Kung Hei Fat Choi. No, I’m not just psychic; multilingual too.

As I scan the planet looking for a something interesting to take my mind of the defeat of dear Andy Murray, it’s been impossible to avoid the vibe sweeping the East. When 1, 3000,000 inhabitants of mainland China reconvene in their family units to celebrate their New Year, it’s a big deal. To appreciate the full scale of the event, we need to add in the many millions more Taiwanese and the ethnically Chinese residents of Singapore, Malaysia and Vietnam and Thailand, not to forget the further millions of immigrant Chinese raising their glasses and yelling “Gom bui” in the many Chinatowns all around the world. It's a time for reflection and not a little apprehension, as seen on the faces of these worshippers at the Wong Tai Sin temple in Hong Kong.

As a dog with an ingrained European viewpoint, I’ve been struck by the need to get my head around China. Any nation that can achieve the seamless impressiveness of the Beijing Olympics, whilst buying up all the cheap assets that the so-called developed world currently can’t afford, is clearly a force to reckon with.

As the Empire of America implodes, however much President Obama proves able to slow the process, the Empire of China will surely rise to occupy the yawning vacuum of power and economic clout. If it happens without a huge armed conflict, this will surely be the first time in history that the baton of global dominance passes unstained by the blood of many nations.

Which is why I choose to wish all ethnically Chinese persons Happiness and Prosperity as they enters the Year of the Ox. I never did like rats, anyway!

He is white. He is from Scotland. He owns a dog. Does it get better than that?

Forgive the outburst of patriotism. And the apparently endless theme of colour. I can’t help it. In the midst of Obamamania, legitimate though it is, I feel obliged to draw your attention to this surprising product of Scotland, a tennis player of rare talent and an athlete of remarkable ability, one Andy Murray.

Yes, our Andy, as we Scots can call him, unlike you English, much as you would like to, finds himself down under. The Aussie Open, the first Grand Slam of the year just got underway. Andy’s last few months have seen him finally emerge from the shadows of unkempt teenager hood into the bright sunlight of a Number 4 rank in the world and expectations of a first Slam sooner rather than later.

His recent record, eight matches played, eight matches won, and his list of victims, topped by Roger Federer, the world No2, and Rafael Nadal, the world No1, has fuelled expectations of greatness to come, preferably imminently.

The excitement has even got to his best mate at home, whom I caringly picture, even though he is not a Westie and, at a stroke, destroys the whiteness theme to which I have clung so fondly.

So “Good on you”, Andy, as they say on that far far away continent, blessed with some of the most seductive beaches in the world and a more venomous selection of land and sea creatures than anywhere else on the planet. Another of God’s jokes? I mean Australia, not Andy. Though if he fails to win Wimbledon one fine day in his career, that’s for sure how he will be remembered. Yes, it’s a cruel old world, even from this tranquil viewpoint in Dog Heaven.

Of hopes and dreams.

Here I go again. Even at the risk of boring the collective pants off my burgeoning readership, it’s going to be Obama one more time. Today is his Inauguration Day. It would be downright perverse to look anywhere else. I will even eschew references to the issue of doggies in the White House, and resist the temptation to dwell on the advice of smart Harry Truman, who said, “If you want a friend in Washington, get a dog.”

Nowadays I pride myself on my self-discipline! Oh, and don’t you just love the word eschew, particularly the chew part? What I wouldn’t give for a chunk of bone to get my long unused teeth into!

Anyway, I have to tell you that, as I get into the flow of this, my remit becomes clear. There’s no point in my sharing with you all the daily minutiae that already overwhelm you from too many sources. I should use my otherworldly perspective to give you the big picture. Now, it’s not going to be consistently global. My Scottish heritage tends to draw me to Europe more than objectivity should allow. And my Westie sense of humour may occasionally lead me astray. But, when it does, I’ll do my best to avoid anything but the most amusing trivia. Okay with you? Hope so.

There’s that word again, hope. And really that is what today mainly represents. At the most poignant level, it’s the moment of truth for the dream born of Rosa Parkes’ brave stand, well, brave sit, I suppose, fifty-three years ago. The dream found a voice with Martin Luther King and now finds its incarnation with Barak Obama. Hopefully.

How symbolic that Martin Luther King Day should be the segue into Inauguration Day. How wonderful if Obama is indeed judged “not by the colour of his skin, but by the content of his character.” The world holds its breath and watches. We have all waited a long, long time for someone who might bring a compelling vision of unity to this sometimes inspirational, sometimes crass crucible of humanity we know as America. Above all, the world hopes.

Obama, the “Great White Hope!” Reflections on Black and White.

Are they being ironic? This cliché, misapplied so often and so inappropriately to the iconic President-in-Waiting, got me thinking: why are hopes always “Great White Hopes”? Have they always been white? And how many have there been? Being happily white myself, it seemed an appropriate issue to ponder.

Well, in the case of JFK, in Camelot mode, yes, he did indeed inspire hope and he was indeed white. Tony Blair, too, was white and hope did abound in the early dawn of New Labour. Bill Clinton, too, had his great white moments, if mainly in the oratorical field. In all cases, though, hope hugely exceeded achievement.

