As winter bites at the last vestiges of summer here, Daisy is firmly in the autumn of her life, with very little spring left in her step. The old girl had a stroke two weeks ago, and was discovered looking like a tiger rug in our kitchen when we came down the next morning. But with desperate measures from Alain Bichot the vet in Cancon (and some quite astonishing homaeopathic magic from Jack in Lyme Regis) she is now back on all fours and attempting staircases gingerly.

Sadly, the prognosis is to expect more of the same. Her days of rabbit genocide are over, as indeed are those of any walks longer than a gentle amble around our minute estate here. Also, her body clock has conked out such that she seems to want supper at 11am and biscuits every five minutes. This is all part of the appalling gaga of old age, and what with my Dad of late, I've seen rather too much of it these last three years. On the other hand, I remember an episode of Colditz where one of the prisoners pretended to be a few slates short in order to be invalided out via Switzerland. When it comes to the biscuits thing, it's eminently possible that our ageing terrier (whose IQ in her prime was higher than many clients I've known, and almost all art directors) is coming the old soldier a bit. Still, I've no complaints: it has taught me a valuable lesson which I shall apply myself to medicinal brandy when the time comes.

As she can't hear anything and doesn't see that well, the main pleasure left to Daisy now is sniffing. This is absolutely as it should be, as it is without any doubt what dogs do best and enjoy most. A food technician at Winalot once told me that the canine sense of smell is sixty-seven times more subtle and acute than ours. It would be cruel indeed if such proboscit enjoyment were removed from one. Imagine having a hooter that good: if you were a foodie, you'd spend your whole life going 'fuck me'. At last, the mystery of Gordon Ramsay's Tourettes is explained.

For our Dowager Empress, sniffing out the correct place for urination was always a matter of some concern. Now it's become a matter of hours: every last blade of grass is inspected until at last (by which time her owners have hypothermia) she squats and then looks back in confusion, thinking "What's next?" This is a considerable improvement on ten days ago, when her malfunctioning back legs meant Daisy could only swivel eternally on the same spot.

In like Flynn at this point is Foxie, our youngest and smallest dog, who insists on covering the Alpha dog's wee within ten seconds, otherwise who knows what bits of sky might fall in. From the age of six months, Foxie has been challenging the hierarchy, scaling the north face of canine demography and wolfing down anyone else's food when they weren't looking. In Daisy's prime, this earned the tiny Norfolk terrier impressively bared teeth and a fearsome warning. Now she sits patiently as Foxie even licks between the old dame's teeth for fragments of food. You may think this kindly grooming, but it is pure, undiluted, naked greed.

The Norfolk breed is renowned for its gluttony, but one can take such things to exremes. Foxie will polish off a bowl-full of Frolic in under six seconds, which would be like you or I eating a set of Range Rover tyres (including the spare) in the same amount of time. The vet in Axminster has told us that already - at the age of four - her teeth are rotting away because she never uses them: the nosh zooms straight past without touching the molars on its way down to the hollow legs below.

But if the Norfolk senses her chance to take over the pack, Harry remains as ever in his usual mode: confused. Everything confuses Harry - breakfast, a walk, geckos, butterflies, his arse, his elbow and even sunrise. Either this little Lucas (we took pity on the runt of the litter) has no long-term memory, or simply no capacity for concentration. The result is that every last sound, sight, movement and smell surprises him. And thus he barks. Harry barks at walls, books, shopping bags and even rolls of kitchen towel. But not burglars: these last, he licks. He licks a mean foot does Harry - it's one of his few saving graces.

To his credit (having initially been stumped by Daisy's propensity to walk around like Pete Doherty) Harry is clearly concerned about her, in his own baffled sort of way. He sniffs around her, keeps a weather eye on her gait, and occasionally looks up at us, almost observing "She's not in great shape is she?" His odd little face wears a sad air when he does this. Not so Foxie: we have to put her in another room when she's eating, otherwise she'd gobble up the senior lady's food without a scintilla of guilt. Her look (when we pull her head from Daisy's bowl) is more "Look, the old bat eats too much as it is. She's past it, now get over it".

As I've said before, all we dog-owners have a tendency to anthropomorphise our pets. But on the other hand, even if there is little or no honour among four-legged thieves, we at least are human - and having been such great friends, faithful dogs are entitled to a bit of respect. And biscuits and sniffs. And warm beds of an evening. And gentle walks round the garden. And extra frolic. And on and on and on....hopefully.

(October 2007)

 

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"The modern world is a frightening place" says Harry, as we settle down for one of our regular chats on the sofa. Baring his teeth lovingly before settling down to lick my left heel, he seems distracted. An attention span of 0.0063 seconds was never conducive to focus, although Harry's mind is so dilute, concentration of it takes hardly any time at all.

