Goodness knows where the post “Gone But Not Forgotten” disappeared to.  The link is still on my facebook page but the post has most definitely gone!  I blame the ipad…or the pups…it will be one or the other that was responsible.  Thankfully I’m now back on my PC where a lot less goes wrong.

Some of you may have read the (now absent) post but for the benefit of those who missed its brief existence here is the gist of what it contained.

I have decided to give the pups their own blog and keep Where The Fatdog Walks as a working archive of my trips with Maisie.  I have begun the mammoth task of editing the Fatdog “Tails” on this blog  adding in the photos that were lost and including new pages of text to link the whole project together .  It will take a few years to complete I think but, from time to time, I’ll put up a post telling you what has been added so you can read the epic from start to finish.  There were over a hundred of the “Tails” so pulling it all together will be a l-o-n-g project.

So, that’s what’s happening here but elsewhere a new project has begun.  The pups insisted that they wanted their share of the global adulation that was once showered upon the late Maisie and bullied me into developing another WordPress blog, one that would reflect their more “robust” natures.  Once they saw (and approved) of the title page teeth were removed from my legs and I was allowed to leave.   Here is the link to the new blog that is:

Reservoir Dugz

Now that the little beasts have a “normal” routine I am able to spend more time on the PC which lives upstairs.   For the past few months I’ve had to, more or less, give up the blogging world as my access to the PC has been limited and I find the ipad sh…eh…rubbish to work with when it comes to reading and writing on blogs.  So, hopefully that’s me back on-line on a more regular basis and I can now catch up on whatever everyone else has been up to in the blogging world.

There was a recent post…and now it’s gone. I’ve no idea how it vanished or where it has gone…but it has.

To cut a long story short it said that I have a new blog called Reservoir Dugz

I’ll sort this mess out later…once I’ve walked the soddin’ dogs who were no doubt responsible for this soddin’ mess in the first place!

Having, most generously (some would say charitably…or even mistakenly), been inaugurated into “The Versatile Blogger” club, I feel beholden to comply with some of its requirements.  It would appear I have to nominate 15 worthy blogs for a similar honour and to give 7 interesting facts about myself.  Given that I don’t visit as many as 15 blogs…and that I will struggle to get past 1 interesting fact about myself (no doubt Mr.P will take great delight in confirming this unfortunate state of affairs) it looks like I may have to hand back my award before the governing body demands its return.  I think it is fair to assume that there will be none of that “truth and reconciliation” nonsense should I fail to comply.  An immediate withdrawal of members comments and “Likes” followed by a lifetime ban on access to stats would be the minimum sanction I would expect.  This link may help explain the non-obligatory “rools”.

But there is a bright side.  Having to nominate fellow bloggers allows me scope to irritate a number of my erstwhile blogging buddies, either by ignoring their efforts or conversely by recognising their efforts and thoroughly pissing them off in the process…all good then!

So…my first nominee for The Versatile Blogger award (should he choose to accept it and not tell me to “bugger off” as he no doubt will) will be OM at “One Small Step”.  Exceedingly funny and belligerent in equal measure – not forgetting his ability to dig up music from the past that most of us had forgotten about (although in some cases there may have been good reason for that. )

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As for an interesting fact about myself…hmm….

Ah…a story…a quintessentially Scottish story.  Not so much an interesting fact I admit, more an insight into why I will, from time to time, make comment upon what I consider to be one of the more ludicrous aspects of modern Scottish Culture…the sectarian divide.  Sadly those outside of Scotland may miss the nature of the punch line but I’m sure a few years spent on Google may fill in the knowledge gaps.

It was 2002 and things had not been going well for a couple of years.  J lost her dad and mine, seriously ill since 2000, was on the proverbial “shoogly peg”.

It wasn’t all doom and gloom though.  It was my birthday and we were off to Ireland to see friends  of ours who moved over a few years back.  And there was another plus…an unexpected present of a trip to Ireland’s west coast, to the matchmaking capital of Lisdoonvarna in County Clare.

It will come as no surprise when you learn that, soon after our arrival, we headed for the pub where I soon found myself playing second bodhran in a two man Irish ceilidh band.  Strictly speaking it became a three man Irish ceilidh band with my unfortunate involvement…and again, strictly speaking, I wasn’t so much playing the bodhran as creating a modern counterpoint to the more…ahem…traditional rhythms, if you get my drift.  My lack of skill did not, however, dampen my enjoyment and soon I was belting out those songs associated with the desire of the Irish to extricate themselves from British rule.

“Aaaand…weeeeeee’re…all off to Dublin in the green, in the green…”

Now, first of all you have to understand that I was brought up Presbyterian and as a youngster had no knowledge whatsoever of Ireland or the Irish.  It was a fairly sheltered existence.  I was aware that my Great Gran had a funny accent and that I had relatives in a place called Ballymena…but that was about it.  I also recall someone at school having an LP of Irish rebel songs (whatever they were) but I sort of picked up on the fact that such things were generally the domain of Celtic supporters or, as they were otherwise known, Roman Catholics.

