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Ray the Romanian Rescue

We rescued our dog Ray from Romania a year ago. He wasn’t being held captive there, like some kind of canine Julian Assange accused of espionage. Romania let him go freely; in fact they were probably grinning from ear to ear when they saw his big fluffy tail wagging off into the distance. ‘So long Ray, you’re fun, but boy you’re not easy!’ 

I always said I wanted a dog to wrestle with, and as Romania is pretty successful at the sport of wrestling, that seemed an obvious place to go looking for a dog who would fit the bill. Oh that, and the fact they have a lot of dogs with no homes.

In Ray, we’d taken on less of a Greco-Roman Wrestler, more of a Mike Tyson . He’d bite your ear given half the chance and you wouldn’t want to go twelve rounds with him. It would start as nibble, and unless you nipped it in the bud (pardon the pun), he’d progress quite quickly to biting you. He’s eaten several ears in the past year. Pigs ears, cow ears, rabbit ears, he’s really not fussy. It might explain why his hearing is so good.

He also has incredible vision, not in the kind of way Steve Jobs had great vision, in that he can see things moving on the horizon. He’s always on the look out for a wolf or a bear in the distance. I’ve told him that a) those predators are now extinct in the UK and b) he doesn’t have a flock of sheep to protect. It might sound like I’m bigging him up, like a proud parent over exaggerates the qualities and achievements of their own child. I’m not. It’d be easier if he had crap eyesight and hearing.

On walks, people love to know what breed Ray is. We think he’s some kind of Shepherd (take your pick out of Carpathian, Bucovina, Romanian Raven Sheep Dogs), but we’re not sure, so I just tell them straight. He’s a Mutt. He’s also a really good actor. We went to meet Ray in November 2020 at his temporary home in Lincolnshire after arriving from Romania. Lincolnshire is quite a hotspot for EU migrants, bloody dogs coming here and taking all of our jobs! Of course I’m joking, there is very little chance that Ray could become a Guide Dog or Drug Detection Dog. He wouldn’t be able to resist biting the Guide Dog owner and eating any drugs he found.

We drove home from Lincolnshire while Ray slept peacefully in the boot of the car for 2 hours. A dog that walks well on the lead and sleeps soundly in the car? The Perfect Dog, we’ve lucked out here, we thought. All the while Ray was plotting what he had in store for us. Chewing furniture, barking at 5am to wake the neighbours, guarding things, frantic behaviour, humping guide dogs, chasing everything that moved and barking at things that didn’t move. 

What a world we live in. If you’d told us prior to last year we’d be adopting a Street Dog from Romania (via facebook) and we’d be having Zoom calls with a Dog Behaviourist, we might not have believed it. Three grown-ups analysing videos of Ray and formulating a plan of action, all the while Ray was in the room and none the wiser. I’ve had 38 years of dogs in the family, surely I was qualified to take on an 8-month old, intelligent Sheep Dog? He’s quite unlike any other dog we’ve had in the family. For a start, he loves going to the vet. During the COVID pandemic we’ve had to sit and wait in the car in the vet’s car park during appointments. By the look on Ray’s face when he reappears from the surgery, I can only assume they pour dog treats down his throat to keep him happy. He’ll eat vitamin tablets and medicine like they are treats (absolutely could not be a Drug Detection Dog). For normal dogs you have to surreptitiously hide the tablets in pieces of ham or cheese to get a dog to hold them down. Even then, they’d still eat the ham and spit out the tablet!

I’ve spent more time studying Ray’s diet than my own. I’ve taken a healthy interest in his poos, which any non-dog owner would find unsettling. He has more silly nicknames than I’d care to mention. As if the name Ray was not ridiculous enough already. He’s terrified burly workmen with his ferocious bark and he’s made little girls coo over his cuteness. He’s a bit of a conundrum. It’s been a journey and there’s still a long way to go. So here’s to the next year Ray. In fact we’ll just take it one step, one sit and one staaay at a time.

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I Beg Your Pardon

In the last 8 weeks I’ve been saying “Oh good burp!” to Max several times a day. At what age should one stop complementing others on their burps?  If we could harness his wind energy, then maybe China and India could “phase out” the use of coal, rather than just “phase it down”.

New babies smell good. They are a bit like cars in that sense. Even baby poo smells sweet (sort of). Wait until you get onto solids, they say, that’s when it starts to smell bad. Our midwife said the poo should be like a Korma. With enough mango chutney and rice, who knows, maybe it would be palatable. Ray wouldn’t turn it down, if the offer was there, that’s for sure. I was never a massive Korma fan, I like a bit more heat personally. 

