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Beautiful day today so we took Bailey to the beach down at Troon on the Ayrshire coast - her first experience of sand, sea and dead birds.
She was happy enough to paddle in the surf but stopped short of a swim. Probably wise given the temperature.
Plenty of dogs to play with but chasing a greyhound was a bit of a no-contest, as you can see here (backgroud noise = howling wind):
If Bailey looks a little drippy around the snout, that's because she's got a dose of Kennel Cough. According to Wikipedia:
Symptoms can include a harsh, dry hacking/coughing, retching, sneezing, snorting or gagging;in response to light pressing of the trachea or after excitement or exercise. The presence of a fever varies from case to case. The disease can last from 10-20 days. Diagnosis is made by seeing these symptoms and having a history of exposure.
Them's the symptoms alright, although in her case diagnosis was made by seeing the vet. She was given an antibiotic injection and is now on a 5-day course of antibiotic pills. The worst of it is having to keep her away from other dogs for a week or so.
Actually, no, that's not the worst of it. The worst of it is when she coughs up phlegm and eats it. Her finest moment came yesterday evening when, under the grudging supervision of Mrs M, who is trying very hard indeed to become a dog lover tolerator, Bailey simultaneously expelled a large gob of phlegm from one end and a toxic fart from the other. Mrs M did some retching and gagging of her own after that. 
Not quite sure how we're going to fit two adults, two kids and a monster dog in the Mini...
Twice a day, there's a race against time in the household: loading and unloading the dishes.
The dishwasher is one of Bailey's true passions and definitely a highlight of her day. At the sound of the machine door opening, she'll rouse instantly from the deepest sleep, bolt up the stairs (she lives mainly in the basement area) and in a nanosecond she'll have her tongue amongst the dishes, dirty or clean.
It's disgusting. But no matter that 9 times out of 10 she gets shooed away or forceably held back - there's always a tiny chance of tasting someting exotically human, and that's what keeps her going.
Today's the day that Bailey finally outgrew her old collar. Here's a photo for posterity:
Today's also the day that I bought her a bowl stand. Apparently she's less likely to get bloat if she eats standing up rather than hunched over.
£21 it cost. £21! I'd show you a photo of Bailey enjoying her new bowls... but she's absolutely terrified of the contraption. Dinner time should be interesting.
I was musing just yesterday, as Bailey lay farting at my feet, about just how I came to own a Golden Retriever. It's a tail tale of two dogs.
I always wanted a dog. Always. But my parents both worked full-time so it just wasn't an option. They took the view - rightly, in my opinion - that it's just not fair to keep a dog if you're out all day long. These days there's no shortage of dog walkers to pick up a pooch once or twice a day for an outing but not back then when I was a nipper (b.1963). So I never had a dog.
This changed in part when I was living in London in the 90s and had the opportunity to look after my boss's Golden while she and her family went on holiday. Fuzzy was his name. Try shouting that in the park: "Fuzzy, come! Fuzzy, leave it!"
He was a big boy, as you can see, and a real beauty. He could pull on a lead like a carthorse but he had the gentlest, sweetest nature. I loved him and looked after him whenever I had the chance.
Circa 1994, I think
Fast forward to this summer and I'm walking to the local pub one evening. As I pass a corner house down the road, I spot a gorgeous Golden Retriever in a garden. I whistle, he trots over for a friendly pat, then our minds meld in some kooky canine karma kinda way and in that instant I know without any question that I've got to get one.
Thing is, I'd been prevaricating about taking the pooch plunge for years. I work from home, the kids are at an age to appreciate a dog, we have a garden and heaps of parks nearby etc etc. There weren't too many excuses not to, other than the commitment thing. For my 40th birthday, the saintly Mrs M (who is not a natural dog lover) agreed that I could finally get the dog I'd banged on about since we'd met, subject to a few conditions - not least that I had to have the snip. Not quite sure about the connection - I wasn't planning to mate with the dog - but I went ahead gladly and became a Jaffa. Then I got cold feet and opted for a parachute jump instead. And then we moved to France for a year.
