On the astounding intelligence of dogs

I bet you didn't know dogs could understand English did you? I did, I've known for a long time actually. It's one reason why the press always use photos of dogs coming out of polling stations; they have just been inside to help their owners vote. I bet some of them can probably talk.

The reason I know that dogs are fully conversant is that I frequently witness dog owners having conversations with them. As in proper conversations. Well, maybe slightly one sided conversations, but conversations nonetheless. None of these curt commands that you might expect for a dog, but proper english sentences. For instance, on the way to work this morning I saw a fat old dog come waddling out of a house to greet a builder who was looking at the driveway with the owner.

"Now Jack, I told you to stay inside didn't I? So what are you doing outside? No! This man hasn't come to see you silly, he's here about the drive. You go back inside now please, off you go, there's a good boy. No! I said no Jack. Jack! Jack!! JACK!!!"

Jack wasn't in a listening mood.

I see it quite a lot on Wanstead Flats as well. Take Billy for instance. Amazing levels of comprehension, or at least I assume so otherwise why would you bother?

"Billy! BILLY! Why are you jumping on the man Billy? He doesn't want to play, he's busy, come along now, just leave him be. Now stop it Billy, come this way. Oh what's this over here Billy? Can't you see he's looking at birds and isn't interested in your ball. Why don't you come over here with me Billy and we'll go this way. Come on Billy! Billy! BILLY!!!"

Astonishing. Not only can Billy understand english but he also knows what binoculars are! Although Billy is not your average dog, the owner must have thought I was distinctly dim-witted and couldn't understand basic words like "sorry", as even when Billy was putting paw prints on my suit trousers I wasn't acknowledged in the slightest. 

Although Billy was clearly a bit of a canine superstar he, like Jack, couldn't have given two shits about what his owner was rabbiting on about and simply ignored her. Very rude when she has gone to so much extra trouble.

I have seen many other dog geniuses of course, but I expect you get the picture. One day I'm going to visibly let my draw drop when I encounter one, and pretend I've never seen a talking dog before.

"Oh my God!!! I mean wow!! How did you teach your dog to do that?!! That's mad, a dog that can understand english! I mean that's incredible!! You're just speaking to your dog as if he were a person. Unbelievable! I've never seen that before, so impressive. I bet that dog is worth a fortune, you're so lucky. Does he, you know, ever talk back?" 

"What?"

....

Before the rain set in

The forecast was nearly right I suppose, it has mostly been a miserable day. However the rain did hold off until about lunch time, after which it came down in rods and sent everyone scurrying for home, me included. But this meant that I did get most of the morning out on Wanstead Flats, and whilst it was very quiet it also wasn't indoors at a desk, so in that sense it was truly excellent. In the first few hours I think I saw more birders than birds, each of us out and hoping for a sign of spring. A sign with a white backside....

There were none. In fact barring a few Chiffchaff there were precisely zero signs of spring, and my red hat stayed firmly on my head as it felt more like winter for most of the time. Early morning sunshine on the Flats was gradually replaced by a build up of cloud and a biting wind, and at this point I bade farewell to Nick, and previously also Bob, Marco and Rob, and Tim and I carried on to the Park in the vain hope that the weather front might drop a few hirundines in. I didn't. However we did meet up with Rob again in the Old Sewage Works, and were pleased to find the Hawfinch in roughly the same spot as he had seen it half an hour previously. This was a sub-patch tick for me, and a bird (I assume the same individual) that I had dipped a couple of times already this year. I split my Wanstead patch into four areas - Wanstead Flats, Wanstead Park, Bush Wood and my back garden. Whilst Wanstead Flats clearly leads the pack on 139 (out of 149) simply by virtue of birding it more often than any of the other areas, the Park continues to improve and the Hawfinch was my 109th bird there, following hot on the heels of the Dunlin delivered by the Beast from the East, and the Great White Egret delivered by, errr, Uber. My garden lags behind on 82, and Bush Wood is simply pathetic at 43. 

I didn't carry a camera today due to the impending downpour, but tomorrow I may do so as tomorrow marks the start of the official breeding season, where we vainly try and keep the long grass clear of incursions. The way today went does not bode well. One lady had seven dogs. Seven! A man had five. A jogger went right through the middle with her bouncy dog pretty much doing loop the loops in the breeding area. The birds have little chance. But wait, there are signs!

