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.

Biggles has always had a thing for director-style chairs; he seems to like a seat that really molds itself to his shape. Such chairs tend not to last, especially if we get lazy and leave them out in the rain once too often. I installed our last serviceable director’s chair in our new shed and he makes regular use of it on cooler days. He seems to enjoy it even more if I’m not in there; it’s become his own private little snoozing room. The clumsy, shuffling sounds that accompany him getting into the chair and getting comfy always bring a smile to my face.

On sunny days however the shed gets too hot to spend any time inside, so he just mopes around on a regular dog bed looking bored and sorry for himself, which is clearly unacceptable! In a stroke of luck Susan spotted the perfect replacement director’s chair in The Range, able to handle being left outside even on typical Scottish monsoon/heatwave/monsoon combo days. Biggles’ initial reaction to  his new chair was disappointing, but then I don’t think he’s ever really got the whole flat-pack concept.

Are you sure this it Dad?

It doesn’t really get you far off the floor does it?

OK, I’ll try it but don’t get your hopes up.

Oh the chair’s inside, you say?

OK, give me a minute to dig about in here…

Nope, it’s not looking good Dad

I mean the head rest is OK, but that’s about it.

No, still not seeing it Dad.

Oh right, yep I like it now. Just get me a chew and a bowl of water and I’m good for the afternoon.

We can leave the frame in place on the deck and it only takes a second to slip the fabric bit on or off in response to the weather. It turns out that Biggles is smart enough not to try climbing into the chair when the fabric isn’t in place, which is a good. Less good is that Beanie, who normally finds chairs like this too squishy and unstable to trust, tried the chair one time and seemed to like it. There may be noisy squabbles in our future.

By necessity Beagle owners are a pretty relaxed bunch when it comes to acts of canine misbehavior. The naughty dial that goes from 1 to 10 on regular dogs is permanently stuck at 11 for most Beagles, and you either stop being a Beagle owner or make your peace with it. It’s no big deal when a fur monster poos in or on the humie bed, slurps from a coffee cup, or comes for a cuddle then burns the nasal passages with a particularly caustic fart. Nevertheless every owner has a red line or two that should not be crossed, and as I discovered recently, one of mine is vegetable-related.

Some of the veg in our garden has been reaching the harvesting stage recently. We’ve had a batch of our own potatoes, a taste of our own broccoli, and last week we were about to sample some of our own turnips when Biggles decided to get in on the act. He watched quietly as Susan retrieved a couple of small but perfectly formed turnips and let them rest on the grass while she check for more harvestable candidates. Ever the inquisitive little boy, he trotted over to examine the newly extracted veg and work out which of the the classic three doggy actions would be most appropriate: (i) eat them, (ii) roll on them or (iii) pee on them. Options #1 and #2 were quickly eliminated by the sniff test, leaving only option #3. The rear leg was cocked and for once Biggles’ aim was dead on. We could and probably should have just washed them, but instead they ended up on the compost heap and his lordship was sent back into the house in disgrace. Elvis had a thing about his blue suede shoes; I don’t have any suede shoes, blue or otherwise, but I don’t want anyone peeing on my turnips.

A few days later the turnip wetter’s nose was put out joint by a little Magpie in our front garden. He landed unusually close to us, then came closer still, eventually perching fearlessly on our knees and even our hands. This little fellow seemed so tame we assumed he must have been someone’s pet. He caught the attention of our neighbors and pretty soon a group of of were gathered round this brave little soul, at which points howls of protest were heard coming from our lounge window. Biggles had seen the spectacle, and he didn’t like it one bit; balancing on the sofa on his rear legs, little Mr Jealous continued to give everyone a piece of his mind.

“I think you’re about to be replaced Biggles” I shouted through the window, “..because this guy’s cute and he’s never peed on anyone’s turnips!”

Then in an act of Beagle solidarity the Magpie crapped on my jogging pants, and I figured that maybe there are worse things than wet turnips. Biggles was saved from relegation once again.

Realizing the bird wouldn’t last too long in the wild, we took it to our local wildlife rescue center. They figured that it was just an overly trusting fledgling rather than a mature bird tamed by regular human contact. It’ll spend some time being schooled in the ways of the world by other Magpies before being released into the wild again. Hopefully they’ll teach it to be wary of humans, and even more wary of jealous Beagles, because Beanie & Biggles are always open to sampling new food sources :)