I won!

Look, I did NanoWriMo and I won!

I don't like this year's novel as much as I like the one I wrote a few years ago, but it was still fun to do it.

In April I'm going to do Script Frenzy. I am resolved.

So now I have some extra time on my hands. I really should do something useful with it. Yes. Something useful. I will get right on that, Taoiseach. I certainly won't, for example, spend my time propping up the bar in my local pub shiteing on about football and getting free tickets for stuff. No, because that would be wasting my time. Wasting it. See?

Best laid plans, eh?

I had big plans tonight. Oh yes. I was going to go into Dublin and meet people in the pub, something I haven't done for months. Honestly, months. My own animals are all packed off to kennels, I am going to Glasgow tomorrow, and I have a full day's work ahead of me.

Then I got a text about an older dog someone found in our estate. The woman who found it picked it up off the road outside the estate yesterday, and she can't keep it because it cries a lot and doesn't sleep. It's kind of deaf, and it's kind of partially sighted, and it can't walk properly because its back legs are wonky.

So I was asked would I take it for a while, and I said I could keep it until tomorrow. So he's here now. He has a fitful wander around every now and then, and he's obviously extremely confused about where he is, and probably a bit distressed about this change in his situation, but he's quiet enough. He really likes to be in physical contact with a person, though. He had a nice nap with me on the sofa earlier, stretched out beside me. So now I won't be going out, and I've to go to the vet later and see how he is and what we can do with him. He'll need to go to a reasonably quiet foster home for about a week, where there's someone at home at all day to mind him.

It would be great if he had just wandered from somewhere and we found his owner. It would be just great. I'm not holding out a lot of hope, though.

UPDATE!

Owners found!

His name is Max and he is 18. He lives in the village, and usually when he goes out the back for a pee, they attach him to a line so he can't wander off (he has had four strokes). But the line wasn't securely attached this time and he wandered off. He was only wandering for a few minutes when he was picked up, though. Poor old guy. Still, at least they'll be more careful in future.

Jane the cat

After only a year of living with us, Jane died. She was sick for a long time. Months, really. It turned out that she was FIV+ and possibly had been for ever? Who knows. Estimates about the prevalance of FIV in outdoor and feral cats vary wildly, and there's every chance that she picked it up during the years she basically lived as an outside cat.

In any case, I now have to decide whether or not to get my other cats tested for FIV. On the one hand, it's expensive to get them tested, and at least two of my cats really, really hate going to the vet or being put in their boxes or anything like that. On the other hand, if we have it in the house we need to know. We can't, in good conscience, take any more cats in to live here if we have FIV in the house. FIV in itself is not that contagious if there's no fighting or sexing or open wounds around the place, so the cat most at risk of catching it is Linus, because he goes outside, and that's the only place where fighting might happen.

I don't want to have to stop Linus from going outside. The whinging alone would be too much to bear.

Although I miss Jane, I don't miss how ill she was in recent months, and the constant visits to the vet, the upset of her being ill all the time, and the cleaning up after her. And Blakey does fill that sitting-on-me-even-when-it's-not-really-convenient-to-have-a-cat-sit-on-me niche that Jane used to occupy so well. Blakey has even taken it a stage further and will crawl up the sleeve of the Slanket and attack my armpits while I'm trying to type.

So cute. So inconvenient.

Poor Jane. I'm sorry there wasn't anything we could do, and I'm sorry we didn't know that sooner, or there might have been more chicken and less grumping at you in your end times.

Psst, want a pedigree cat?

Despite my five cats, I think of myself as primarily a dog person. This is because I think of myself as being largely sloppy, sprawly, mucky, and willing to eat just about anything if it's served in a bowl and someone makes yum yum noises while they pass it over.