Well yes there are, but they do not apply to dog walkers. In fact no rules apply to dog walkers, they can do whatever they like. Including ripping the signs down and stamping on them as they are so offensive. By offensive I mean suggesting that they keep their pets on a lead from 31st March to 31st August. I mean that is just bound to tip a dog walker over the edge isn't it? Anyway, here is one of the signs that is still up - they were made by a local school and were placed earlier this year. I don't expect this one will last, Nick discovered two of them smashed to bits on the ground yesterday. Just how small-minded you have to be to do something like that is really hard to fathom. 

So from tomorrow I will start talking to dog owners who are ignoring the signs, and other local birders will be doing so as well. I don't know how long I will last - I mentioned in an earlier post I am not really up for conflict, and in my many years of trying to make dog walkers take notice I can tell you that it does not really matter how you approach the subject. Softly softly or straight to the point, perhaps even rudely straight to the point, it makes no difference. Not a single person has ever said they are sorry and they did not know. To a man/woman, they are doing nothing wrong and they can go where they like. Their dog does not chase birds, their dog is a nice dog. Or they just tell me where to go. Or threaten me. I've enjoyed that edgy feeling a few times in the past with particularly aggressive owners. I suppose I could do the whole name and shame thing, take pictures, post them up etc etc. I've think I've done that once or twice in the past, but the more I see of social media the less I think that it is a good contribution. And it's not as if the land-owner will act on any photos anyway. No, I do not want to stoop to the base baying for blood level that is frequently present, we all need to move away from that. I will probably just try and have a quiet word and be told to get stuffed (or worse) for my troubles. Welcome to modern Britain. It's every man for himself.

Dogged persistence delivers the goods

With massive overnight rain yet a day that dawned bright and relatively clear, there was only one place to be at first light. Long Wood, the favoured haunt of Ring Ouzels at this time of year. Jeremy Bob had found the first of the autumn at the weekend while I was away enjoying Snow Bunting, and my first opportunity came today. You can only imagine my massive disappointment and frankly, rage, at approaching Long Wood and seeing 187 dogs, an enclosure, some little jumps and a fat lady giving out ribbons. It's ridiculous it really is. I had hit the Flats at about 6:45am, it was barely light and yet the place was overrun. Ring Ouzels are about the shyest bird species known to man, nervous beyond belief. I don't think I'll ever come across a friendly one, you get within a hundred yards and they're gone. So to have Crufts in full swing before it was even light was a major obstacle to seeing one. It was hopeless, and I started thinking dark thoughts. Mainly about how ISIS were better than dog-walkers, several of whom were chummily (see what I did there?) chatting away as their charges crapped wantonly in the long grass away from view. I've said it before and I'll say it again now.

Dog-walkers are the most selfish and deluded group of people on this earth.

They are never in the wrong, they have an absolute God-given right to do whatever the hell they want, and hey, if their dog deposits a turd and they don't see it, well so what, it's somebody else's problem at that point. Which it largely is even if they do see it. I would be willing to bet that 90% of dog walkers on Wanstead Flats have never picked up their dog's mess in the entire time they've owned it. They're arrogant, defensive and aggressive to the point of absurdity, and do not give a flying fuck about anyone other than themselves. And in case you hadn't worked it out I hate them passionately. 

Today however I didn't even talk to a dog walker. I just silently loathed them just for being there, just for existing, for totally scuppering any meagre chance I had at seeing a special bird. I met up with John W at the east end of the wood in a grim mood. He too was feeling completely disillusioned with London living, of his birding dreams dashed by the omnipresence of other people of the sort most likely to result in fewer birds with the possible exception of gamekeepers. We whinged for a while before going our separate ways. Roughly 30 seconds after this I glanced up at the sky and picked out a Short-eared Owl spiralling up from roughly the Coronation Copse. "John! John!!". He heard my desperate cries and came back quickly (I can't in all honesty call it running!), thinking I had an Ouzel. Fat chance, but as it happens SEO was a year-tick and only my fourth in over a decade, whereas I found five Ring Ouzels this April alone and have seen well over 20 individuals here since I started watching the patch.The irony that a dog had probably flushed the owl out of the long grass that I would not walk in was not lost on me.

I went to work buoyed by this success, and continued to thank my good fortune for the rest of the day. 

John carried on birding and found an Ouzel.