Was Nelson Mandela ever so described? I think not. Nor do I recall ever hearing him introduced as the “Great Black Hope”, though surely no one ever better deserved the accolade.

Perhaps this really is the moment to consign this particular phrase to the recycle bin. This is not just your Robert having a belated moment of political correctness. I’ve been as guilty as any other Westie of less than charitable thoughts towards the Scottie dog, the Black to our White on the famous Whiskey bottle. Arrogant, temperamental and smelly were just a few of the adjectives that I may have attributed to our companion dog on the logo.

But time moves on and in Dog Heaven old resentments tend to slip away in a general mood of tolerance and late arriving wisdom. So let me share with you my fervent wish that Obama will indeed represent the tipping point for the many centuries of the racial divide. Goodbye to the “Great White Hope”. May hope now come unburdened by any colour references.

Oh, it just occurs to me however, that Great White, just those two words, is another matter altogether. As a symbol for malevolence and predatory intent, this concept isn’t going away any time soon, particularly as their scary jaws continue to take a regular toll on swimmers and surfers off the beaches of South Africa and Australia. Yes, I know that the lunatic wing of the green fringe keep trying to persuade us that these sharks only ever take lumps out of humans by mistake and, even more ludicrously, actually deserve protection from their human tormentors. Well to them I say “Tosh” and any other dismissive four-letter word that springs to mind.

OMG, I’ve done it again, rambled on, as Led Zeppelin did so memorably, longer ago than my master would care to have me mention. I started with Obama and ended with Jaws. No, there’s no accounting for the unfettered imagination of a dog with more time on his paws than you earth dwellers can possibly conceive. On which thought, I’ll allow you to get to the next pressing task in your finite day. Bye for now.

Thoughts for the day.

OMG, or “Oh my dog,” as we prefer to say, here in Dog Heaven. I’ve had a bit of feedback from Janie. She says that my pic is all bit grandiose and does not reflect the cute, warm, loveable kind of boy that I was in the real world before I came here. So she has caringly popped another one of me onto the place where you are all reading this.

Now, I have to say, that for all my ability to see things from afar, if indeed afar is where I am, who knows, I sure don’t……..oops I am sounding streamily just like Virginia Woolf all over again, not that I ever sounded wolf-like, as far as I know. Sorry, you must forgive my propensity for a bit of a ramble, verbally speaking, as it were. I guess it shows my fondness for a ramble in any mode, the most obvious being the one that got me into trouble quite a few times, now I come to think about it. So was I a particularly naughty Westie? I don’t think so. And my Master certainly didn’t think so. He was always leaping to my defence at moments of crisis. Well, isn’t that what Masters are for?

Well, maybe somebody, a bit more objective and who knew me down there, or up there, wherever the hell it was, will comment and tell me! Or tell Janie. She’s good with feedback. Well that’s sort of where I came in, isn’t it? Cue to say goodnight? Guess so. Goodnight dear reader. Or good morning, depending on your time zone! OMG, it’s not easy is it? Geographic confusion abounds, whenever I allude to location or time. Never mind. You’ve got the weekend to work it out, wherever you are. Bye for now.

Movie News!

Exciting isn't it? I just heard that a new canine movie is sweeping the planet and winning awards like no canine movie ever did before! Apparently it's about this doggie in India who, equipped with remarkable intelligence and no mean general knowledge, triumphs over huge adversity and a deprived puppyhood to win the big prize in the Mumbai version of "Who Wants To Be a Millionaire?"

Now I may have got a few of the detais a bit wrong. But, wow, isn't it just lovely to see us doggies at last getting the kind of recognition we deserve. Clearly a first ever dog Oscar loometh!

I should perhaps explain how I get my information here in Dog Heaven. Basically, we have the ability to home in on any point on the globe that attracts our interest. So, wherever I look, a little window hangs in the equivalent of the sky. If I peer into it, the familiar heart-rendingly beautiful image of our Planet Earth comes into view. If I select a destination in my head, then the location zooms into the foreground. In moments I can track down anyone, anywhere in the world.

I guess this might well make sense to you if I cite Google Earth as the most comparable earthbound facility. And, like Google Earth, our viewing mode occasionally goes a bit offline too. Which might explain how sometimes I might get the wrong end of the proverbial stick. Anyway, that's it for now. I've come over all nostalgic at the thought of all those lovely games of chase that stick that I played so long ago! Oh, those were the days!

First topical comment

What a week! This is only my second post, coming right on top of my greeting earlier today. I'm being a right nuisance to the lovely Janie Veron, transmitter of my thoughts and one time dear friend. She was happily immersed in the cultural joys of Lara Croft Tomb Raider 2 when I popped into her head with the following pithy observations. Sorry, Janie.

1. No, we didn't all misunderestimate (sic) the appalling George Bush. Some people, apparently, thought he had a brain. Some people thought his long pause, when he first heard of the Twin Towers attack, showed calmness and determination. Some people thought his triumphant declaration of Iraq Victory all those long years ago was a moment to celebrate.

Well, as a dog, let me tell you, I always knew. We can smell fear at twenty paces, spot bullshit on a television screen and sense a scrambled mind from a misplaced pause or a shaky delivery. No, we dogs knew better. You humans were the ones who misoverestimated him!