"You were frightened by the old world too" I venture, careful to smile as I do so.

He nods in some vague display of agreement.

"True enough" he replies, "But this Brown person - I mean, dear oh dear oh dear oh dear."

"I hear he shouts at his dogs" said Daisy, passing by on her way to stare at the living room's far wall. Since her stroke, the Empress Dowager of Wagtail Towers derives a degree of nasal bliss from close examination of Farrow & Ball's paint, and I am not one to deny the old folk simple pleasures in their dotage. It is, let's face it, better than sniffing glue.

"I doubt it" Harry harrumphed, adding a growl to dissuade the aged Aunt from further incursion into his air-space, "An anally retentive Scottish presbyterian wouldn't be able to cope with dogs, full stop. Gordon doesn't do dog-hair."

As ever amazed by Harry's command of English (given the lad's inability to grasp even the simplest concept of discipline), I was forced to agree.

"No, somehow you can't see him feeding them treats can you?"

At the T word, Foxie suddenly twitched. I gave a quiet shake of the head, and so the young bitch slumped down on all fours.

"Never trust a man with cats" she asserted.

Harry gave her a puzzled glance.

"Does Brown have cats?" he asked.

"I haven't the remotest idea" she replied, "But that crook Conway was Chairman of the Cat's Protection League. I fancy that tells us all we need to know."

"A hundred and sixty grand a year the bugger was getting" muttered Daisy, as if to prove she'd got the hearing aid switched on, "Just to protect cats. What about dogs, eh? Nobody ever protected me."

"Thank you for that" I said, wearing an ironic smile.

Silence fell again.

Harry licked at where his testicles had once resided, then stopped.

"I see the Dow's come back again" he observed. I snorted.

"It's just a rally" I suggested, "It won't last."

Foxie tutted.

"Mr bloody doom-merchant again" she trilled, "Don't you ever feel optimistic about anything?"

I thought for a second before answering.

"Well, I'm pretty confident that if I offered you food at any time of the day or night, you'd eat it."

She gave me a twisted smile in return.

"Looks like Obama's going to get the Nomination" said Harry, his runaway train of thought unswerving despite the other conversations taking place.

Daisy sniffed again.

"He's all bark and no bite" she opined, "Full of rhetoric."

"Full of shit more like" Foxie snarled.

"That's enough from you young lady" I said, "You're supposed to be a pedigree."

"I don't think he has cats either" said Harry.

"Does it matter if Barack Obama has cats?" asked Foxie.

"No," said Harry, "Derek Conway. I don't think he has cats either. I think he just fancied the salary."

There was another lull in the conversation. Daisy was by now stretched out like a tiger-rug in front of the log-burner. She had only one eye open.

"I couldn't live in America" said Foxie eventually.

"Nobody's asking you to" I assured her, "But as a matter of interest, why not?"

"Far too pc" she replied.

"Quite" muttered Daisy.

"Why on earth are you worried about pc?" I asked. Foxie blinked in disbelief.

"Are you serious?" she asked, "if you chase a squirrel over there, they put you down. Or even worse, send you to some dog-shrink who asks what your motivation was. Really. Molly told me. They took her on holiday to Miami: what a 'mare."

Molly was the Scottie from next door.

"They only went for a fortnight" said Daisy, yawning again.

"I reckon there'll be another bank failure before we're through with all this credit crunch" Harry announced, before pulling at some matted hair in his back-left paw.

I nodded, but before I could express agreement, Foxie spoke again.

"Do you think Cheryl should give Ashley the boot?" she asked.

As Harry gave her a withering look, Daisy turned slowly towards us.

"Absolutely" she said, "He's a toe-rag. She should've elbowed him immediately."

"Thank God dogs don't wear shoes" Harry averred.

"Why's that?" I asked.

"Can you imagine" he replied, "What these two would be like if there were shoe-shops for dogs?"

"Yes," I answered, "And I don't like to think about it."

"Two pairs at a time you'd have to buy for them" he continued.

I nodded some more.

"I hadn't thought of that".

"Where's your money invested?" Daisy asked from left field.

"Well, not in the stock market, that's for sure" I replied.

"That's alright then" she mumbled, "Just so long as the Pedigree Senior keeps on coming."

"I see Vodafone's down three" said Harry.

"I bet he has cats" said Foxie.

"Vodafone's a company, not a person" I pointed out.

"No," she replied, "Ashley Cole. I bet he's scared of dogs."

Daisy got up with some effort.