Snippets from the big wide world

Dealing with a few observations from recent times, this post is about dogs, massages, and twitter. All perfectly logical and highly complementary. I'll start with the dogs as it has been a while has it not? I've been saving this one up, not because I agree with it (go figure) but because I've been busy and then subsequently misplaced it. I found it again the other day tucked in a book, and it comes from the Science Editor of The Times - not a newspaper I normally I read but I found a free copy somewhere (a plane? Ed.) back in April. A bit of light-hearted science is applied to that most esteemed character, the dog owner who is so blinkered by their own inalienable and innate sense of right that they simply cannot  see any other point of view. Ever met anyone like that whilst out birding? No, neither have I.

A German academic, amusingly called Matthias Gross, has conducted a study lasting a decade which concludes that afternoon dog walkers are more likely to pick up their beloved pet's mess than their morning counterparts, who often pretend not to have seen their dog curl one out. You could argue that this particular fact only requires a week to work out, perhaps not even that long, but you have to admire the dedication. The study paper is titled "Natural Waste: canine companions and the lure of inattentively pooping in public", and I am urgently trying to find a copy.

The professor notes all sorts of behaviours that the likes of you and I will immediately recognise. Sudden earnest phone conversations for instance, termed "strategic non-knowledge". Or if a dog-walker does make the effort, the conscious over-the-shoulder look as they do so. He also notes that fabulous phenomenon of the "poo tree". Apparently in the ten years of the study he never once witnessed the ritual of hanging a poo bag on a tree. Thinking about it, neither have I, but a particularly brilliant quote highlights; "they [sic] conduct dirty protests against a society that oppresses their dog's right to defecate at will." He argues that it is an important way of rejecting social expectation by expressing their scorn with parody. I argue that it's being an asshole, but then I'm not a scientist. Where the Professor and I do share a view however is in trying to get to the true answer. But apparently dog owners declined to be interviewed. Who knew that The Times was so sensationalist? Approaches were frequently met with aggression, with friendlier responses being "mind your own business", and "don't you have anything better to do?" After ten years you may well agree with the latter point, but coming from someone who frequently challenges dog owners, all I can say is that if any of them were ever so measured and polite back to me I might easily faint there and then. Commoner responses can be summarised neatly as "Fuck off you prick", or alternatively "I'll do whatever I want, fuck you. (you prick)", but of course my favourites are the incredibly poorly constructed arguments as to why their dog, and by association themselves, ought to be able to do exactly what they want to the detriment of all other human beings and animals. I have enough material to fill a book, so it's disappointing that the study doesn't delve into these irrational outbursts as a psychoanalyst (or birder) could have a marvellous read. Nor does he explore the mythical dog-walker apology, but then again the study only lasted ten years so he can probably be forgiven. My most recent highlight from the field is being bitten on my watch by a passing puppy, the new dog of a grumpy man who lives on my road and who in ten years of walking past me has never exchanged so much as a single word. Well it turns out he's not mute after all, as after pulling the animal away from my wrist via a big smear of saliva and a nice red weal on my hand, was heard to say "come along Poppy*". My wry retort of "You could apologise" was not acknowledged. But I know where he lives, and I may deliver his poo back to him later as never once has he returned home with a bag. You are welcome.

In other social interaction of the heart-warming kind, this week I have been called out as a bird-hater, someone who is all talk no action, and an ass. Well, one of three isn't so bad I guess, but this particular story is so wonderful that it merits some kind of record for posterity, and if you read the news possibly Twitter, which is where this thoughtful exchange took place, may not be around for long. In summary it contains the worst of anthropomorphic drivel, high levels of stupidy, total non-acceptance of conventional wisdom, and a rapid spiral into abuse. I take it back actually, Twitter's commercial future is as rosy as it comes. 