However, the nice lady in Laois from whom we adopted Lorelai aka Rory aka Smidger Fee aka The Smidge contacted me yesterday to say that she has a posh breed cat who is looking for a nice indoor home, and she thought of me. I was simultaneously aghast at the idea of me as some kind of crazy cat collector person who fawns over her beautiful long-haired tortoiseshell kitty and would love to have a house full of long-haired tortoiseshell kitties, and highly flattered that when a valuable cat comes into someone's possession, they think of me as an ideal home for it.

(She probably would not think this if she heard me telling Jane last night that she better make her mind up to get well or die soon, because I'm not spending any more money bringing her to the vet or any more time and energy cleaning up her puke off the floor every time she eats.)

Anyway, six cats is a bridge too far, so I reluctantly turned down her Norwegian forest cat, but said I would keep an eye out for a good home. So if you have a good indoor home to offer a really beautiful cat, let me know and I'll pass your details along. If I think you're good enough.

By the way, the cat in the picture is just some random Norwegian forest cat, just so you can get an idea of what they look like. It's not the one on offer.

(Obviously I will continue to look after Jane. Come on, like.)

And we're off

Day one and I've got over 2,000 words written. Maybe I'll make it this year. First couple of pages are a bit boring though, so I might not bother posting them. If I write something exciting I'll post it.

What? What? You did what?

I mean, what the FUCK? WHAT?

What the fuck is wrong with people?

Um, that is all.

More Blakey cuteness

Oh, and did I mention that Blakey thinks that Lulu is her mother? Well, she does. Lulu has to bat her away when she tries to suckle, but she is happy enough to let her curl up beside her and sleep.

We went on holidays

To Markree Castle in Sligo.

The plan was originally to go to Cuba, but that turned out to be very expensive and a massive hassle, so we decided to have a cheapish reading week in Ireland, which wouldn't involve flights or luggage allowance or any of that crap. Markree, as a bonus, let us bring the dogs, so we didn't even need to worry about that. Just chuck everyone in the car and off we go.

From that point of view, the place was a dream. The dogs were very welcome, and the room was big enough for all six of us to bunk up together, spread over two beds. There was plenty of space to run them across the (as advertised) rolling parklands and formal gardens. Nobody disturbed us, and we didn't disturb anyone else. We took them out for a long run in the mornings, then spent the afternoons sitting around reading while the dogs slept. Then another run in the evening before dinner, and another short walk in the moonlight before bedtime. Top notch. And we saw a stag one of the days. It was all very Regency.

There were a couple of problems with the room. The shower was awful. Truly awful. With the shower head on, you were standing under a dribble of hot water. Taking it off produced a slightly more satisfying trickle, so we did that instead. Also the bed was broken on one side. Separately, the food was kind of strange, as if the proper chef was away and had been replaced by someone who had never cooked a vegetable before in their lives.

We still really enjoyed it, and looking at other people's photographs of the place on Flickr indicates that the food isn't always like that, so I would recommend it to someone else. Plus I read two novels while I was there, which was something of a result, because I can't remember when I last finished a book.

It has been an awfully long time

Things have been busy here on Waltons' Mountain. Life news in brief:

*Ozzie is doing better, thanks. She has stopped losing weight and actually might be putting it on a little. This is great news, because it means we've found the problem and it is treatable, which means that when she has her weight up to normal, we can start looking for a home for her.

*We have a new kitten. She is called Blakey. She is called this because she has kind of a Hitler moustache effect going on, but you can't really call a kitten Hitler, can you? (No, is the answer. The answer is no.) Blakey came to us from Roscrea, where we were attending the funeral of our friend's mother. At the reception afterwards, some people rescued her from a tree, but then she was just left there in the carpark, only a five-barred gate between her and the main Dublin road. So we took her away, leaving our details with the hotel staff in case anyone came looking for her (although given the worm load she was carrying, and the state of her ears, and how hungry she was, it seems unlikely that she strayed from a loving home). We are officially looking for a home for her, but there are kittens everywhere, it seems, and nobody appears to be interested. So that's five cats we have now.

*Jane has been ill, but she appears to be doing better now.

