Spanish Eyes, English Words

As my regular readers will know, our puppy Paddy has reached the stroppy teenager stage and 'can't be bovvered' obeying commands, or even polite requests, unless he feels like it. So, we decided to take him to obedience training classes, and his first one took place on Wednesday. I asked Tony to come along with me, but he said 'No fear - he's your dog, I'm not going to be there when he gets thrown out of the class.'

So, with that vote of confidence ringing in our ears, Paddy and I set off to San Miguel for the class. It started really well. he was in the back of the car with a seatbelt restraint on his collar, and he was such a good boy, sitting there, looking through the front windscreen, master of all he surveyed. Things went rapidly downhill from there though.

When he met the other dozen dogs in the class, he went a bit ballistic and wanted to play. He jumped on top of a tiny Chihuahua, and we almost needed a dustpan and brush to get him off the tarmac. when 30 kilos of Collie/lLabrador cross meets 3 kilos of Chihuahua, there's only ever going to be one outcome. Luckily the owner was fine about it, and said 'Don't worry, I'm sure he won't be permanently flattened.'

Paddy's fate was sealed though. He wasn't actually tossed out of the class before he even started but both he - and I - were consigned to the Naughty Corner. My chair was placed at a safe distance from all the other owners - or more accurately, their dogs. Paddy found it pretty unbearable when all the dogs went into the training ring, but I had no sympathy, and told him he only had himself to blame. I can be a hard-faced Puppy Mummy when the need arises - and it arises quite a lot with Paddy just lately, so I'm getting plenty of practice in.

At half time, when the other dogs had a well earned break, Alex, the trainer, came across to Paddy. I started to apologise profusely, but he just shook his head, told me not to worry and took Paddy into the training ring for a one to one assessment. As usual, Paddy took off like he was chasing a cat who had just stolen his dinner, but with a couple of words - which I didn't hear - and a hand signal, there was Paddy, standing still and waiting for the word to move. I watched in amazement as my bouncy boy did exactly as he was signalled and commanded to do, and I was torn between wanting to kiss Alex for taming the seemingly untameable and kill Paddy for being so good for a stranger when he was such a naughty boy for his Mummy.

When Alex brought him back to me, he said he was a very intelligent dog and he would be easy to train. He went further. 'If this was my dog, he would be trained in five minutes.' Oh, dear readers, so strong was the temptation to reply 'Here, Alex, you got yourself a dog.' The only thing that stopped me was thinking how pleased Tony would be if I went home sans Paddy.

Unfortunately, he still wasn't allowed in with the other dogs, because Alex decreed that until I had a choker collar for him, he wouldn't be comfortable, as the dog, as he is behaving at the moment, is too strong for me. So I was told to come back next week, complete with choker collar to begin Educating Paddy. Alex also said he didn't think I'd have so much trouble with him from now on. Seeing my look of sheer disbelief, he took Paddy into the circle of dogs and owners, sat down with him in the middle, and confidently told the others he was about to demonstrate how to calm down an excitable dog. 

So, there's my manic puppy, at close quarters with around a dozen strange dogs, and he's sitting there like he's just toked on a ton of marijuana. Either that or his puppy body has been overtaken by a species of particularly chilled out aliens. Luckily I had the camera, because I knew Tony would never believe it without evidence. Hell, I didn't believe it myself, and I was witness to it!

That's not where the story ends though. Since Wednesday, Paddy hasn't taken me for a walk, we've managed to do it the other way around for the first time since he was 5 kilos of timid, tiny puppy. And his kangaroo legs seem to have deserted him, because he's hardly jumped up at all. When he's not having his regular play times, he sits there, calm and serene with me on the terrace as I work. Alex is obviously some kind of miracle worker, or at least some sort of dog whisperer. The friends who recommended him said he was a magician with dogs, and I think they could well be right.

Now, if only I can get Alex to stop Paddy greeting me every morning by shoving his nose right up my kaftan, we could be onto a winner. Wonder if I can explain that problem without dying from embarrassment? Maybe I can look it up online to save my blushes!

