A picture of patience

Jack has learned that, before being allowed to join me on my bed, he must always sit & wait to be invited - however long that may take; I in turn have made a point of never inviting him simply because he wants to come up, & I won't accept a simple 'bum touching floor' as being a proper sit. The trouble is, with me being rather forgetful - not to mention easily distracted - sometimes I forget that he's actually there; Jack's typing really isn't up to much, & so I'm invariably trying to finish writing my blip/something on Facebook before I let him jump up, and because he's always so very quiet about asking for things (as opposed to being so very vocal about things he doesn't want/like!), he can sit there waiting for so long that sometimes he almost falls asleep. This evening was a case in point: he must've been sitting there a good ten minutes or so before I remembered him: he was swaying with exhaustion, & looked so endearing, & so in spite of the poor lighting, there was my blip!

Just as well he was posing to nicely, as I forgot to take my camera out into the garden - which is where the three of us spent most of the day. Jack is still on probation in the garden, & so hubby attached a long rope to his collar, fixed the other end to a post, & he had the run of (most of) the garden; he stood statue-like as he identified new sounds & scents, then had a wonderful time rummaging & snuffling around, & yet he didn't get in the way or in any way interfere with what we were trying to do, & so it was a pleasure to have him out there with us. I told him "No" when he tried to follow me onto the flower bed I was attacking, & after that he didn't once try to help me tackle the weeds - not that I couldn't have done with some help, as we have a severe infestation of sticky-weed. When we viewed this property early last summer it had been empty for about a fortnight, & apart from a few stray weeds the garden was still looking quite neat. But seven rainy weeks later when the place finally became ours, the sticky-weed was rampaging everywhere: it was choking the life out of all the beautiful cottage garden flowers, had brought down the sweet peas, & had so completely smothered the fuchsias that you wouldn't have known there were any there (sadly, only one survived). And by then it was also in seed, so that every attempt to tame the border resulted in our clothes becoming covered in those pesky little seed balls, which then got distributed onto previously unaffected areas, so that this year even more of the garden is under siege.
My daughter, who is a medical herbalist, tells me that the correct name for this plague on gardeners is 'cleavers' (Galium aparine), & that as well as being used to treat skin conditions, there is some evidence for it lowering blood pressure - hah, that's a joke: all it does is raise my blood pressure! I have suggested to my daughter that if she has any particularly scabrous patients, she may like to direct them to our garden where they will be welcome to a free treatment - a sort of 'pick-your-own-prescription'; but she tells me that it's not a herb she routinely prescribes. Our only option therefore is to try & remove every trace of it now, before it starts another cycle of seeding itself - either that, or wait until it's covered in those little balls again, & then send Jack in; but I don't suppose he would appreciate the subsequent de-burring. Shadowing hubby & the wheelbarrow was more Jack's cup of tea, & when he got bored with that he went & sat in one of the garden chairs where he was looking very pleased with himself when we spotted him - I've never been in favour of 'humanising' pets, but a pair of sunglasses on top of his head & it would have made a fantastic photo.

Things we've learned about Jack:
The sound of the outside tap being run (when he's inside & doesn't know what it is) is scary enough to reduce him to a whimpering heap.
He very generously forgives me my 'senior moments' when it comes to his name: I variously call him Jack, Jock, Josh (our grandson's name!), & sometimes even Tom; we did look at a dog named Tom, but he was never a likely candidate for our hearts, so I have no idea why I keep using that name for him.
He is very gentlemanly about telling us his toilet needs: he doesn't bark, whine, scratch, or usually even go to the door when he needs to go out, he simply looks at us with a certain expression on his face - which luckily we're learning to read. He hasn't had one accident since he's been with us, but this afternoon we were both so tired that we temporarily forgot about reading his face, & he must have got fed up with crossing his legs; he finally made a little apology for a sound, & then went & scratched at the door.
He's a great companion in the garden (he can come again)

In other news, for the first time today I forgot about my missing tooth & chewed a tuna sandwich on that side - & it didn't hurt at all. That's the fastest recovery ever, & I'm wondering if it has anything to do with eating meat, as I'm pretty sure that I was still a semi-vegetarian (as in, only ate fish) when I had my last tooth out.