All in all, there have been a lot of trips to the vet, which has been expensive and time-consuming, and reached a nadir when I had to give Jane a suppository. Hopefully we're on a bit of an upswing now, because I can't manage much more animal hassle.

A poorly girl

We have a new canine house guest at the moment. Her name is Ozzie. She was originally picked up by our rescue at about ten weeks old, abandoned in a box in Drogheda, covered in fleas and totally underfed. She has been fostered by a single family since then, and did actually go to a new home after she was spayed a couple of months ago, but it didn't work out (the property just wasn't secure enough for her questing nature) and she came back into foster.

We took her when her foster family went on holidays a few weeks ago, and she's been fine in our house so we agreed to keep her a bit longer while they all got organized with getting back from holidays and getting back to school and so on.

She's a sweet girl and she fits in here extremely well. Apart from chasing Linus a bit (which all the dogs do, because he's so chasable), and the odd bit of power-supply chewing, she fits in here pretty well. She has many of the appealing traits of a labrador (likes to rest her heavy head on your lap and sigh, likes to go for a big long walk, loves a cuddle) without the insane food fixation we have seen in labradors gone by, and in a smaller, easier-to-handle package.

Unfortunately she's not well now. She's losing weight, not digesting her food properly, and having accidents in the kitchen at night. Today we went out for a walk and she didn't even chase the seagulls, which is a sure sign something is amiss. So we went to the vet, who gave her an injection, special food, several types of tablet, and some stuff that looks like Maalox that needs to be syringed into her three times a day, an hour before she eats.

She's down from 17.5kg when she came to us three weeks ago (and that was about 1kg underweight) to 15.65kg this morning. When she lies on her side you can see her heart beating under her ribs, and you can see all the knobs on her spine.

I hope she gets better soon. Looks like we might have her for a while yet. As I write this I am sitting on the sofa with her head jammed under my arm. I will be working like this for the rest of the day because I am soppy.

A family man

This is a bad day

Everything's dark. Gloomy. It's the lousy tail end of a piss-poor summer in the weather arena.

We had to cancel a weekend away in England in July, and we've had to cancel our trip to Cuba in November. We've had minor dog complications. I've been eating crap and getting far less exercise than I should.

To top it all off, I've moved to a new position in our company, which takes me away from the world of periodicals and back into the world of writing marketing copy. On the face of it, that's fine, except when I can't think of anything to write and I sit here and stare at the screen just getting tireder and tireder.

And I have barely scraped fifty pages of reading the whole summer long. I seem to just sort of sit here. I'm going to the doctor tomorrow for more blood tests, just to see what's happening with the good old thyroid function.

On the other hand, we have found a new number 2 for the laminated list, so that's something at least.

We take our wins where we can.

Hot SCD Gossip

So it is official. Arlene Phillips is being dropped from Strictly Come Dancing in favour of Aleisha Dixon. This raises several problems for me as a telly consumer, a woman, and a fan of SCD.

Ever since Aleisha Dixon started to do well on the show, even before she won, the BBC began pushing her, grooming her for something more. A core of telly types appear to think she is the British Beyonce. Bruce said it on many occasions, and I bet you anything he wasn't saying it off his own bat; he's a team player, is Bruce.

She got a new recording contract, her single was single of the week on BBC Radio, and presenters had to say they liked it, despite the fact that it sounded exactly like "Mambo No. 5," which nobody likes, not even the people who bought a copy. I'm not sure any of it really did any good, because I don't follow the charts, but it does seem to me that as soon as the song stopped being single of the week in its first week of release, I rarely heard it again. Contrast this with Lily Allen, who is on the radio every second of the day, seemingly.

And now the BBC is replacing Arlene Phillips with Aleisha Dixon on SCD. Why replace Arlene? Because, even on a dance show that is primarily watched by women, only one of the four judges can be a woman. And it's convenient to replace Arlene, because she's older and a bit grumpy. Of course, Len Goodman and Bruce Forsyth are also older and a bit grumpy, but you can't take all the older people off the show, because a lot of the show's audience is made up of older people.

