Channelling Top Cat

Lyra has hit dog teens. She is 6 months old and probably awash with hormones. Having been as sweet as pie for weeks she has been quite the little scamp the last two days.

We got off to a fine start on this morning walk. Lyra was ecstatic to find a pheasant’s nest and had very carefully extracted an egg before I caught her and moved her along. (At that point exactly I received an email from Anne next door alerting me to the nest which their dog had also disturbed. It seems unlikely the poor bird will return, but pheasants are not the smartest so we gave it a wide berth on the way back just in case).

Due to a change in route the lead was on for the return leg which passed by the Butterlaw road. This was not to madam’s taste and after a thorough roll in some fox poo she discovered, we had a number of sit down protests on the way back. Ghandi would have been impressed……….

Anne, seeing me wrestle with some further civil disobedience this afternoon, shouted me over and handed me a book on dog training. Clearly when watching me she feels a bit like I feel when watching Keith thread a needle. All assistance was, however, gratefully received. Lyra was deposited in the kitchen whilst I perused a few chapters. It appears that the pack structure at home has gone somewhat awry whilst Lachlan is away. Leadership is required.

Cometh the hour, cometh the 50+ year old woman (it was ever thus). For this evening’s walk I positively exuded leader of the pack (which, rather than a leather clad biker, for me, will always be the indisputable, most tip top, Top Cat. ) Walking briskly and, to reinforce my utter in chargeness, singing rousing songs, we powered along. Any hint of mutiny was quashed with sheer force of personality and a wave of the red and green chewy knot. It all went so well we diverted round our field to give Anne a fly past of formation marching.

By way of celebration there was bounding round the orchard then a pleasant sit on the lawn watching the birds after Lyra’s tea.

The copy book was slightly blotted later when Raymond’s dogs came out, but I feel there is now a plan. Having grown up in Selkirk, I have the full Common Riding Song Book committed to memory, so we will not be short of rousing anthems.

If only Ishbel and Lachlan’s teen traumas could have been resolved by a forced march round the field singing “Where are the boys of the Old Brigade”

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