We’re now on Downton Abbey Season 4. Yes we are 12 years behind the times, but if there’s anything a baby forces you to do, it is to sit still on the sofa for extended periods. Lady Mary has yet to drop a good burp at the dinner table, to be congratulated on by her father, Lord Grantham. We still have 3 seasons to go, so a lot could still happen.

In China, if you burp, it indicates to your host that you enjoyed your meal, the same goes for slurping in Japan. I did go full on slurp at the airport in Japan to test out this theory, but the look I was shot from Helena told me I shouldn’t continue. I shall be leaving the burping to Max and the slurping to Ray from now on.

I’m less inclined to say ‘Oh Good Fart!’ to Max, conscious of the fact this might be closely followed by me needing to go change a nappy. There’s so much toilet chat in our house nowadays. I rarely get asked how my trip to the loo was and whether I went for a number 1 or 2. Max gets all the attention now.

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Don’t Knock It Until You’ve Tried It

We’ve been binging on Downton Abbey recently. It’s cheaper and healthier than other addictions and there are no banging headaches in the morning. So thank you Lady Mary. Helena reckons it’s now the highlight of our days. That doesn’t mean that the rest of our life is really dull. It just means that Downton is really rather good (and better than expected). We’re a bit late to the party and I confess I did snub it when it was first aired on TV. Why would I want to watch a load of pompous people mill about in a big stately home?

I’ve never been a big watcher of soaps. But I can see how people get addicted. It’s a good thing Downton isn’t on once a day, or I’d probably be losing an hour a day to it for the rest of my life. Neighbours, Home & Away or Downton Abbey, how would one decide between these masterpieces of television.

Our Health Visitor came round recently and gave us a new parent questionnaire. ‘Do you drink?’ She said.

‘No. No, not really,’ we said.

‘OK, do you take any substances?’

‘No.’

‘OK what is it you do for fun?’

‘Watch Downton Abbey.’ Actually that’s not true, at this point we didn’t know this would be a new addiction for us.

I recently finished George Mahood’s book “Did Not Finish” (his book ‘Free Country’ is hilarious, if you like childish humour like me). In this new book, George runs marathons and fuels himself with pork pies and grated cheese sandwiches. Not your standard runner’s diet, and it gets him a lot of strange looks from his running companions. He explains that by grating the cheese in the sandwich, you take it to another level versus plain sliced cheese. So I thought I’d give it a try.

‘Would you like a grated cheese sandwich?’ I asked Helena

‘How is it going to be any different to a normal cheese sandwich?’ She said. I explained to her the concept of texture, after which she politely declined. Her loss. By grating it, it does take it to another level. Now I’m thinking, what else should I be grating! I’m not sure I can go back to plain cheese sandwiches.

Downton Abbey and Grated Cheese Sandwiches. Try them. You just might like them.

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Lads Lads Lads

I’m going to be a Dad. I should clarify, I’m going to be a stay-at-home Dad. We’re not having another baby yet. That would be moving quite fast.

I’ve decided to ease back from work in January to be the primary carer for little Max Power. Helena will be the bread winner, I’ll be the bread maker. She’s good at winning bread and I’m good at making it (and eating it). So that’s a win win.

Who am I kidding, I’m not going to be baking any bread. The last sourdough I made took more than a week to make from start to finish. The ingredients didn’t cost much, but if I factored in my time making it, it was a bloody expensive loaf. And then there’s the small matter of keeping Max and Ray alive and well.

My Dad has recently bought a bread maker (much to the annoyance of my Mum). So I’m expecting their house to have a constant smell of freshly baked bread. Which will come in handy if they ever come to sell the house. Ah the smell of freshly baked bread, it gets homebuyers’ senses going, apparently. You can actually buy freshly baked bread air fresheners. Ideal if you want to feel hungry all day, or if you’ve ever felt like living in a Greggs.

Max, Ray and I are going to be living the dream! Living the sleeping, feeding and nappy changing dream that is. Both Max and Ray are pretty good at sleeping and eating, but I can hold my own in those areas too. So we’ll all be learning a thing or two from each other. Apparently, my sister slept through the night from six weeks old. Max will be six weeks on Monday, so he has two days left to master it. Wishful thinking.

Us lads can’t lounge about all day, so I’ll be getting back to work in 2022. It turns out you need to win quite a lot of bread to pay for nursery and all of Ray’s counselling needs (he’s a complex mutt). Helena’s Money Tree hasn’t delivered good returns yet, in fact it’s looking a bit sad moving into winter. I have explained to her that it doesn’t actually produce money, and she should just keep winning the bread for now.