"You could well be right" she concurred, and wandered off in the direction of the water bowl.

 

_______________________________________________________________

 

Foxie sniffed at a twig. It was nothing very special, and with Daisy lagging behind on the walk, she was bored.

"So this Olympics thing" she said to Harry, "This business of yobs trying to grab the torch ....what's that all about?"

Harry was engaged in urinating against a bush. He growled.

"Never disturb a chap in mid-flow" he said. Jan smiled.

"They don't think the Olympics should take place in China" she said.

Foxie nodded.

"I can see their point" she said, "It's a long way to go".

"Not if you're Chinese" Daisy countered, "But the location of China isn't the point, you airhead".

The small Norfolk blinked.

"Well tall woman who gives out the food said that was the point, genius" she answered.

"What Jan meant" I interrupted, "Is that the protesters don't like the Chinese government."

Foxie looked from one of us to the other. Why did humans have to make everything so complicated?

"Right" she said (although it was clear the terrier didn't think it was) "So, these folks not keen on the Chinese...you know, wosname, they want to steal their torch?"

"It's not their torch" grunted Harry, "It's the Olympic torch. They don't want the torch to get back to China".

Foxie stared at him.

"Is it very dark in China?" she asked nobody in particular.

Daisy sighed.

"No" she said, "Look......the torch is a symbol of the spirit of the Games, not something to light the hallway."

Foxie mulled over the answer. The torch was something to do with cymbals, booze and playing games. It was beyond her - apart from the Games bit.

"What sort of games do they play at the Olympics then?" she asked.

"Running" said Jan.

"Running?" the Norfolk enquired, "What - they have to chase squirrels and rabbits?"

"No" said Harry, "They run in circles and get a prize if they win".

Foxie looked up at me again, a look that said 'is he serious?'

"If they're all running rounsd in circles" she asked, "How does anyone know when somebody's won?"

"They have a set number of laps" said Jan.

Our smallest terrier blinked again.

"What the bloody hell have the Laps got to do with anything?"

"Language" I said, "Not people from Lapland, a lap is the length of a circle."

"Pet Rescue's on the telly tonight" said Harry.

Foxie's attention shifted immediately.

"Really?" she asked.

"No" said Harry, "But I'd say anything to stop you talking about the Olympics. We're gonna have a month of it on the telly as it is".

"Can we go home now?" pleaded Daisy, "I'm knackered".

The party turned round, and headed back along the Coastal path to our barn. On the way, as is our custom, we stopped at a bench and admired the view over towards Beer.

"When everyone decided to let China stage the Games" Foxie enquired, "Did they know then they didn't like the Government?"

Jan and I looked at each other and grinned.

"Out of the mouths of babes and innocents" said Daisy, and settled her head on Jan's lap.

(14.4.08)

---

The dogs were lazing about. Foxie gnawed at a pig's ear. Daisy stared vacantly at the wall. Harry was reading his Daily Terriergraph. Jan was outside planting some new herbs, the old Rosemary having been wiped out by the frost, which can be harsh here for a week or two in February.

As usual, it was Foxie who broke the silence.

"You're just not consistent" she said to me, as I read The Clintons in the White House, "First of all you say this bloke Brown is a snake, then you say he's a crocodile".

Daisy turned her head slowly, vaguely aware of the conversation.

"Britain's going to the dogs" she observed. Harry rustled his paper.

"Well we'll be alright then, won't we?" he opined, with just a hint of irritated sarcasm.

Foxie looked quickly between the two of them.

"Does that mean we get a vote?" she asked.

"It's only a matter of time" I replied. The previous fortnight had convinced me this was what it must have been like as Rome fell apart.

"Now you see, that's what I mean" said our Norfolk, "You're always so bloody miserable, and then nothing you ever predict happens. I mean, they're never going to hand power over to us are they?"

Daisy offered more succinct wisdom, sinking slowly onto the tiles as her back legs gave way. She's doing this more and more these days.

 

"It's all so Brown doesn't lose face" she observed. Once again Foxie's brow crumpled.

"Lose face?" she pondered, "Why might he lose face? How many has he got?"

"At least two" I answered.

"Whereas" said Harry, grinning, "If he saves face, he'll have three. It's all very simple really."

I laughed, but Foxie shook shook her head slowly.

"Here we go again," she sighed, "one minute he's a one-eyed trouser snake, and the next he's a three-faced crocodile. Make your mind up for goodness sake".

"I made my mind up about Gordon Brown long ago" said I, "He's a chamelion".

The little terrier's eyes rose to the sky.

"Now he's a chamelion already" she said, "How many heads? What's the eye count?"