2. If, in my days on earth, I ever saw a football fan, his identity betrayed by a silly scarf or team-branded tee-shirt, I would always give him a damn fine barking. Why? Because their fanaticism is pathetic, misguided and unbalanced. Today's evidence is the arrest of a gaggle of Spurs supporters for their homophobic abuse of dear old Sol Campbell. Don't they know that homophobic abuse is internationally deeply unfashionable. Probably not; they are the ones who think that bombs raining down on Gaza is some kind of attack on their much lamented, alcoholic former hero, Paul Gascoigne. Makes you want to weep, doesn't it. Who's barking now? Night night.

Greeting from Dog Heaven

Okay, I know what you’re thinking. Yes I do. Now that’s not because I’m a mind reader, though I was always pretty sure what was on my master’s mind during my days on earth. No, it’s partly because I’m smart. Well, all West Highland Terriers are. Just ask anybody with one of us in the family. They’ll tell you. I remember my master reading me an excerpt from a dog handbook. “A confident, bossy and opinionated breed,” they called us. No self-esteem issues here, clearly.

But I digress. I know what you’re thinking because it’s bloody obvious. You’re thinking; dogs can’t write autobiographies. Probably you’re also thinking, even more basically, hang, on, dogs can’t write, period. And, of course, you’re right.

Nevertheless, here it is: my blog, by me. Actually the explanation is simple, so long as you suspend your disbelief for just a moment. It goes like this. Here I am in Dog Heaven, daydreaming about lovely summer days in England’s green and pleasant land, outstanding walks on sunny afternoons, and, in particular, a very rewarding riverside picnic in Kingston-upon-Thames, when I hear this voice in my head. It’s the voice of a woman and she’s saying “Hi Roberty.”

Yes, that was my nickname, a bit wet, perhaps, but it could have been worse. The Westie down the road in the New Forest was called Michael Jackson because the owners were so proud of his whiteness. Makes you want to weep, doesn’t it? Anyway, I’m telling you about this voice.
“It’s Janie,” she says, quite clearly. “You remember. I hung out with Steve, Danny and you after Gordon, my shit of a husband, quit these shores and vanished to Canada. Well, I was just making myself a cup of tea and recalling that hysterical Kingston picnic where you wolfed down all the smoked salmon, and, wham, there you were in my head, clear as day. And somehow I could understand that you were reminiscing about the same event.”

I didn’t know what to think, or say. And if I had, I didn’t know whether my thoughts would immediately transmit to Janie, thus making anything said essentially redundant. I vaguely recalled that Janie Veron had built a career in the rather marginal world of astrology, palmistry and tarot cards. So her sudden appearance in my afterlife as a medium was less of a shock than it might have been.

Then the realisation dawned. Of course, it was no surprise that she had spoken in a language that I understood. Humans still believe that we understand them through their gestures or our intuition or sheer guesswork. That’s rubbish, of course. Our genetic memory equips us perfectly to understand what out human friends are saying.

What was surprising, though, was that she had understood me! Now that was as startling, and as improbable, as a Star Trek moment when the ugly alien opens his mouth and issues his demands in perfect English. She seemed completely oblivious to her remarkable ability. “Are you still there?” she enquired in my head.

“Yes,” I replied tentatively.

“Oh good, I’ve never had a dog before.”

I won’t bore you with the rest of the conversation, but a conversation it indeed was. Once I had recovered from my initial surprise, we shared a stroll down memory lane. To be honest, I found it just a little upsetting, the abrupt rush of memories, the almost tangible recreation of moments long forgotten, the recollection of those closest to me, missed to this day and cherished for their love and kindness.

“You were right in the thick of it, weren’t you?” she observed, commenting on the lives I had known and, mainly, loved. “In fact, your take on the closing moments of the twentieth century would make for a damn good read,let alone your viewpoint on the topics of today. I’ve been in touch with Napoleon the last few months, and he though he might dictate a new memoir to me, but he seems to have lost the urge. I might well have some time on my hands. I dare say Josephine suffered the same problem.”

Janie giggled wickedly. Her quirky sense of humour had always been a talking point amongst us, as had her sometimes-flimsy grasp on what most of us thought of as reality. Had she really found herself in some kind of psychic chat with the legendary, short Frenchman? Who knows? But was it any less believable than the fact that she now found herself merrily embroiled with a deceased dog? I’ll leave you to ponder that one.

The fact is, we hatched a plan. I would bundle up my memories and opinions into bite-sized chunks, a concept that had distinct doggy appeal, and share them with Annie as and when she tuned in. Hopefully they would end up as an amusing, sometimes revealing, sometimes provocative look at a time not long gone and a time right now through the eyes of someone with a unique perspective.

“Did you mean a perspective poised a metre high and perched on four furry white legs?” asked Janie.

We had a laugh about that. Well she did. Anyway, this is the result, a dog’s eye view of the human world I left behind with so much fondness and not a little regret. May your encounter with it leave you with a similar mix of emotions. I’ll be surprised if it doesn’t.

Robert the Westie.