Thursday 11 September 2014 was the Diada Nacional De Catalunya - or Catalonia's National Day. Yesterday was special in a number of ways, although of course every Diada is special to Catalans all over the world. For a start, it's 300 years since the end of the Siege of Barcelona, when Catalonia was defeated in the War Of The Spanish Succession. On that day, Catalonia lost its sovereignty and all its political and cultural rights and freedoms, the Catalan language was declared illegal, and Catalonia effectively ceased to exist as far as the central Spanish government was concerned. Centenaries are always given special treatment - as can be seen in the centenary comemmorations in the UK marking the beginning of World War I - and so is the case with Diada 2014.

Advocates for independence planned to form a giant 11 kilometer V shape along the Avenidas Diagonal and Gran Via, meeting in Glories Square. The aim was to form a mosaic of the Catalan flag, with participants turning up in red or yellow t-shirts. What's the symbolism of the V? Well, it stands for Vote, Victory and Will, all words beginning with V in the Catalan language. According to Barcelona police, 1.8 million people turned out for this peaceful demonstration, but figures released by the Spanish government suggest between 470,000 and 520,000 people were present. News reports seem divided, with some quoting police figures and others quoting the government estimates.

Now I'm not a Catalanist, but I am something of a pragmatist, and I tend to favour the police estimate for two reasons. Looking at the press of people in that 11 kilometer V, there looks to be a lot more than 500,000. And I would imagine that the police who know Barcelona so well would have a much more accurate idea of crowd numbers than sources from central government in Madrid. So I would have been happier if all the news reports had done as the Catalan News Agency and El Pais did and reported both figures, so readers can make up their own minds.

It's obviously in the government's interest to play down the numbers, since the Catalanists had called for big numbers to complete the V, but surely truth is more important? And the truth of the matter is that a very large number of people staged a peaceful, positive and tolerant demonstration to make a point that the Catalan people should be allowed to vote on whether Catalonia should become independent from Spain, just as Scotland will vote next week on whether the country should become independent from the United Kingdom. Whether you agree with the idea of Catalan or Scottish independence or not, surely the people themselves have the right to decide?

Another thing that really annoys me as a neutral reading these reports is the way almost all the press describes the Catalan advocates for independence as 'separatists' or 'nationalists.'  Both these words have negative connotations, and neither of them can be accurately applied to the Catalanists. I like the word Catalanists, simply because it is an accurate description of a person who is for Catalan independence but not against Spain. And just because someone is pro independence, it doesn't mean they are against Spain. That's the point that a lot of the right wing reporting on the Catalan question seems to miss.

There are fervent Catalanists who will support Spain in the World Cup, for example, but would vote for independence, if the vote actually goes ahead. Catalans are certainly not nationalists in a negative sense, as described by George Orwell in his 1945 essay Notes on Nationalism.Orwell described nationalism as 'Inseperable from the desire for power, for the nation rather than the individual.' Orwell goes on to describe patriotism as 'Devotion to a place and a way of life which one believes is the best, but which one doesn't wish to force on others.'

Personally, I think it would be far more accurate - and certainly more positive - to describe the Catalanists as patriots, rather than separatists or nationalists. From what  I know of the Catalan people, and from friends who have been absorbed into the Catalan way of life because of their interest in the language and the culture, and their support for Barcelona Football Club, I would say that patriot is a good word to use. These people are proud of their language - which was illegal for 300 years but survived nonetheless - and their culture.

You do not have to have been born in Catalonia to be accepted as a Catalan - in fact around 40% of the Catalans living  in Barcelona were actually born elsewhere in Spain. So that kicks out the separatist description too. You could perhaps describe the Basques as separatists and nationalists - if you wanted to use such negative words, and I don't - because broadly speaking they want political unification for the Basque speaking provinces. However the friendly, welcoming, all-embracing, tolerant Catalanists should never be described in such negative terms and I, for one, find it totally unacceptable.

Just in case you think the life of a writer in Spain is perfect, I'm about to burst your bubble. Traumatic times have come to Piddock Place in the last week, forcing me to bring Vodka O' Clock forward by a couple of hours, and seriously consider getting rid of either the husband or the dog. At the moment, it's Evens Stevens, but that changes on a frequent basis.