Anyhow, one of my followers  - for the sake of anonymity let's call them halfwit - found two nearly-fledged birds close to a nest. Oh @Wansteadbirder, what should I do? Well let's see, I reckon you should pick them up, give them names, hand-rear them for a while, and then wait for the canonisation that will surely follow. I didn't say that of course, as I am not the facetious type. Instead I suggested that the birds be left alone, and shared an RSPB link to a long-standing FAQ about what to do in this situation, which in summary says "leave them alone" (just on the off-chance that anyone really really stupid out there hasn't grasped that fact yet). I also mentioned that unfortunately this does happen, and nature isn't necessarily all cuddles and happiness. This touched a nerve with halfwit, who went on the offensive immediately with a number of absurd statements, including various pathetic hashtags, accusing me of hating birds, calling me various expletives, and culminating in the insightful "If you get hurt in an accident I hope nobody calls an ambulance just like wot the poor birds won't", or something even less grammatically excellent. Obviously I did not respond in kind, but agreed that in posting the RSPB advice I did indeed hate birds, and that I was chuffed to bits that we had got to the ambulance bit so quickly. This irony fell on deaf ears, and the tirade unfortunately continued for some while, even involving a few genuine bird-lovers that I know, to whom my thanks. Oh sorry, my mistake, they all hate birds too. Nothing of course beats the ambulance tweet, but I did enjoy halfwit's courteous gratitude towards Prof W, who said to leave the birds alone and shared......the same RSPB link. Thank goodness that at least somebody was helpful. I was also advised by halfwit to give up my job, as obviously all people's Twitter account names reflect exactly what it is that they do in real life, oh yes. Two days later and still being called a twat I decided that the "block" feature might be usefully employed, so sadly any further gems won't be seen, or at least not by me. However I would ask that correspondents and readers keep me fully informed about anything that could surpass the crass idiocy of the ambulance tweet, as that would be special and a real shame to miss out on.

In other news I had a back massage. It hurt a lot and was indescribably awful in all respects. It came included with an airline ticket, but I remain utterly mystified as to why anyone would pay good money to simply be abused. Twitter, on the other hand, is free.

*name changed to protect the innocent guilty. Gosh I am being good today.

How to lose friends and alienate people

It’s all my fault. This morning I was walking along centre path admiring five Whinchats and a Wheatear when I spied an enormous animal lumbering along. That Essex lion perhaps, or had cattle been reintroduced to the Flats overnight?  I raised my bins to check it out and was amazed to see that it was a huge dog, and I mean massive. My dog-ID is fairly rudimentary, I tend to split them out into three groups: “bitey yappy”, ”big”, and “fuckwit”. This dog needed a new category, henceforce known as “bloody enormous”. It was probably a Great Dane or something, they’re pretty big aren’t they? It most closely resembled a horse in both size and structure. I looked around for a lost jockey, and was instead amazed to see a birder. My mood of late has been on the antagonistic side of grumpy, so I’m going to cut right to the chase. If you’re going to come birding on MY patch, don’t even think about bringing a dog with you. I don’t care what kind of dog it is, how well-behaved it is/you think it is, just don’t bring it. Go somewhere else, find your own patch. This patch is overrun with dogs, they make birding here very difficult. They run amok through the breeding habitat of endangered ground-nesting birds, they crap all over the place, and they flush almost everything, including most waders that we are lucky enough to get. There are signs requesting that dog-owners keep their animals on leads; barely one in a hundred does so. Every single owner without exception thinks that their dog is perfect and no trouble at all. I’ve done a fair amount over the last few years to put Wanstead on the birding map. Gradually the word has spread, and I’m very happy that the number of dedicated patch-workers is now into double figures. The rewards are there for all to see; the increased coverage is turning up absolutely loads. But if you’ve got a dog, and you want to bring it with you........

Anyone who has read this blog for more than about two minutes will know my feelings on dogs, and how they directly impact my birding and my photography. In addition to their detrimental impact to birds and to the bottom of my shoes, I’ve been chased by dogs, and bitten by dogs. I’ve also been threatened with their urine (no, really). It does not matter how nicely you ask, how politely you conduct yourself. Every single dog owner I have spoken to about either the poor behaviour of their pet, or about the importance of Skylark habitat, has been instantly bristly, instantly aggressive, sometimes to the point of completely unwarranted verbal abuse. Young or old, man or woman, it makes no odds. You just get told where to go. I’ve had it. I’ve been polite, I’ve been reasonable, and it doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference. So I don’t care if you’re a birder, if you think you can bring a dog out with you you can piss right off as far as I’m concerned. Not that I can do anything about it when the thing makes Shergar look like My Little Pony....

