What's in a name?

Hamish. My previous owner gave me this name for everyday use, although on my birth certificate I'm registered as "Independent Laddie", which suits me fine well, but would be a mouthful for Gail to shout in the park. Not that I pay any attention when she calls out "Hamish!", but that's another story.

It's true that I'm not the only Westie in Aberdeen called Hamish (English understatement here, by the way). People can be quite sarcastic about this. One lady heard Gail calling me the other day and observed, rather nastily I felt, that "not a lot of imagination went into naming you, did it?" A couple of days earlier another stranger patted me on the head and said "Hamish? how did you know you were going to be called Hamish?"

For those readers who aren't from these parts, some etymology. The name Hamish comes from the Scottish Gallic name Seumas, and the English equivalent is, of course, James.

Finally, I'd like to thank Wikipedia for pointing out that the name Hamish is "not to be confused with Amish, an Anabaptist Christian denomination".....

A trip to the hairdresser

I went for a haircut this week. See the photo below; don't I look nice and trim? I do much prefer having short hair - it's one trait I share with my owner Gail. Some people (who may be reading this), have in the past imputed that I'm a bit on the chubby side. And have even sniggered when Gail defends me saying "he's not fat he's just fluffy". It's a sensitive point. Well now that the fluff has all been cut off, you can judge for yourselves.


Trimming us Westies is quite a skilled matter. Not as complicated as poodles of course, but Gail's one disastrous attempt to do the job herself made it plain to everyone who saw me afterwards that some basic competence is required. And I've never seen Gail so flummoxed as when she first took me to the grooming parlour. Simple questions like "does he have a long skirt, a short skirt or the practical cut?" and "will I give his face a round or square shape?" left her uncharacteristically at a loss for words.

For the record, I have a VERY short skirt, and my face suits a round-shaped cut best.

Saturdays

It's always a good sign when Gail gets up, make a cup of tea and then retreats to bed for a while. My sign that she's not going to work today, and so there's a chance of getting a decent walk somewhere other than boring old Ferryhill. Another good sign, when we go out the front door and I'm directed into the Mini. (I do wish she'd clean the inside though, all that sand that fell out of my coat after last week's trip to Balmedie makes the seat look a right mess, and those smears on the window obstruct my view out!)

After a short drive, I leap enthusiastically out the car and if I didn't have such short legs, the wind might have blown me over. We must be at Torry Battery, by the harbour. Sea to the north, groups of men in funny clothes hitting balls with sticks (seems so pointless) to the south, lots of wind - did I mention that already - and several couples sitting in cars, binoculars trained on the water at the harbour mouth.

Gail and I follow our favourite route round the coast, past the lighthouse and the old 'Torry Coo'. Boy it's cold. As it starts to rain horizontally, we meet a pretty border collie. Her owner, an old man with a well-indurated face, greets mine with a single word. "July". He doesn't smile, but looks resigned.