So off Arlene goes. What the hell does she know about dance anyway? With her years of choreography experience and dance coaching to the stars behind her, what the hell makes her such an expert? No no, much better to get someone new and fluffy in who will be nice and who doesn't really know anything about dance.

If they're going to replace anyone on the show with Aleisha Dixon, why can't it be Tess Daly? If the producers want to groom Aleisha for anything, why not groom her to take over from Bruce when he eventually dessicates under the strain of trying to pretend that the Sunday night dance-off isn't recorded on Saturday? She's peppy and personable and can sing and dance, and according to the BBC, everyone loves her. So why not take the big chance instead of the easy option of booting the old boot?

Would you like to hear a story about dogs that starts off sad and gets happy?

You would? Okay.

Early in 2009, I got a call from Drogheda Animal Rescue (the organization I sometimes volunteer for) asking me if I would help out with fostering two little old Jack Russell ladies. Lucky, 14, and Princess, 17, had been brought by their owner to the vet to be put to sleep because the owner had got a new cocker spaniel and the Jack Russells, who lived exclusively in the back garden, didn't like it. There was nothing else wrong with these dogs, as far as we knew.

So the vet called DAR, and the dogs were put into a foster home near me. I used to go round most days at lunchtime and take them out for a walk. They were always excited to see me, always happy to go for their walk, and I always hated leaving them, because, to be honest, I didn't really think they were getting proper care there either. Lucky turned out to have a heart condition and was put on pills. She eventually had a seizure and the dogs had to be moved from that foster home to somewhere where they could be more closely monitored. I was sad to see them go, assuming I would never see them again. Yes, I did have a little cry.

Fortunately, a lovely couple turned up close to Drogheda who took these two ladies in and turned them into part-time outside dogs, part-time sofa dogs.

Unfortunately, Lucky died a while later, and Princess was left on her own.

Can you see where this is going?

Yes, on Wednesday I delivered our wee foster (who we were originally calling Little, but whose name was later changed to Bijou) round to the house of these nice people, to see if she would make a good companion for Princess.

Their house is so lovely! There are lovely dog beds in the kitchen, and lovely kennels outside! And the dogs get to sit on the sofa in the evening! And the lady goes to the beach in the evenings for walks, so Bijou will be able to go for walks! And Princess did not hate her, so maybe she will eventually like her!

The best thing is that Princess looks amazing. She's lost loads of weight and she's had some baths, and she is lively and happy and waggy in her tail. She's bright-eyed and happy to receive visitors. These people have done a great job.

I hope Bijou will be happy there.

But we do miss her very much. And yes, I had a little cry.

Dog fostering is hard, as I believe I may have pointed out before.

More setbacks for pedigree dogs

Some time ago, a documentary maker called Jemima Harrison made a show called Pedigree Dogs Exposed, which basically scared the bejesus out of everyone who cares about dogs, because it pointed out how eugenics in the dog-breeding business have turned some of your favourite breeds into barely functional freaks that suffer from every health problem you can possibly imagine.

As a direct result of Jemima's work and the support she received from animal welfare groups, the BBC chose to stop showing Crufts, the world's biggest advertisement for this type of dog breeding.

But now More 4 have decided that they will start showing it instead. Bad news for dogs.

Little the dog

Last night some of the local kids (yes, the ones I'm always complaining about) brought a little dog to our door. They were accompanied by a parent this time, the first time I've ever met one of their parents.

They had found a little female jack russell wandering around the estate and she seemed lost and tired. Crucially, the kids didn't recognize her, and they know every dog in the neighbourhood. So Mammy had agreed that they could go around all the houses where they knew people with dogs lived and ask them if they knew the dog. But first they wanted to check with me that I would take her if they couldn't find anywhere for her to go by bedtime.