I had another memorable encounter this morning near Long Wood. I rounded a hedge and a medium-sized "bitey yappy" dog saw me and immediately started going ballistic. The owner, whilst trying to restrain his other “big” dog that he was close enough to to grab, shouted over to me that he wouldn’t bite and that he was only playing. Uh-huh. Great. Bared teeth - fangs - retracted lips – bristling fur and mad barking. Did the owner make any effort to put it on a lead? I’ll leave you in suspense on that one. "Stand still! Don’t move, you’ll only make it worse!" So this isn't unusual then? The best was yet to come though. After he had eventually shepherded the animal away and I had retreated a safe distance, I asked him if he thought that having it on a lead might be more appropriate. Why, he countered? “I said he wouldn’t bite, all he is doing is playing”. If I had a pound, etc. Nonetheless, I carried on, some people might find it pretty scary. “Well you’re the first person that’s ever said that”, he said. Right....You should really put it on a lead, I said, as I did not find it a pleasant experience. “Well you came from round that corner and surprised him, what do you expect?” Unbelieveable. Oh I see, so it’s all my fault, I said. “No, I’m not saying tha....” I cut him off. You just did, that’s exactly what you just implied. He walked off – “You have a nice day mate”, he said. You know, I’m not sure he meant it.

This is today’s example. I have many, many more, and they all go to explaining why my threshold for tolerating dogs is so terribly low. The day I meet a dog owner who apologises, puts their animal on a lead, then berates it and offers to have the pawprints on my trousers dry-cleaned will be the day I go and buy my own dog. It’s never their fault. It’s never the dog’s fault. He’s just being friendly. He only wants to play. He needs to be exercised. I didn’t see any signs. He can run where he likes. It’s a free country. He’s scared of your camera. You surprised him. It's your fault. Yeah? Well fuck off.

R.I.P. Duckzilla

Friends, I have sad, sad news to report. Duckzilla is dead.

Duckzilla, an immense and statuesque Indian Runner Duck, took up residence in Wanstead Park a few months ago, presumably having been dumped here by a cretinous owner, and was most often seen on Heronry Pond terrorising Mallards and swallowing loaves of Kingsmill whole. He (or she - also known as Daisy or Chamomile to some) won many friends, and was a favourite of all park-goers. Sadly Duckzilla had wings the size of small anchovies; a Penguin was more likely to take to the air. And this has proved to be Duckzilla's undoing. Not able to fly, and unlikely to ever be called nimble, the likely cause of death is DOG ATTACK.

Poor Duckzilla was found on the side of Perch pond the day before yesterday, with legs and rump mangled. No other part of Duckzilla had been touched, so this probably rules out fox or mink, both of which would have been after a meal. A dog is thus the most likely candidate, and if I know Wanstead, the only candidate. But nobody saw what happened, so this only speculation - somebody will know though, and I hope we find out. This time Duckzilla, next time a child. Call me melodramatic, but it's true, you read it here first.

There is a certain breed of dog owner, and they like certain breeds of dog. "Certain" is an anagram of "a cretin" funnily enough. Anyhow, rarely are these dogs nice, and rarely are they kept under control. I am aware that I am like a broken record, and spend an unhealthy amount of my time writing about dogs and dog-owners, but believe me when I say that they have a lot to answer for, and nobody is prepared to do anything about it. The last time I spoke to a dog walker - very politely I might add - about the nesting Skylarks, I got a torrent of abuse back. And not from a shaven-headed lout as you might expect - no, from three outwardly pleasant-looking young women, who unbeknownst to me had massive chips on their shoulders about something. So while usually it's a minority giving the majority a bad name, in Wanstead it's about fifty fifty, and perhaps higher than that. And the death of Duckzilla is the result. Why can't we have some Surface-to-Dog missiles on the Fred Wigg Tower?

Meet Occupy London

Not really! Hah! Just trying to wind [some of] you up! Can you imagine? Me, scum-of-the-earth dangerously intolerant right-wing fascist Osborne love-child nasty unpleasant financial worker bastard and single-handed perpetrator of massive social and economic injustice, publicly airing anything at all on people who feel so strongly about capitalism that they are prepared to live in a tent on the steps of St Paul’s Cathedral for months in order to make their point? Oh, except most of them go home at night. No no, it would be very very wrong of me to say anything at all on this [my] blog about anything that might be remotely controversial or have a whiff of soapbox about it. So I shan’t. And those of you whose comments were no doubt ready-formed the moment you saw the title of this post, well, perhaps you have something to say about birds?

No? Funny that. Not to worry though, I do. Lots. In fact that’s what I write about most of the time. Parakeets, Pigeons, Ducks, Woodpeckers, Wheatears, Skylarks, Sandpipers, Yellowthroats, Northern Waterthrushes, Blue-cheeked Bee-eaters, Fea’s Petrels... Nice and safe, birds.  Guaranteed not to raise aaany hackles. I was a bit busy yesterday, so didn’t see any - this is the trouble with trying to write a bird blog. Of course I could just write nothing..... Aaaanyway, today the plan was to rectify that, but once again it didn’t happen. Actually I tell a lie – I left on the school run a little bit early so I could check the Basin on the way. Virtually nothing. And almost unbelievably it soon became less than virtually nothing as man was walking his dog across one of the fairways closest to the water and a bunch of them flew off. Is nothing sacred?! Pfffffffff.

