in the company of friends I have known for years. Even MasterB’s determination to stay out and thus keep me out of bed until gone one in the morning didn’t overset me.
Today I had plans to go out and about; to do things. They didn’t happen. I wanted to be at home. I got as far as the market to buy some plants for the hanging baskets. Then I baked my first cake in my little Remoska, cleaned a cupboard and lost two hours.

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Little White Dog

Cousin’s new dog is Not Cat in canine form. He’s not quite a year, and previously lived with a family. Unfortunately, one of the children developed an allergy to him, so he swapped his urban Belfast environment for the wide open spaces of the country.
He’s a bundle of energy and joie de vivre; busy as a bee in summertime. He took one of my boots to the hearth, and strewed my washing round the kitchen. I haven’t managed to unpack completely because he is so eager to explore my bag. When I zipped it shut, he lay on it and chewed a corner. His idea of helping me make the bed was to make off with the patchwork cover made out of old shirting. It’s a lovely object, and I’ll photograph. It belonged to my aunt, Cousin’s mother.
I keep calling him by Not Cat’s name, and having investigated my trousers pretty thoroughly, I’d guess he knows a fair bit about my boy.
I wish my foot were better, as taking this boy out for a walk would be a delight. His wonder and excitement at the world is marvellous to behold.

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