Anyway, as the evening wore on the flow of the Guinness improved my bodhran playing no end…at least in my mind and as we repeated the songs for the umpteenth time I was definitely getting into the spirit of things.  I seem to recall the four of us dancing a “Gay Gordon’s” up and down the pub floor…but my memory is becoming a little hazy on the detail as the “black stuff” continued to flow.

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“Aaaand…weeeeeee’re…all off to Dublin in the green, in the green…”

We were still buzzing on our return home.

My dad was just a short tube length away from total hysterical collapse.  Tears were flowing down his cheeks as he listened to the story of our adventures in the pub.  I say a short tube length away because his home based oxygen supply restricted his ability to get about.

“Your Uncle Billy would love that story!” he chortled

I wondered why, but let it pass.  It was the happiest I’d seen him in months, the restrictions of his tubes and machine weighing on his moods.  Two days later he passed away.

It was quiet in the house the following day.  Mum sat in her chair staring at the empty one opposite as I quietly began sorting out what would need to be done over the coming weeks.  As I wandered past the sideboard she suddenly came to life.

“Look in the top drawer and bring me the wee box that sits at the front.” She asked.

I nodded and opened the drawer.   Mum took the box from my hand, opened it, peeked in then handed it back.

“It’s yours now…it belonged to your Great Grandfather.”

Inside the box was a tiny spirit level and a smaller box that suggested jewellery.  As I lifted out the 50mm long spirit level I held it up, looking at her questioningly.

  “He was a mining contractor.”

“Ah!” I exclaimed.  I hadn’t a clue what that involved but I reckoned today was a day for letting things slip by.

I opened the smaller box to find a set of ornately scrolled gold cuff links and shirt studs.

“That was for his dress outfit.” Mum explained.

Hmm…he wore dresses!  That was a bit of interesting news.  Ah, maybe I picked that up wrong.

“Dress?”

“No…not dress…dress outfit…what he wore for meetings and the like!”  she snipped.

I had been treading own dangerous ground.

“Ah!” I exclaimed, reverting to my fallback position.

“Did your dad not tell you?  He was Grand Master of the Orange Lodge in Larkhall.”

Oops!

Looks like we’d been…ahem…”kicking with the wrong foot” in recent days.  Never mind, one last time then…but quietly in case the ancestors start to turn in their graves.

“Aaaaand…weeeeeee’re…all off to Dublin in the green, in the green…”

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Just a minute…which Uncle BILLY was he talking about?

Great news!

The Fatdog Broadcasting Corporation has been given an award!

Thanks to our blogging buddy, Helen of “The Venomous Bead” (to name but one of her blogs), “Where The Fatdog Walks” will proudly display “The Versatile Blogger” logo. Recognition by one’s peers is always a great compliment. I will gloss over the fact that Helen decided it was the only way she could force the publication of new photos of Little Miss Mabel. Ulterior motives not withstanding I am forced to conclude that it must be the first award handed out for not writing a post!

Talking of writing posts…I’m finding writing almost impossible these days. I can barely string together a full sentence without a full 30 minutes of editing. It’s like the arrival of the pups has wiped away every last vestige of creativity that I (barely) possessed and that my world has slipped backwards nine years in time to when the genesis of “The Fatdog” was still three long years distant. The implication of that particular thought suggests it will be a couple of years of incredibly dull…plodding…doggy walks before that exciting period begins again. It’s difficult to come up with posts filled to bursting with shots of exotic locations (not to mention prose packed with scintillating humour…ahem) when life at The Fatdog Broadcasting Corporation is currently as dull as the proverbial dishwater.

“Yes, yes…all very well…but we want to hear about the pups!”

Oh, I suppose…

The young Little Miss Mabel reminds me of Maisie at that age, both in mannerisms and temperament. It’s fair to say Mabel has a well regulated, plodding, certainty about her. There are, however, a few flattened puppies of her acquaintance who might disagree with that particular assertion. Unlike her predecessor she is a bit of a bruiser, weighing in at 17kg at 21 weeks. She “mixes it” with wolfhounds, huskies…in fact anything as long as it’s big.

While, in some ways, Little Miss Mabel reminds me of times past Lottie, “The Blonde”, is like a alien being. She’s a more flighty critter of selective hearing and (as yet) random toilet habits. This feisty little beastie is prepared to growl and bark at anything – until they move towards her that is…then it’s off as fast as the little legs will carry her.

I’ve posted a separate gallery of puppy photos for your perusal. Attempting to photograph both of the little degenerates at the same time is not the easiest of operations. The inexpert outside shots in the gallery were achieved by that heady combination – doggy treats and superglue.