Talking of dogs, I recently discovered that one of my Twitter acolytes is a beagle. No, really. Well, not actually really, obviously, but really enough in the same sense that a cat that wandered onto the pitch at Anfield a couple of weeks ago is also a Twitter user..... Yes, people with mouth-watering amounts of spare time are pretending to be animals on Twitter - and some say that Twitter is a complete waste of time. Honestly. I haven’t been through the whole list to discover if any of the others are animals, but assuming the rest are human, if you take me as a proxy - with approximately one third of a percent of my followers being dogs, and Twitter as a whole having half a billion users - that means that there are 1.6 million people pretending to be dogs online. If that isn’t a tragic statistic, I don’t know what is. Three thousand dogs set up new accounts every day, and Lady Gaga, Twitter's most-followed person, has over 60,000 canine chums – which goes a long way to explaining that meat dress she wore last year. It wasn’t a statement designed to provoke outrage, comment and discussion; no, it was simply for her adoring fans.

Woof woof!

Essex Birds

Wanstead is in Essex, and that's where I started today. Nick and I were nice and early on the patch, but no goodies were produced. I had palpitations early on when I saw two distant flying waterfowl and immediately issued the joyful shout of "Brent Geese!", a long-awaited patch tick. My initial joy turned to consternation though, when after some proper squinting I felt that the rear-most bird was definitely lighter in tone that the lead bird. Although I'd been certain that the first bird was a Brent, the apparent difference between the two raised all sorts of questions, and very sadly I've binned them. Although generally very low, I do have some standards.

Thinking about it, Brent Goose is a good candidate for my most-wanted bird for the patch. It's entirely possible, is big and easy to spot, which is always a plus, and now is the right time of year. That said, there are many others. Marsh Harrier and Short-eared Owl both rank highly, as do Smew and Bewick's Swan. I've decided on my most-wanted for the garden. That's going to be Little Egret from now until I get one. It's still a hard bird away from the Roding, but I'm close enough to the Walthamstow-Thames flight path to be in with a chance. Other possibilities for the garden are Firecrests on an away day, and perhaps also one of the seven Egyptian Geese which seem to have taken up residence on the Basin, just a short flight away.

Why is Alexandra Lake filled with algal blooms and infested with rats? No idea.

Wanstead held little else, six Teal on Alex probably the highlight. A quick grill of the gulls produced nothing remarkable, though I still think that with the number of Common Gulls we get, Ring-billed has to be a serious possibility. I suppose that could be the new most-wanted... A group of Long-tailed Tits did not want their photograph taken, and an out-of-control dog jumped all over me. The second time it jumped all over me, I nudged it away with my leg. Oh dear, in the eyes of the owner that counted as kicking the dog, and that was well out of order. It's great isn't it? A dog jumps all over me and all of a sudden it's my problem. Yes, that sounds fair to me. Here's an alternative suggestion though, dog-owner. Keep your stupid f***ing dog under control or on a f***ing lead, or don't f***ing bring it to Wanstead f***ing Flats. Or am I out of order again? I tell you, the day I get a sincere apology from a dog-owner, or even just an apology, will be the day I..., the day I..., well I just don't know. It's so massively unlikely it will never ever happen.

Moving on, we moved on. To real Essex, with additional passengers in the shape of Paul W and Muffin. Fingringhoe to be precise, where we spent an hour not seeing a Glossy Ibis for Paul's Essex list that he does now keep (it would be a great deal quicker to list the counties for which Paul does not keep a list. Herefordshire I think.), which was in fact there all along. The next stop was Mersea, where I quickly added a perfectly genuine and acceptable Red-breasted Goose to the Essex List I definitely don't keep, and added Black Brant for the day when that becomes tickable.This was a life tick for Muffin, and he was so delighted that he made some patterns in the mud with his trainers. A Wigeon we had been watching and thinking was a little odd then died in front of us, a nice lesson in the natural way of things for junior. This air of finality caused us to surmise that the day was basically over, so we went home.



What do you mean you can't see it?



