Hello, I'm on the train...

This is so much more fun than just having to sit there watching Gail reading a book.

We're travelling back up to Aberdeen, after a week down in Nottingham with Gail's Mum and Dad. (And yes Stella, that is where the Nottingham Forest footballers come from. And Robin Hood too, of course. And yes Max, you're dead right about Grannies being a soft touch when it comes to food treats! )

Well we saw neither footballers nor outlaws, but we did go on lots of interesting walks.

Some times I was being chased.

And some times it was me doing the chasing. I can't believe I was being out-paced by Gail's eighty seven year old Dad. Well I suppose he doesn't have to stop and sniff so many things...

The weather was much much much hotter than Aberdeen, so it was kind of Gail to find me a nice cool stream when we went out for a walk in the Peak District.

Back on the train, can you tell whose blog we're looking at? (Hint - a famous New Yorker?)

A quick hello

Just in case anyone's wondering, I'm down in Nottingham with Gail this week, visiting her Mum and Dad. That's them in the picture. We've been on lots of pleasant slow walks and enjoyed lovely warm sunny weather. I'll tell you more in a few days time, when I'm home again and with full computer rights!

Badger patrol

I've just been down South for a few days, on important business.

Some humans think badgers are cute and cuddly. Not so Gail's Dad. To him they are the enemy, ever poised to invade the garden and deface his lovingly nurtured and perfectly manicured lawn. 

So when I visit him in his tidy suburban home in Nottingham, the first thing that happens is I go out and conduct a border patrol. I carefully check the garden perimeter, identifying any potential breaches in security that might lead to incursions by the local Mr Brock and his friends and relatives. At the more vulnerable points, there is barbed wire buried under the hedge (I kid you not) so I have to be careful not to investigate too deeply in the wrong spot. 

Having validated the integrity of the boundaries, I sweep the rest of the garden, using my prime asset, my nose, for evidence of the enemy, and alert Gail's Dad to signs of recent badger presence by rolling enthusiastically on any ground that smells 'interesting'. 

Now as regular readers of this blog will know, I consider myself a gentleman of leisure, not a working dog, and generally expect to be kept in fitting luxury by Gail without undue exertion on my part (especially now that I am a bona fido film star - see Petey's blog). So why make an exception for Gail's Dad? Well first off, he's a very nice man, and even older than me, so deserving of respect. 

And then of course there is the small matter of remuneration offered, a reliable supply of proper meaty bones. YUM!

Trains and dogs

Did you know that dogs go for free on the railway?

Thought not. Well I'm going to do a bit of a PR job for British Rail, or what ever you're supposed to call them these days.

Really I can't understand why people (humans that is) moan so much. I mean, is getting somewhere on time so very important anyway? Let me tell you some of the reasons I like travelling down to Nottingham on the train.

Mostly, of course, it's the food. Yes seriously! Have you any idea how many railway staff will happily dole out free biscuits and treats to cute looking dogs (that's me, folks)? And then there's always some bored passenger with a packed lunch who's a soft touch. I just need to sit there and fix them with my piercing, hopeful stare, and sooner or later, I can guarantee you, tasty morsels of ham sandwich, Cornish pasty or fruit cake will be coming my appreciative way.

My favourite position on the train is lying in the aisle, a good vantage point from where I can keep an eye on what's going on up and down the carriage. I can't help but notice that all the old folk who look a bit frail and wobbly seem to have no trouble stepping over me, quite often stopping to give me a friendly pat, and it's the younger, richer, fitter looking passengers who tut tut about me being in the way and make a big show about getting Gail to shove me under the seat when they try to pass.

Train travel can even be exciting. I like to flirt with danger sometimes and coming back from Nottingham a week ago, I did have a close encounter with the drinks trolley. Luckily the trolley lady, sorry "senior refreshment executive" who reversed into me whilst touting for business had a sense of humour and didn't attempt to sue after she trod on my paw and I retaliated by trying to bite her ankle. (An instinctive reaction which I do now regret).

I'm not so sure about being used as in-flight entertainment for other people's kids, but will even tolerate that so long as there's no tail-pulling involved. Foreigners sometimes want to take my photo, and I do rather like the thought that in some far flung place, even as I type, someone is looking at a picture of me and cooing 'isn't he sweet' in Japanese or Greek or whatever.

Just one final comment, at risk of seeming racist. The quality and attitude of the train staff does seem to deteriorate as soon as we go south of the border. You Sassenachs would do well to learn from your Scottish colleagues. Those uniforms you wear have pockets perfectly designed for carrying fragments of shortbread or chocolate biscuits you know.

Just thought I'd mention it.