It all started innocently enough when I was cleaning my teeth one morning last week. That takes a while, because I am blessed with two sorts of teeth. There are the ones that Nature blessed me with, then there are the teeth that are like stars, in that they come out every night. It was while these teeth were receiving attention that Paddy jumped at me, taking me completely by surprise. In case you're thinking I must lead a very racy life here at Piddock Place, let me hasten to add that Paddy is the dog, not the husband, but I digress.

You try hanging on to anything when 25 kilos of puppy launches itself your way. The teeth flew out of my hand, describing a perfect arc in the air. Scenting a new game, Paddy took off after them and caught them before they hit the marble  floor and cracked. Pity they didn't because at least I could have got a repair job done. Paddy took them off, and proceeded to remove the teeth until all that was left was the plate. Maybe he thought they could fill the gaps in his 7 month old puppy mouth.

So off to the dentist I go, and the Receptionist was very good. She didn't even smirk as I told my tale of woe - until the other people in the waiting room started to titter. Then it was open season, and the dentist came out to see what all the merriment was about. A dentist's waiting room is not normally a place of laughter, so I hope he shows his gratitude by shaving something off the 350 Euro bill for my new gnashers.

I hadn't quite perfected the Mona Lisa smile which must be my companion for the next few weeks when Paddy caused havoc again. Just like the stars - and the now deceased teeth - I am also out at night. Late at night, on the terrace when it's cool, catching up on the writing while the world is quiet and calm. My personal quiet and calm was shattered when Paddy mounted his Great Escape. He loves to sit on our garden wall, and watch the world go by. At 2.00am, there isn't a lot of  world going by, so he decided to push through the cypress hedge that separates our garden from the next one and see if there was some action going down. There wasn't, so he repeated the manoevre, finishing up three doors along in an unoccupied property.

I was encouraging him to come back to me, but by now he was panicking a bit. So I got the ladder and his lead, and headed along the terrace. I was half way up the ladder when I realised the major flaw in the plan. The Policia Local patrol all through the night, every night, even though Algorfa is a - mercifully - crime free zone, and as they hadn't been around since I waved to them from the terrace an hour ago, another drive by was probably imminent. So, calling the dog a name I never even realised I knew, I took the ladder and the lead back home and waited. And waited. And fell asleep on the sofa.

By 4.00am, when Paddy finally made his way home, he was understandably chastened by his adventure, and wanted to be with Mummy, even though he knew the bedroom was off limits. He forced himself in there with me. I can't tell you how long it's been since a male of the species forced his way into my boudoir. Pity this one had four legs and a tail. Anyway, Tony - the husband - was far from impressed, especially when Paddy stretched his considerable length diagonally across the bed and refused to move, even for his favourite treats. It took another half hour to evacuate the room. You try shifting 25 kilos of puppy when he doesn't want to be shifted. It ain't easy.

So now, the husband is grouchy, and 'our dog' has suddenly become 'my dog' for some reason. We both get blamed for the Great Escape, and are still being treated like naughty school kids 24 hours later. When the husband says 'Either me or that dog has to go,' it's very tempting to go and start packing - and I don't mean the dentistix and the squeaky toys either.

They say bad things come in threes, and Paddy's obviously aware of that old saying, because the next thing he did was to go out in the garden and remove Tony's burgeoning blackberry bush from its pot. It was a cutting from the main bush, and it was enjoying life in its nice big pot until Paddy found it. One minute it was there, the next it was gone, and though we hunted high and low for it in our rather small garden, it appeared to have left the building. This morning, the mystery of the missing blackberry bush was solved. Those of a nervous disposition may wish to look away now.

I thought we were featuring in a remake of Alien when Paddy whimpered on the terrace - transfixed by a mysterious object that was emerging from just beneath his tail. All of a sudden, the penny fell into place, and I saw a great opportunity to get my own back on my dastardly dog. Reaching for an ever-present wet wipe, I grabbed the end of the blackberry root - for that was what it was - and gave it a tug. That's when Paddy became a locksmith and made a bolt for the terrace door and the safety of the lounge.

As I speak, he's cowering in the corner, with his rear end tucked safely into the angle between our bedroom and the guest bathroom. And I don't feel in the least bit guilty. Does that make me a bad human being? Probably, but I can live with it. And I think it's time to call in the Dog Whisperer to sort out my little rebel and teach him some manners, don't you?