#1 informed me this morning that his classmates think that Bertie is a silly name for a dog. Well, I think it’s a fabulous name - with so many connotations. Not many dogs get to be named after someone so illustrious (and, let’s face it, so sweet smelling - this is true - J’s met him and says he smells yummy). Also, as you know, nobody actually gets called by their proper name in our house, so he’s also become known as ‘Bertie Ahern’, ‘The Taoiseach’ (very useful – I especially like: ‘has the Taoiseach been out for a pee recently?’), ‘Bertilicious’, ‘Bertiful’, and ‘the Bertmeister’.
So work is progressing well with the confidence-building-moving-down-the-hall-away-from-the-bedroom thing. This progress was temporarily suspended last night when me Mum popped to the bathroom in the night and inadvertently woke Bertie from a rather deep sleep half way through a complicated manoeuvre aimed at stepping over him without attracting his attention. His reaction (quite validly) was to assume that someone was trying to kill him and attempt to leap to his feet. Unfortunately, a squishy duvet, slippery wood floor and an adrenalin-fuelled sleepy greyhound are a dangerous combination and the subsequent clattering and skittering had us all wondering whether we were being burgled by a large crowd of people all wearing stilettos. Ah well, they both survived. Me Mum’s a bit traumatised, but Bertie was already asleep by the time she got back from the bathroom, so I guess he recovered.
Oh, and I’ve found his quirk. It’s a kind of twisty, mangled sleeping thing. I can’t really explain, but here’s some photographic evidence.
