Doggy style étiquette

I’ve just had the pleasure of spending the weekend with the lovely Iris, a canine companion with possibly the sweetest nature ever (unless you’re a police person. Read on…)

Socialising with a dog reminded me again what an excellent a-hole filter they are. With Iris by my side I’ve had an abundance of smiles and chats with strangers, but I’ve also noticed those people who have obviously spent too much time on the tube (or similar). God forbid they should make eye contact or react in the slightest way to big brown eyes and a waggy tail (that’s Iris, not me – I have blue eyes).

Who could resist?

People who don’t like dogs are weird. Not that I’m judging …except that I really am. I completely understand that some may be nervous/scared of dogs, but they generally explain. It’s the ones that carry on as if she’s not even there – I suspect they are droids of some kind.

Iris makes a friend on the bus.

Spending time with a ‘bitch’ has also made me wonder – is our etiquette further evolved or have we just over-complicated things? Dogs are the grand masters of keeping it simple and socialising is instinctual. Now I’m not suggesting that we should all be going around sniffing each other’s bits (perish the thought!) but, in my humble opinion, things run a lot smoother when we’re upfront and just get to the point, a la woofers.

It's a dog's life...now.

Bad manners come from the master, not the mutt, and Iris is a perfect example. She was found wandering and neglected by whoever her previous owners were <insert rude word(s) of choice re previous owners>. Luckily she landed on her paws when my friend adopted her. She is now healthy, happy and loved, but if she could talk she could still tell a story of two from her previous life.

Loving it up at the pub.

Iris’ manners are near impeccable thanks to her new mum’s training, but, as we found out at the weekend, her previous owners also taught her a thing or two. We took her to the pub (‘you can’t teach an old dog new tricks’ applies more to me than Iris…) and she had a great time charming the patrons and staff alike, until a policeman walked in. At some point in her life Iris has clearly been taught to spot ‘the shades’ (as they’d say in Cork).


The point is proven yet again; there are no bad dogs – just bad owners.

Sandy tug o' war. The Mr has no chance.

What's in a name?

tee hee...

Passing my local dog groomers, Doggie Style, got me thinking about names (after my usual reactions; a titter, for obvious immature reasons, and a sigh, because I don’t have a doggie). It’s generally the first thing that people find out about you, so it can be a bit of an albatross around your neck if you’ve got a crap one.

Catherine (my in-trouble name) is common as muck. There were always at least two other Catherines in my class at school, including my bestest buddy, who had a Jedi-like ability to predict when the cross-eyed Sister Pious (I kid you not…) was about to call on ‘us’ for an answer. Given she’d be looking at both of us simultaneously (one eye each), it was impossible to tell who she was actually talking to – Ca liked to assume it was me and duck at the appropriate moment.

It could be a lot worse though. Rumour has it that Arabella was considered around the time of my birth. Now some people may be able to carry off Arabella – as a ginger I certainly could not. What parents really need to consider when choosing their offspring’s identification is; what the child is likely to look like, where they live and, please don’t forget, what their surname is. This is not really a decision that should be made under the influence of hormones...

Pocahontas is a lovely name for a Native American beauty, but for a snotty-nosed pale-face from Ireland? When you hear ‘Po-kaa-haaan-taaaas, come hee-ore’ in the finest Cork accent you can only think, ‘Disney has a lot to answer for’. And then there’s Vladimir, the name my sister’s old neighbours chose to give their baby boy. Grand if you live in wintery Russia, not quite so much if you live in County Meath and your surname is Murphy.

It’s a testament to my old colleague Ewan Kerr’s good humour that he didn’t hold it against his parents for not quite thinking the first name-surname combo through (or did they? he he he). We do like to see a sense of humour with these things. It’s very dull when people get too pernickety about their name, like the girl at my school who spent her life whining ‘it’s not Eee-del, it’s Ahhh-dele’ - people just called her Edel on purpose to wind her up. But we all know it can be very embarrassing to get people’s names wrong. Luckily our lovely neighbour Graham finds it very amusing that we called him Gerry for an entire year.

Finally, there are the excellent names. These are a credit to the parents who bestowed them; Fyfe Dangerfield, lead singer of the Guillemots (yes – that is his real actual name), Edgar Allan, first-born of my long-lost ginger brother, and, not forgetting the hairy children, Trevor the horse. Simple. Brilliant.

The joys of pawrenthood

At the risk of sounding like a crazy cat lady (that ship may have sailed with the title…) I love my furry children, and sometimes I like other people’s furry children more than their human children. I know - *gasp*.

Me and my 'sister'.

See I grew up in a house where the dog was my ‘sister’ and the cat was my ‘brother’ and as siblings go they were top-notch. Better, in many ways, than my human siblings. The furry brethren, for instance, did not lock me in dark rooms and shout ‘rraaaaarrrrrrrr’ outside the door, they did not mock me endlessly for pronouncing pseudonym ‘pee-se-doe-nee-um’ (I was 9!) and they did not tell me I came from the knackers because I was the only ginger in the family. Ah yes – all good ‘character building’ stuff… apparently.

I do remember a bit of aiding and abetting when my (human) brother used to hold me down for my (canine) sister to give my face a liberal licking, but she thought it was the ultimate expression of love. I’m not adverse to a little doggy slurp on the hand of course, in fact one of the best things that happened to me this week was being licked by a puppy in the street (my life is so very full!) but I’ve seen a bit too much of what dogs eat to relish a tongue facial.

Like mother, like son...

     Cat drool and sand-paper ‘kisses’ are no better, given the dead things that their mouths get wrapped around and the flies they like to snack on (bleurgh!) But their purrs can cure all ills. I had a rather stressed friend round recently, who felt infinitely better after a liberal application of red wine and G-cat purrs.

In terms of a morning arousal (no – not that kind of… get your minds out of the gutter!) I find the purry alarm clock to be far superior to a grating ‘bleep-bleep-bleep’, a dose of smashy-and-nicey style radio DJ or a screaming baby. And if it’s stupid o’clock, at least you can shut furry children in the other room by way of a snooze button – I think social services frown on that type of thing with human children.

Butter wouldn't melt...

Now they are far from perfect. At times they are nothing but trouble in a hairy package. Just a couple of their finest moments include bringing a live pigeon into the living room (I’ll never know how she got it through the cat-flap) and peeing on our neighbour’s pillow (the shame!)

They’ve had me in tears, forcing me to euthanise the mice that were beyond saving, and I’ve had occasion to call the police because of them (not as crazy cat lady as it sounds, honest, G-cat got himself locked in an empty flat, so I had to track down the key-holder).

But then they turn on the fuzzy charm, look at you with big innocent eyes, and it’s all forgotten – till next time…

Some of my nieces, nephews and favourite hairy friends...