The Dogs

Romford. Coral. The Dogs. Thirteen races, thirteen opportunities to lose money, taken, I think, on eleven. A good night out, fun, possibly rather strange to take a camera, but it only got doused in Stella once, and seemed none the worse for it. I doubt I was surreptitious, pints of lager don't bring out the ninja in me, but some worthy memories of Hawky's stag do. Forgive the pretentious black and white, colours do strange things under lights, these work better. Stereotypes abounded, and whilst there were flat caps everywhere, I was disappointed not to to find jellied eels for sale anywhere.

More about Dogs

Second post in a day, my life is just so exciting. When I metaphorically left you, I was heading out to Wanstead Flats to find Ring Ouzels, as there seemed to be quite a few scattered around London today. I added two more, thus:

Very pleasing indeed, especially as Mrs L is working from home today, and before I left I announced I was off to find a Ring Ouzel. "Good Luck" she said, and I don't think she was being sarcastic. Wish that would work with every species. They were in same area, broadly, that the Ring Ouzels always turn up in, which is around Long Wood. Although my track record for finding Ouzels on the Flats is pretty good, I was nonetheless surprised to actually score. I heard them before I saw them, but I was unable to creep up on them - very wary indeed, hence the somewhat duff photo.

But this post isn't about Ring Ouzels. It's about dogs. And their owners. As I was approaching Ouzel central, I became aware of some high-pitched yapping, and around the corner were two people and six dogs. None of the dogs were bigger than a large cat really, but six, come on? How many dogs do you need? One of them made a bee-line towards me, snarling feebly. I carried on. The owner ineffectually called it back, but it paid not the slightest heed and continued for my ankle. As it lunged, it is possible I may have expressed an opinion about the rat dog to its owner.

You would think that at this point, with the animal still seemingly intent on departing with a piece of me, that the owner might rush up with the leash, proferring apologies. Not on Wanstead Flats. No, unfortunately my slip of the tongue instead caused her to go off on one. There was a lot of swearing which I did not enjoy. I decided that the moment needed to be captured for posterity, so photographed the tirade. I am aware that this perhaps does not show the lady in the best possible light.

Shucks.

Betsy & Toto

Hello Everyone!

This is Betsy, a Springer Spaniel. Betsy is a ve-ry naugh-ty dog. Yes, that's right children, Betsy was running in the long grass where the nice Skylarks live. Tsk Tsk. However, Betsy is just a dog. She doesn't know any better. She loves nothing more than to bound through tussocky grass and chase small brown things. She can't read. She doesn't know that the small brown things are Skylarks. She doesn't know about declining habitat and the IUCN Red List. She's just a dumb animal.

Her owner on the other hand can read. Or is presumed to be able to read. There are many signs on Wanstead Flats asking dog-owners to keep their dogs on leads whilst traversing the grassy areas. Betsy's owner ignored the signs, which meant that Betsy nearly caught a Skylark. Betsy's owner is selfish, stupid, vacuous and ignorant, kids. Children, what would you say to her if you saw her letting Betsy run through the Skylark's home?

This is Toto. Toto is a Pomeranian. Toto is also a ve-ry naugh-ty dog. This morning, Toto tried to bite my left ankle. Luckily years of inbreeding have rendered the jaws of a Pomeranian so pitifully weak as to be unable to penetrate denim, else I may have a neat semi-circle of puncture wounds. Children, I confess I may have uttered a naughty word.

I gently nudged Toto to one side using my boot, and remonstrated with Toto's owner.

"Your dog just bit me!"

"Oh. Did he? Oh...."

Toto's owner is rude, ineffectual, stupid and vacuous, kids. She is unable to keep her dog under control, and was unable to offer any kind of apology for its actions. In fact, as I examined my ankle, she just walked off with Toto trotting beside her. Toto should be on a lead and muzzled, or perhaps just euthanized. What would you say to her, children, if you saw Toto bite someone? Remember, no naughty words now....

A Photo Essay on Failure

They say a picture tells a thousand words. Does that mean that three pictures tell three-thousand words? I am not known for word-thrift, and I reckon I could probably use up all three-thousand on quite how much this kind of behaviour annoys me. I'll spare you this time. But I took the owner to task, and the good news is that he "heard what I was saying". If ever there was a phrase which indicated utter indifference and apathy, this is it. Apparently Queen Victoria gave Wanstead Flats to the East End for the commoners to enjoy, and that is what he and his dogs were doing and were going to continue doing.

Fail.