where the writers are
A Run for Your Money
A twitch upon the ancestral web, sensations of deja-vu...these piloted Roisin towards her destiny...

 Jack in Holiday Pad











 (Me in the holiday pad)


El Springador waxes dogmatic about a fur-fetched purriod of history.

I'm keeping a low profile today. It's that time of year again. Hundreds of athletic types pounding my beat on Bluebell Runs for charity, disturbing all my rabbits and pheasants and foxes. I'm pretty down in the mouth about it. It's not on, even for Dogstrust. Oh dear, no. We don't say the D-word here. It's frawt with implications. The scratching is well and truly on the wall if that word is muttered.

They don't hold a London Marathon for dogs. If they did, I'd show them a thing or two. They should, because, as our species well knows, the old Greek legend wuz misrepawted. It got garbled because the messenger was gasping for Adam's ale.

Pheidippides wasn't a soldier who sprinted all the way from Marathon to Athens in one go to tell the folks there about the Persian defeat. No! Flydizzypaws was a Springador – the only breed wot could cut it in double-quick time and arrive in the city to take the biscuit and do several triumphal laps of the Agora with his head held high and the promised Jumbone in his jaws.

Flydizzypaws certainly discovered wot his feathers were for. But then, you see, he had bonzo news! He'd watched the fur fly on the Marathon Plain. The battle was between an army of Greek Hounds (Hellenikos Ichnilatis) and a horde of Pussian Blues. It was catapults against wolfsbane arrows, hiss and spit, growl and mewl. It wasn't a question of fight or flight. The dust was enough to ground the whole Olympic Airways fleet. Hell's teeth, it was where volcanic ash first came from!

Anyway, to dock a very long tail – barbaric practice! - it was a catastrophe for the Pussian Empire. They got 'damnably mauled' and either landed in the drink or skulked off feline browbeaten with scarcely a whisker between 'em.

But it's an ill wind that carries no scent. Fur coats were quite in vogue along the Bay that winter. At least furriers got a good run for their money. If someone says 'cat pelt' to me, I generally do!



The dog who keeps track of the plot.