As I mentioned in earlier posts we’ve started using some of our rear garden to grow flowers, fruit and veg. For the first half of the year things went pretty smoothly; most things grew readily and apart from the odd slug nibble we had few problems. Now we’re properly into summer we’re discovering just how hard it can be to stay on top of pests. We’ve found that Neem oil and washing up liquid sprays can help defend against aphids and similar parasitical insects, and that nets can help prevent the deployment of hungry caterpillars and the theft of unripened fruit by birds, but when it comes to larger furry pests, you’ve just go to be ready to shout “Oi! Get out of there!” really loudly.

This is one of those aforementioned “Oi!” moments

Defending against all these destructive pests can be wearing, but earlier this week we were confronted by a genuine tragedy. If you’re a Beagle owner you might want pour yourself a soothing drink and take a deep breath before reading the next bit of this post, because I can promise you, it’s going to hit you hard.

We’re well aware that Beanie & Biggles are heading into their golden years, and we know from friends and neighbors that a decline in health can hit older dogs swiftly and with little warning. We’re also aware that both our pups (but Beanie especially) are skilled manipulators who will find the drama in any situation and milk it for all it’s worth, so when Susan heard a wailing coming from the bedroom earlier this week, she wasn’t sure which situation was about to play out.

Certainly the wailing was soft and pathetic, more like the sound of a Beagle in genuine distress than the indignant complaints of a spoiled furry brat. She hurried to the bedroom as fast as she could and discovered that this time she was indeed facing a genuine tragedy – something that no-one who cares for Beagles would ever want to face.

Susan found Beanie lying on the bed, staring at the window. The Beanster looked limp and somehow smaller than normal, and out came that weak, plaintive wail once again.

“What’s wrong Beanie? What’s the matter?” she asked. And then she saw it. Up on the window sill, out of reach but not of out sight and certainly not out of sniff range, was a bone shaped biccie.

It was in fact a biccie that I had left there earlier in the morning. I hadn’t done it out of cruelty, but out of simple forgetfulness while transferring the contents of my pockets from my dirty jogging pants to a clean pair. I’d remembered to re-pocket my handful of poo bags, my Swiss army penknife and my half-used snotty hanky, but some how the “emergency biccie” – which I always keep in my right hand pocket – slipped my mind. Over the many minutes and hours that Beanie could sense the biccie but not consume it, it grew to consume her very will to live.

In many episodes of Star Trek even the most dire emergencies get resolved in the final two minutes. Similarly this tragedy was sorted by picking up the biccie and tossing it towards the Beanster; one catch, chomp and speed-swallow later, all was well and the end titles could roll.

Never let anything distract you when you’re changing your pants, or next time it could be *your* Beagle being tortured by the emergency biccie that is just out of reach!

Anyway, now that you’ve come through that emotional roller coaster, here are some soothing shots of some of the stuff growing in our garden.

And if that hasn’t soothed you, try scooting your bare bum over a freshly cut lawn. That always seems to help the Beanster.