Nobody owned her, so now she's here. She's a sweet wee girl, and clearly very much a lap dog. She likes to be picked up and likes to sit next to people. We are very hopeful that someone in the estate owns her, or at least someone local. But if not, well, someone's going to get a lovely little dog soon.

I am calling her Little, for now. Because, you know, she's little.

MJ's will has been filed

According to the BBC:

"As we work to carry out Michael's instructions to safeguard both the future of his children as well as the remarkable legacy he left us as an artist, we ask that all matters involving his estate be handled with the dignity and the respect that Michael and his family deserve."

So, none at all then.

Poor Lulu

A few weeks ago Lulu became lame in one of her front legs. This necessitated a visit to the vet to ensure that she was fit for the Great Camping Trip to Derbyshire. Sadly, the vet recommended that she be left behind, in kennels, for rest, medication, and no exercise for two whole weeks. The vet suspected elbow dysplasia.

For a dog owner, the idea of dysplasia is bad news. It can mean years of medication, physical therapy, restricted exercise, arthritis, and general misery for the dog, and high vet bills for the owner.

Naturally, we wouldn't want anything like that to befall poor Lulu.

Fortunately, the x-rays we just subjected her to appear to suggest that she hasn't got it, or if she has got it, she's in the extremely early stages of it and a few months of gentle exercise could prevent it from developing. We won't know for sure until the radiologist has had a chance to look at the x-rays, and she won't be visiting for another two weeks. In the meantime, we have to proceed as if Lulu has got it.

That means that a dog who was formerly getting at least two hours of fairly vigorous exercise a day, much of it in the form of chasing a ball at high speeds and with much leaping, is now confined to three ten minute walks on the lead every day, and no more ball.

She has been home less than a week and has already eaten a book I was reading.

Except today, when she is the poorest yoke in the world, having been given a general anaesthetic by the vet. I don't know about you, but I find that when certain dogs come home after a general anaesthetic, they become tired and clingy, and don't like you to leave the room or they won't go to sleep. So instead of getting my afternoon's work done, I'm sitting in the living room with the dogs, or Lulu won't lie down, even though she looks as though she will fall down if left to her own devices.

Poor wee girl.

Hot town, summer in the, er, housing estate

Summer is the time for serious reading. Partly because the days are long and you can get away with switching on your, frankly, inadequate bedside lighting later and later, and partly because there's nothing on the telly.

I really want to read something amazing right now. I really want to read something that I love as much as I loved The Time Traveller's Wife, or Oscar and Lucinda, or Ahab's Wife. I want something with romance and incident and longing and great passions of all kinds, and an impossible journey, and long ago (although a lack of long-ago is not a deal breaker), and I want it to make me cry.

If I can't find a book with these things in it, I will just have to go back to reading some Patrick O'Brian. He packs many of those things into his books, although he's a little too light on the romance for my current requirements.

Or Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.

Where are you, book I want to read? Come on, it'll be the solstice in a few days and I'll have to start lighting the lamps earlier of an evening.

Watching Glen Hansard write songs

I never saw Once before. It's very pleasant, except for the fact that Glen Hansard is a Grafton St. busker in it. I hate Grafton St. buskers. I never liked them much, even when I was younger and just used to traipse around Grafton St. for fun. But as I got older and often had serious business to transact on the street, they became a positive nuisance.

In particular, I remember going for some counselling sessions in a second-or-third floor office on Grafton St. and having to listen to buskers outside while trying to collect my thoughts and come up with something useful to say about my life and my relationship with other people and the world. I remember wanting to go outside after the session and shout at the buskers in frustration, because they just make so much bloody noise.

I'm not often in a hurry when I'm in town these days, and I don't mind buskers so much. I'd mind them even less if they were all like the young lad who plays drums with a couple of plastic bottles.

Still not crazy about unsolicited music in some public places though. Particularly in the Long Hall. Fuck off with that shit.