Welsh logic

I found an email in my inbox this evening from one of the organisations that sometimes send me clients for counselling. The gist of the email was that the sender had been 'tasked' with finding out who among their affiliate counsellors could speak welsh fluently enough to counsel in welsh. OK so far but the next bit requested me not to reply to the email if I was not a welsh speaker, 'in order to reduce the number of emails coming back'.
I don't think I have ever before been asked a question  and then told not to answer it unless the answer was yes.
Also, I think that maybe the lady's inbox will not be as overflowing as she expects it to be.

Trying, but not hard enough

You know, the last few weeks have been tough for me. I can't lie on the back of the chair looking through the window any more, in case I catch sight of a cat and start getting excited, I can't creep onto the bed halfway through the night any more and I have to wait at the door and let Jenny or Keith go through first, before me. AND I have to walk on my lead without pulling and be nice and polite to any passing dogs.
Today, I was let out into the garden to do - well, what well brought up dogs do first thing in the morning when they are let out - and, although the garden is now like a quagmire after all the rain for weeks and weeks, I had a bit of a stroll around, just to check that there were no squirrels or cats around.
Now, could I help it if there was a strong suspicion of the presence of next door's cat on the other side of the fence? What is a dog supposed to do? Even I can't see through wood, so to my mind, it's reasonable to dig a hole under the fence.
But this time, I didn't get the chance. Before I knew where I was, I could hear Jenny yelling at me (and believe me, it was not very ladylike!) and I was grabbed by the scruff of my neck and fast-forwarded into the house. I don't think she was very happy with me.
We dogs are very intuitive...
And that Amanda's coming again tomorrow for another lesson. (Sigh!)

Bell's whisky

There is an interesting advert on TV at the moment for Bell's whisky involving teaching a dog to play the bagpipes.
"See that, Paddy?" I said to the small brown canine lying on his cushion near the television. "How about you having a go at that?"
No reaction.
"After all," I continued, "You are half Border Terrier, so your ancestors are from the area near Scotland.. It should be in your genes, boy!"
Still no reaction. He's not even looking at the advert!
Seems we still have a long way to go with this training lark...

Driving

Why, oh why is it that whenever a car is trying to force its way up your exhaust pipe, the chances are overwhelmingly that it's a BMW? What happens to ordinary human beings when they seat themselves behind the wheel of a BMW? Is a BMW driver a normal, happy little soul who is transformed into a rampaging bundle of road rage and fury by virtue of turning the key in the ignition or is it just that rampaging bundles of road rage and fury are the only people who drive BMWs as their car of choice? Does a BMW play a subliminal message to the driver?
"The road really does belong to you. No-one, but no-one has a right to be in front of you, my friend."
I met my usual quota of BMW road hogs on Friday when I drove down to Bristol. However, lest you should suspect that I am in danger of becoming slightly biased against BMW drivers, this weekend's 'Pig of the Road' award goes to a female driver of a dark blue Renault Clio in the environs of Bristol.
Yes, you dear.
Congratulations on:
a)  pulling out of a side road right in front of me
b) rummaging in your handbag whilst chatting to your passenger at the lights
c) deciding to drive through the red light as you hadn't noticed it turn green in time due to b)
d) weaving a clever pattern up the road as you zipped cleverly from one lane to the other and then back again.
Hope I don't meet up with you again!