So it was only this year that I really felt ready to own a dog, spurned on by the constant pleading from my two dog-loving boys. Once they'd both signed up to their lifelong doggy responsibilities in blood, we went for it.
"Any regrets?" asked Mrs M controversially as I carried 20kg Bailey up the stairs for the 15th time today (I'll protect her hip development if it kills me). "Not one," I gasped, truthfully. I've got Fuzzy and the dog from the corner house to thank for that.
Seven nipples, to be precise. Unless Bailey's hiding one behind her ear or deep in an oxter, and we've looked hard, that's her full tally. There appears to be one missing on her left-hand side.
Seven strikes me as a weird number of nipples. Why not six, or eight, or any even number? So I looked it up on Yahoo Answers and discovered that it's perfectly normal, or at least not abnormal, to have an odd number of nips.
Well, that's if you can believe anything you read in there. Pesky user-generated content has a habit of delivering googlies. In response to the question "How many nipples does you dog have?" the official best answer, as voted for by readers (well, one reader, which is all it took to win) is:
"I don't have a dog! I have a bird and it hasn't nipples."
Anyway, it's moot. She won't be needing them because she's due to be neutered in February and shall remain pupless forever. I'm a bit sorry about this, to be honest (not least cos Golden Retriever pups retail at £600), but Mrs M is adamant. If you'd like to change her mind, kindly email your thoughts to her here .
This apparent mercenary streak in me recalls an exchange on an email list where I sort of discussed dogs in terms of products sold by one party to another with certain responsibilities encumbent upon both, including the right to a refund if a new pup had problems that weren't evident at the time of purchase (potentially very expensive problems). I managed to upset the breeder with very clumsy language when I raised this question - entirely my own fault and a lesson learned - but it provoked this furious reply from a list member:
"Kyle, surely you are joking. If not, I am gobsmacked that someone should equate buying a living creature with a fridge. And what you have expected to have happened to the animal - sorry, 'product' - if it hadn't been perfect enough for you and you had got your refund, Kyle? The breeder's response wasn't an over-reaction; he understood perfectly what you meant and he was right to see you as unfit to own an animal. It's just a shame he changed his mind."
I'm not sure that Bailey would agree that I'm unfit to own her, soppy devoted sap that I am, but hey, she just might.
UPDATE: Bailey has started a Facebook group here called How many nipples does your dog have? Do boy dogs have nipples too?
Bailey's lost one of her baby teeth. Good. That's one less to worry about.
It's probably embedded in my mum's hand.
So, this dog thing... still a good idea? I'm having my doubts.
This evening, my mum popped round to see the boys and me (Mrs M is away in London on business). When the doorbell rang, Bailey made her usual frenzied rush for the door but I calmed her down and made her sit well back in the hall. The boys opened the door and in came their Gran bearing gifts (satsumas with a pip warning, bizarrely). I continued to hold Bailey. She knows my mum a bit, though not well. When all seemed safe, I released my grip and Gran and Bailey did the 'nice to see you... have a pat/lick' thing.
Except that Bailey didn't. She jumped up and sank her shiny new canines into Gran's hand, piercing the skin right between the knuckles.
Ouch. Blood.
(Reconstruction)
So that meant a sharpish trip to A&E for a dressing and a tetanus shot. Luckily at 19.30 on a Tuesday evening in Glasgow the casualty dept wasn't yet full of bampots. It damn near meant a trip to the vet and a somewhat stronger injection for Bailey...
OK, I know, I know - she's just being territorial, protective and/or puppyish, and I need to do some serious door-space training. It's not her fault.
But knocking over a cup of tea later on was her fault and not the smartest move given my mood. Then after that, just as I'd poured myself a large one of these and was having a quiet pee in the downstairs toilet, she tip-clawed up behind me and - I swear I'm not making this up - forced her head between my knees and injected a long, pink and eagerly lapping tongue into the flow. I laughed so much I dribbled on her nose. How's that for a golden shower?
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