Two Down, Three To Go

It is probably ten years or more since I lumped Margaret Thatcher, the Queen, Matty, Pearlie and Ian Paisley together as a cohort. I banded them on age as they were all born within a nine month period. If Matty was feeling 'old' I'd say to her, "Have you seen the state of Paisley? He's looking his age for sure! And the harples* of him! You? You're like a lilty** yet!" Or she'd think her mind wasn't as sharp as it used to be. "Sharp! You're as sharp as a tack. Didn't you win a tenner for completing the Irish News crossword the other week? Imagine being like Maggie Thatcher. Sure she has to be told every day that Denis is dead. Wouldn't that be awful?"

And there was always Pearlie who, couldn't walk, could barely eat, had no way with her and had precious few friends. While Matty was, without doubt, the most popular woman in her road and rarely wanted company or outings.

And the Queen. "Mum, that poor woman. Sure she's great for her age and wants for nothing but she has hardly a minute to call her own and almost her entire family are on welfare! At least your kids have jobs."

Ten years ago I'd have wagered that Pearlie would go first, then Ian Paisley. After that it would be Thatcher, then Matty at 95 and the Queen at 100 or more. Instead it was Matty, the youngest of the five who was first to pass away. Now Thatcher has gone and it's happy for her I'd say. There was a recent photograph of her sitting on a park bench, in a good wool coat, wrinkled stockings and a pair of Hotter shoes on her feet. A little whippet was beside her and she was petting the dog which looked like a smaller, finer version of my Judy. I never liked Mrs T. Some part of me admired her as a person and a woman but I hated her dogma. I hated her stance on Ireland. But I loved that picture with the dog. She cannot have been all bad.

I was in hospital having Hannah when Thatcher went to war with Argentina. I was in hospital this morning when I heard of her death. Nobody seemed to care. It was just a diversion, like the Jeremy Kyle Show.

And I wondered who would be next. My prediction - Ian Paisley, then Pearlie, then the Queen. Surely Pearlie cannot outlive the Queen?

And hopefully I will outlive them all. The news from the hospital was good. So far.


* harple - limp
** lilty  - bouncing, energetic woman

What A Stupid Thing To Do

A dog? Did you really rescue a dog? What a stupid thing to do.

So said Margaret Thatcher to Matthew Parris when she presented him with an RSPCA medal for rescuing a dog from the River Thames.

She was a hard-nose that Mrs Thatcher and it doesn't surprise that she'd take an unsentimental line towards our four-legged friends.

Still I can't help thinking that she might have been right. Risking one's life by jumping into a stinking river to rescue a dog does seem pretty foolhardy. I wouldn't do it but then I can't swim. Another thing I find myself wondering about – very often when there is a big flood or a freeze we hear about a pet owner risking their life, jumping into water, to rescue a dog. Sometimes the would be rescuer gets into serious trouble, sometimes even perishing, but when they do survive and are written about in the papers, or interviewed for television news no one ever mentions the dog. I expect it's just far too sad.

I just can't thank the Rescue Services enough. God knows what would have happened if they hadn't risked their lives to save me.

And I'm wondering, 'What about little Scruffy? Did poor little Scruffy not make it to the river bank?

Back to old flint-hearted Maggie and her cruel words,

A dog? Did you really rescue a dog? What a stupid thing to do.

These words have been ringing in my ears for days. I think of them when I clean up pees and poos. I think of them when I look at the pawmarks on my chairs. I think of them when I look at all the mud trekked in over my freshly-mopped floors. I think of them when I buy disinfectant in 5 gallon jars and I think of them when I have to supervise the pack at eating time because they all steal each other's food and it's devil take the hindmost. I may not have jumped into a dirty river to get Charlie but I bet Matthew Parris didn't keep his rescued dog.

Anyway - this post was supposed to be an update about Charlie, the border collie I rescued back in October. He's a weird little dog with some rather unsavoury habits. Among other things he pees in the other dogs' food bowls. But I adore him. It was rather stupid rescuing him when I already had three dogs but it's done now. I get pleasure every day from his company. He was thoroughly unsocialised when he first came but underneath it all he's a great wee dog and every week he makes progress of some sort. But that's it! There can be no more dog rescuing for me.