With a loud growl, Harry popped his face above the newspaper.

"It means the Prime Minister changes colour to stay hidden, you Bimbo" he explained, "And it's a very apt description if I may say so."

"Thank you Harry" I said with a smile, but he merely glared at me, gave another growl, and went back to his paper. He's a bit of an enigma is Harry.

Foxie returned to her pig's ear, and then thought some more.

"Why does he want to stay hidden?" she asked.

"So he doesn't get the blame" I replied.

"For what?" she asked.

"How long have you got?" asked Harry.

"It's too hot today" said Daisy. The old girl's concentration is not what it was. She padded off slowly towards the kitchen, and her basket.

"Why do you think he's to blame for everything?" Foxie demanded again.

"Because he thinks he isn't to blame for anything" I said.

"And because he thinks he's great at everything" Harry added. I nodded in agreement, but he ignored me.

Foxie again looked at each of us in turn.

""And this is the man you voted to be Prime Minister?" she asked, not without irony. And this

"Nobody apart from some Labour Party sheep ever voted for that idea" I countered.

More puzzlement from our youngest dog.

"Sheep?" she asked, "Sheep? How did they get into it?"

"Oh do shut up" said Harry.

There was silence once more. Foxie nibbled at the pig's ear, but for once she'd lost interest in food.

Daisy wobbled uncertainly back into the sitting room.

"It's even hotter in there" she said. Summer happens very suddenly in the south west of France: only three days ago we'd been sitting by the log-burner.

A few more minutes passed. I sat reading, riveted by Bill Clinton's brainless duplicity.

"Is he queer do you think?" Foxie enquired of nobody in particular.

Even Daisy blinked at the change of conversational direction.

"Who?" I asked.

"This Brown bloke" she answered, "You know - is he, as it were, batting for the other side?"

Harry looked over his paper again.

"What on earth makes you ask that?" he grumped.

"Well," she began, "It's just that he goes everywhere with this bloke who, you know, looks a bit of a drip, and he keeps calling him darling. It's not normal is it?"

"It's his name, ding-dong" said Daisy, yawning.

"Is it?" asked Foxie, astonished.

"He's the Chancellor of the Exchequer" said Harry through gritted teeth.

"Is he?" the small one asked again.

"Not really" I added, "He's a puppet".

"Really?" the Norfolk enquired.

"Oh for God's sake" muttered Harry, hiding once more behind his Terriergraph.

Foxie clamped the pig's ear in her mouth and jumped up onto one of the Lloyd Loom mushroom chairs. She worried the ear for a few more minutes, and then dropped it. The brown terrier licked her lips and sat upright on her hind legs.

"So to sum up" she said, "The country's being run by a one-eyed, three-faced chamelion crocodile trouser snake who was voted in by sheep.

"While he'd like to give dogs the vote, the nation's finances are in the hands of a puppet of indeterminate sexuality. Is that about it?"

"You missed out the foxes" said Harry.

"Foxes?" she asked, an edge of anxiety in her voice.

I said, "The Government spent 354 Parliamentary hours deciding how to ban people from hunting foxes".

"People hunt foxes?" she asked, blinking furiously.

"They're vermin" said Daisy, "They kill chickens."

"No I don't" she pleaded.

Harry looked at me, and put his head in his paws.

But Foxie was by now extremely agitated.

"And is it banned now?" she asked, her face stark with terror.

"It is" said Harry.

She breathed a sigh of relief.

"Thank God for that" she said, and returned to the porcine snack.

(Early May 2008)

---

We were wandering about on the Mont overlooking Monbahus. It had been a steep climb, and Daisy was struggling.

"Is there a point to this?" she asked, "Only some of us are getting a bit old for this lark."

"We want to see the view" Jan replied, "It's nice from up here."

Panting, our eldest dog sat down, her back legs sliding about alarmingly.

"What was wrong with the view from down there?" she demanded.

Harry lifted his leg and urinated on a wooden post by the track. In his mind, this action made the Mont officially his for all time.

"Sometimes" he observed, "It's necessary to get the helicopter view of things".

Daisy glared at him.

"Then go up in a helicopter" she suggested. Harry licked his lips.

"It's a figure of speech" replied the Lucas terrier, "I find it easier to think up here, just looking at the view."

"All things are relative" said Daisy, "If my memory serves me well, the thinking thing was never your strong suit. Usually, most of it is devoted to remembering what species you are".

Harry ignored her, but Foxie momentarily broke off from her never-ending safari for any and all things edible.

"Well at least he can still use his fucking legs in the right order" she said.

"Look madamoiselle" I cut in, "We're all out of rope on this swearing thing, right? No more f-words or your supper will be half a Bonio, cappiche?"

