The artist formally known as ‘catflap’

Would now like the world to know, they are now to be referred to as “Dog Flap

When Murphy was little*, a favourite trick was to follow you outside by somehow squirming through the cat flap. This was particularly traumatic for the cat, especially if it was trying to come back in at the same time.

Yesterday, the dog was clearly feeling some “separation anxiety” as Carol had a few other things on here mind, and four mad chickens in her hand. Ironically one of the other ‘things’ was a spotty Random who is the last member of the family to get Chicken Pox.

Murphy decided that since he can no longer fit through the cat flap, he shall merely extend it by shoving his every increasing girth hard against it, until the door broke. Apparently, on escaping, he was delighted with himself and couldn’t wait to run over to Carol wagging his tail and giving it the full “You see I’m not totally stupid” expression.

Dog was marched back to doghouse, and locked in his cage. When I finally got home he exchanged his expression for “I was just sticking my snozzle out, and it broke. Honestly“.

Any more of that and he’ll be getting a kennel outside πŸ˜‰

* It’s all relative. He was never exactly small, but now he is a Labrafantasorous.

The dog ate my footwear

A contemporary reworking of the classic excuse offered up by lazy school children who couldn’t at least be a little more imaginative. A bloke I was at school with would regularly regale the terrifyingly northern Mr. Baxter with tales of alien invasion, a small boys’ single handed saving of the planet and the unfortunate collateral damage of his “Algebra 20 Hard Questions” being discombobulated by a frazzling death ray.

He still received the standard punishment of detention and a meeting with Baxter’s much feared “metal slipper“, but fair play to the fella for trying. It was only last night I remembered my oft slippered pal, during some ‘excuse brainstorming‘ for why my next day London meeting would be conducted in suit trousers, formal shirt and flip flops.

The dog has previous, redesigning Random’s week old trainers into fetching open toed sandals with custom chew motifs. His recent freedom from overnighting in his cage allows access to all sorts of interesting things that can be slobbered, chewed and then eaten. This includes a book – appropriately entitled – “Natural Disasters” which he took some delight in shredding.

Already, I wasn’t in the best of moods after my first bike commute of the year. Exactly half of it had been fantastic, cold and dark but immensely satisfying and reminding me why cars are just so rubbish. As are trains, especially the ones run by London Midland that can apparently teleport between platforms.

Because otherwise, why would I be chasing trains all over Birmingham New Street with my bike on my shoulder and innumerable flights of stairs blocking my progress. Some thirty minutes after this jolly game had started, I had ended up parking the bike in the correct carriage, divested myself of outer garments and courier bags, plugged in traveling tunes and opened the paper.

At which point the driver gleefully informed us that this train was giving up at Worcester, and poor saps heading West of that better get over to platform 7 sharpish. My frantic reassemblage of commuting collateral begat an elbows out charge up two punishing stair sets and a plunge down the far side. Excellent training if I ever considered Cyclocross racing,* but not an absolutely ideal way to spend most of an evening.

Especially since the overcrowding on this final train morphed me into a bikey sardine, trapped between two overstuffed carriages. The next hour was gainfully spent shuttling the bike between suitcases, tired looking passengers and train doors as I’d hurriedly parked it in the main thoroughfare. I feel my smile of acknowledgment, when being politely asked to shift IT AGAIN, may have become somewhat forced after a while.

So when Murphy greeted me with his standard arse cantilevering tailwag and slobbery hello, I sternly rejected his advances with a steely accusing finger and an admonishment of “YOU. SHOE EATER. YES YOU. WHAT HAVE YOU GOT TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?”. His confused expression suggested the evidence of mouthy shoelace had been planted, and it was all a stitch up. Honest Guv.

