The Interloper

When we returned from Mum's 80th birthday party last weekend, Mollie immediately made a bee line for an old rack in the hall. On the bottom rung were some old sheets, but Molls sniffed and sniffed so I pulled one out – and shrieked. There, rolled up in the back, was a large hedgehog.

We took it outside, put it in a box and inspected it. It was crawling with fleas and tics (lovely) so I fled back inside and sprayed everything with anti-flea spray- with Moll's itching I'm not risking anything – and threw all the sheets in the washing machine.

Then we tended to Mr Hedgehog who, I have to say, had the twinkliest eyes and the neatest little hands I'd ever seen. We fed him milk and biscuits and were going to take him out to the workshop and let him go there but Himself was concerned about the tics. So we rang the RSPCA who arrived an hour or so later, assured us that all hedgehogs are infested with tics and fleas, and took him off to release him in pastures new.

Shame, I was quite getting used to our new friend – it had such a lively, intelligent face - and apparently they're great for eating slugs. But it will be happier out running free, even if it doesn't get free food.

Many thanks to all re Moll's predicaments. She had her blood tests, at vast expense, and we should get the results soon. As for her legs, well it's both knee caps that are dodgy, so it's shorter but more frequent walks, no jumping and lots of swimming. Surgery is something that we might have to consider at a later date but I'm trying not to think about that right now.

The most extraordinary thing is that I pitched an idea to my editor yesterday to write a piece on the Bowen Technique for dogs. She said yes - an ideal one for me. And now I've been researching it, the technique is something that Mollie's leg condition could really benefit from. Is that divine intervention or what?

Falling in Love

This wasn’t written to keep you in suspense – honest. But time was against us.

The good news is that Bussie is in love. The bad news is that he’s still not eating.

The object of his affections is, I would say, in her mid thirties with a very expensive looking wedding ring, (platinum at a guess), long dark hair, chocolate brown eyes and hands that stroke and beguile. She’s called Helena.

Green coated Helena met us at the vet last night, called, ‘Buster’, and instantly he was angelic submission. Never seen anything like it. It turns out he’s been in a bad fight, is covered in scabs (at least they’ve healed) and has an abscess and a temperature. No wonder he’s off his food.

Of course I was full of remorse that we should have taken him up earlier (particularly given Helena’s wonderful ministrations), but she said that it probably hadn’t made any difference. (I think she was being kind.)

So Bussie had a long term antibiotic jab, another one to reduce pain and anti-inflammatory and she hoped he’d start eating soon. If not, to bring him back on Saturday morning. (I’m going away for the weekend which could be tricky.) I left the vet nearly £50 worse off but glad that he was on the mend.

We got back and – hoorah! – Bussie had a very small bowlful of food. Since then he hasn’t had anything, not even water, so I’m worrying again, but at least he came in and slept on our bed last night (we’re keeping him in till lunchtime as advised by the lovely H, to his silent fury).

We got home then had to feed animals and change before being Taken Out for dinner at the Greenbank, a hotel at the bottom of the hill with a restaurant overlooking the harbour. The reason? A dear friend’s father is staying there and wanted to take his two daughters and us out to celebrate his birthday, which was last night. Well – how could we refuse? (And why would we?)

We were a bit late as Himself had to have several Large Ones before going out, ‘because I’ve been worried about Bussie, Pop.’ As if I hadn’t been. Just before we left, he split his wine all over the paper and over his new trousers. It looked as if he’d wet himself. I snorted unsympathetically while Himself mopped himself up and walked, rather stiff legged, down to the hotel.

We had a wonderful evening (trying not to look at the eye watering prices on the menu) and, fortified by excellent company, wonderful food, and the fact that he’d already had half a bottle of wine, Himself didn’t feel the need to overindulge in wine with dinner, but contented himself with a mere two or three glasses and thoroughly enjoyed himself. There was a moment, towards the end of the evening, when he started singing The Sheik of Arabi, which is always a dangerous moment, but Mel and I quickly shut him up and all was well.

So we didn’t get back till about 10.30 feeling utterly spoilt. It’s a long time since I’ve had such great food (I had beetroot and goats cheese souffle) and the wine was out of this world.

What was even better was that the animals hadn’t fallen out, and Bussie spent part of the night on our bed again. I just have to get him to eat now.

If we win the lottery I’ll take him down to the Greenbank and tempt him there. But I might have a Plan B just in case.