"Weeeelll" said Foxie (the way teenagers do) "I'm fed up of her moaning on all the time. Every walk we have to wait for the old bat. If she's not ten miles behind the pack she's wandering off and getting lost. I don't know what she's waiting for to be honest: she's got hardly any vision and no energy. Why doesn't she just croak and stop using up vital oxygen?"

"That's enough," said Jan, "You'll be old one day you know. And anyway, she still enjoys her food well enough."

"That's the fucking problem," Foxie snapped, "She eats like a fu...."

"Right" my wife snapped, putting a lead on the foul-mouthed Norfolk, "You're on this for the rest of the walk, and that's that. No supper for you young lady until you clean up your act."

"Quite right too" said Daisy, her words morphing into a yawn.

Foxie slunk away, her tail down, muttering some expletive or other. It sounded suspiciously like 'bollocks', but I couldn't be sure.

"Where does she learn this stuff?" I asked my wife.

"You" she answered, smiling sweetly.

"Exactly" Harry agreed, "You're a terrible example. Take this morning for instance."

I looked at him. Our relationship is equivocal at the best of times.

"What about it?" I enquired, the edge of sharpness in my voice swinging like a scythe through the cool June air.

"When you heard that Murdoch wanted to back whatsisface - Montmerency - against David Davis" Harry pointed out, "There were so many f's in flight, we all had to duck."

"Exactly" Jan agreed. Women can be disappointingly disloyal at times.

"Mackenzie" I corrected, "And my language there is entirely justified. Mackenzie is the worst kind of fat bast..."

"There you go again" said the middle dog, "'bastard' this and 'bugger' that....it's no wonder the little tearaway swears like Amy Winehouse."

"Does Amy Winehouse swear then?" Foxie asked, clearly in search of a heroine.

"All young people swear" Daisy observed, "So I doubt if she's any different. Can we go back down now? My knees are killing me."

"Just a bit further" I promised, "Then we can see the house".

 

"Enough with the view already - can we just go home?"

"What have you got against this Ma Kenzit then?" Foxie asked, "Is she Patsy Kenzit's mum?"

"Mackenzie" I emphasised, "And he's a bloke. Well, he's a yobbish, slobbish oaf actually. He used to be in charge of The Sun."

Puzzled, Foxie looked up at the sky and then back at me.

"That's a big job" she said, "A big responsibility. What did he do with it at night?"

"It's a newspaper, braindeath" said Harry, "He used to be the editor. Before any of us were born. The two-legged lot are always going on about it for some reason. Something to do with a Digger, and dumbing down."

The fluffy little Norfolk blinked.

"Do diggers dumb down?" she asked, "I thought they dug down."

"They don't come any lower than the Digger" I observed.

"Er..." she began, and we all knew another enquiry was imminent, "Then if he's low,why does he need to dumb down with his digger?"

"He is the Digger, dummy" Harry growled.

She snarled back instantly.

"Why am I a dummy for asking why a digger dumbs down, dope?" Foxie insisted, "And if he's the boss of the bloke who's in charge of the sun, why can't he get someone else to do his digging for him?"

"Look" Daisy sighed, "We'll be here forever expecting her to unerstand any of this. Can't we just go home? We can see the house perfectlywell from home,you know - on account of the house being home. Huh?"

"Very drole" I remarked, "But it'll make a good photo from up here."

"For Christ's sake" said the old lady,"It'll barely be a gnat's bloody arse from up here...."

"Don't you start" said Jan, "We've enough on our plate with Tourette's Syndrome over there without you going all expletive deleted in your old age".

"Anyway" sniffed Harry, "The point is this: Macfrenzy or whatever his name is, he's just a front for Rupert Murdoch...and everyone hates Murdoch."

"I bet Mcfluenza doesn't" suggested Foxie.

"Mackenzie" I corrected again,"And if he does like Murdoch, then he's in a minority of one. He'll get a good kicking in the by-election, and a good thing too."

"So it'll be a bye-bye election for McKinsey" quipped Harry, obviously pleased with himself.

"For the last time," I shouted, "he's called Mackenzie,and he's a complete c..."

"Thank you darling" Jan interrupted, "Now we don't want to expand Foxie's vocabulary any more do we?"

"No we don't" said Daisy, "Mainly we want to go home."

Exasperated, I stared at the old Dowager Dog.

"Don't you care at all about liberty?"I asked, "About Habeus corpus? About Magna Carta?"

"Is she related to Stephen Carter?" asked Foxie.

Harry shook his head and sniffed the air.

"Women" he said, "Why did we ever give them the vote?"