Two seconds later, having conveniently forgotten his telling off, he dropped to the floor and began licking his willy in a “Bet you wish you could do this” happy manner.** This is the default position of the Murf assuming there isn’t any footwear to be chewily mangled. It’s hard to be angry with a pet which clearly takes so much pleasure in basting his testicles in slobber. I mean there is an animal which clearly knows how to have a good time, and no amount of telling off is going to change that.

I have avoided potential disciplinary being cited due to inappropriate footwear by ballasting myself down with the spare pair from the office. Climbing the last gruesome hill before home , I couldn’t help thinking if that dog continues to suffer “separation anxiety”, he’ll more likely be suffering “sharp rap on the nose with the remains of my shoe“.

Not that there is much left. He’s going to be pooing leather patches for days.

* Which I won’t. As I’ll die of heart failure or embarrassment.

** Not really. Fond of the dog as I am, there are limits to my affection.

Anyone have a plastic bag?

I shall very likely need one, after the first flight of the “Boomerang“. It is pre-loved which meant an evening of the kind of extreme dullness that only a wet rag can provide. Not because I really cared that the fuselage smelt as if it had been used as an ash tray, and a few – possibly vital bits – were hanging a bit loose.

No, the chairman, no less, of the club I’ve joined popped over and offered sage advice regarding which bits plug in where, and what not to touch if you want to finish your life with the same number of fingers you started with*

At the end of this, I was no less confused but probably better informed. I plunged in anyway, armed with some stinky foam and a vague idea of how flange A may interface with widget B. Less than two hours later, my engineering prowess had joined the radio to the receiver, the battery to the servos and – even – fuel into the compressed tank.

I did consider starting it but history predicts one of two things would happen.

a) It would explode taking the house and about a acre of field with it. I would be identified by flecks of surprised atoms floating across the charred countryside.

b) The bugger”d just fly off completely unharnessed by any radio signal. I’m still considering this as the safest way to effect the maiden flight.

Even after meeting me, the kind chap is still keen to teach me to fly it properly. Which I’m hoping to try next weekend assuming Murphy-Shoe-Eater hasn’t got to it first. This morning I was met with wagging tail, hungry expression and the remains of Random’s two week old trainers.

He did give me the “who me? what those? no, know nothing about those gov” expression, although this protestation of innocence was somewhat undermined by the lace hanging out of his mouth.

Anyway, it seems I have somehow ended up with three planes, one recently crashed, one ready to fly and one needing all sorts of trickery involving z-bends and micro adjustments. Sound like a job for the big hammer!

* I’m considering offering this as a service to some of the more “local locals” to get them back to 4 per hand.

I’ve killed the dog.

Okay I haven’t but how the hell can that be comfortable? I tried lying like that – cementing the owner imitating pet myth – but quickly ran out of flexibility, dignity and limbs. We’ve been leaving the cage open over night and, aside from the daily loss of at least one wicker bin, he has so far failed to eat the furniture, cat or anything structural.

I feel he may be merely luring us into a false sense of security. One day we’ll sleepily fall downstairs* only to gasp aghast “Where is the ground floor? All I can see if one fat, sickly looking dog!

Talking of fat, I’m merely filling until time and wine converge to bring forth the much awaited** missive on plumbing. It has a poem and everything. No, I know you can hardly wait either. But tonight, I abandoned this much stared at tube to go and ride my bike. Yes that’s right, riding it, not fixing it, hanging pointless bling off it, or staring at it with frankly worrying thoughts.

It’s thawed. Hard trails have disappeared under muck. Tyre trails snaked more sideways than straight on. Trees viscously reached out of the dark to deliver a barky headbutt. Nothing much was frozen, except for feet and noses. We lured in a newcomer with talk of an easy ride and almost no hills; and now he’s bruised and broken, but vowing to come back for more.

Top night all round really πŸ™‚

* now Carol has removed the carpet which makes a “Headlong Plunge Fakie Bloodied Skull Finish” the descending move of choice.

** This might be classed as a phrase quite close to marketing. Which is the Dictionary Of The Hedgehog is the entry next to Painful Death.

