Today's post is pet-focused. We have two cats. One is clinically obese: they are both clinically insane. For a long time, Dexter took absolutely no notice of either Noo Noo or Mike (he's the one scowling in the photograph), and Team Wayne, including its four-legged members, lived in happy harmony.
At about nine months old however, Dexter discovered the moggies. This coincided with an increase in Dexter's mobility due to him mastering the art of crawling. Thus ensued some comical scenes of startled creatures racing round the flat being hotly pursued by a baby on a mission. To be fair to the pets, they are very tolerant of Dexter's 'stroking' (grabbing of huge clumps of fur and generally pulling it out) and 'chatting' (squawking with excitement at a pitch to rival a car alarm), and only once has Noo Noo (the older, grumpier, fatter one) raised a cautionary paw accompanied by a swan-like hiss.
I think it's really good for children to grow up with animals (I don't mean in a raised-by-wolves way), as it teaches them responsibility, compassion and respect.
At the risk of this blog turning into a commemorative site for deceased animals, today's post is dedicated to a magnificent and much-loved pet, who was a loving companion to two very special children. Poppy Dog, my sister's ten year old pooch was put to sleep yesterday. Poppy, a rottweiler, defied the sensationalised media stereotypes of this much-maligned breed and instead was a treasured family pet. She grew up with both of my sister's young girls: took treats gently from their hands; slept by their cots; and obediently trotted beside their prams. A true gentle-giant and a legend in her own lifetime. Poppy, I know you would have been as lovely with my boy, as you were so placid around him when he was a tiny baby. Sweet doggy dreams to you now. xxx