Mad dogs and Yorkshiremen.

Dog meets Man. Man loses.

If a man is knocked over in the woods when no-one else is there, does he still make a sound. Yes he absolutely does and the noise is “uuuumpppphh”. Murphy has learned “Come” but has yet to master “Stop” or even “Swerve

Still he does reward your comatose form with a form of slobbery mouth to mouth that would resuscitate any human with even the merest flicker of life left within them. To the commentary of “Geroff, GEROFF, Yuk, Ugh, GERRRROOOOOFF“. This merely seems too encourage the pup who fails to understand that 25+ Kilos and a decent link of speed is likely to flatten anything with less structural integrity than a good sized building.

Low sun You never learn.

Either that or he just doesn’t care πŸ˜‰ Properly icy this morning which made this afternoon’s ride swing between amusing and bowel clenching. It’s a good job the brakes don’t really work on a CX bike or I could have been in some real trouble.

Just walking the dog Bright light

As it was, I hurtled down frozen roads and scared a few dumb birds in the local woods with some ad-hoc cycle based beating. Not sure they are entirely legal trails, but since no one shot me I have added them to the list for further investigation. That’s the woods, not the birds. I shall be likely investigating those with a nice side of roast potatoes.

Talking of food, two weeks off the bike and a diet based entirely on whatever crap is placed in front of you, while you’re working your tail off, has not given me the turbo sprint or immense stamina I was hoping for. I feel some of the blame for this must be laid firmly at the door of full fat Coke.

You see, the South African’s refuse to accept the existence of fizzy drinks without a thousand calories in them. Or parts of a dead cow that don’t overhang the plate on both sides. “You want vegetables with your steak sir?” “Where do you suggest I put them?* Tell you what bring me a spare plate and a larger pair of trousers and we’ll be good to go

A man came today and tried to introduce a sub prime bathroom experience by designing a “water based luxury experience” that would have cost about the same amount as the whole house. This did not sit well with my self imposed temperance approach to the weekend.

Still wine is basically one of your five a day isn’t it?

* Thankfully the waiter failed to offer the obvious alternative receptacle at this point.

You can dance..

Murphy 6 months, originally uploaded by Alex Leigh.

You can jive, having the time of your life*

I am mired in a pile of shit here. Not literally, although our weekly night ride later in the lamping rain will probably turn metaphorical into the physical. What it certainly means is I have no time to share with you my latest ranting at the world in general, and the railways in particular.

So In the meantime, here’s Murphy at six months demonstrating his:

a) Dancing skills
b) Willy.

I have a picture of me doing the same. I’ll not be posting that just yet πŸ˜‰

* Yeah yeah you may be pointing and laughing at my homage to the Swedish Gods and Godesses of Pop. But I bet you are humming along.

See that..?

Murphy 6 months (4), originally uploaded by Alex Leigh.

… It is a labraphant. A new breed of animal created by fusing the body of a dog with the size of an elephant. I could not help but notice he is now the second largest hound in the morning dog walking pack.

A pack which includes a number of different size animals, but none of which you’d really need to bend down to pat. He is going to be an absolute monster at a year old. If you can stretch the definition of a monster to something that wishes only to please, sleep and eat.

Murphy 6 months

Murf is revelling in his growing fitness. We’re trying hard not to overexercise him, but the bugger just wants to run and run. And then sleep for the rest of the day. Unless there is any food on offer.

Murphy 6 months (2)

He’s a good dog though. We saw one of his brothers over the weekend and what a fat old bruiser he has turned out to be! Our hound is a bit of an young softy really; not very brave and still not a swimmer even after a) we threw in the Airdale terrier* he was chasing around the pond and b) after I accidentally booted him at the deep end.

Got his own back tho. The smell of damp dog is probably illegal in Surrey.

* with the owners permission. Not sure we checked with the dog tho. Can’t say it looked that happy πŸ˜‰