There have recently been a spate of posts that have featured the blogger's pet, usually a dog, as its main subject. Without getting all mushy about it I have to say I've enjoyed immensely reading these posts.

They are mainly warm recollections, tinged with a little sadness at the passing of the pet, but recalling the happier times that they managed to share, brief though they were. Two such posts are:

• Bessie-Boots by Carol of 'Shrink-wrapped scream' fame
• Wilma is at peace! by Denise of 'MRSNESBITT'S SPACE'

The first is a loving tribute to a well loved dog, reflective and funny at the same time. Only Shrinky can write that way! The piece by Denise is the last in a series of reports about Wilma, but you have to read it for yourself. More buoyant are the follow-ups about Freida, the latest addition to the Nesbitt family, but once again you need to read the posts for yourself. They are all delightful.

This is my tribute to a dog that was our family pet when I was a young whippersnapper, but I shall avoid dwelling on his passing and recount a tale that is slightly upbeat.

His name was, unoriginally, Bonzo, and he was an Airedale. Or so we were told by our mother who brooked no discussion on the matter. She had done extensive research of the first ten pages of the dog-eared copy of the Oxford English Dictionary that we had lying around the house and declared that, without doubt, Bonzo was an Airedale.

If Aardvarks were canine, she probably wouldn't have got past 'Aardvark'.

In reality he was a pariah or a Heinz-57 (he even had the classic ring-tail), but if it pleased mother to own an Airedale, so be it. Besides, showing any sign of dissent in our house usually invited a clip around the side of the head.

Bonzo was a traveller. Bonzo came and Bonzo went - nobody really knew from, and to where. His arrival always coincided with 'grub-time'. He'd wolf down whatever was on offer and then take off again, to continue what it was that he'd interrupted, so magnanimously, to grace us with his presence. The meal was usually boiled rice and offal, without salt, because mother always extolled the virtues of good husbandry for our animals. Never mind that the chickens, ducks and turkeys were regularly culled for the table, but I guess that while they lived they were happy enough. Free-range and unaware that they were there for a purpose. But let us put things in perspective; as long as man is at the top of the food chain and continues to be a natural carnivore, that is how things will always be!

Bonzo was, nevertheless, a much-loved family pet who gave unstintingly of his precious time when he wasn't obsessed with things away from home base. When he was languishing around the house, or outside in the shade of the mango or jamun trees, he was always alert to what was going on around him. He was not a large dog, but he still had a commanding presence when he stood up and squared off to an 'intruder'. One of his more endearing traits was that he was always ready to accompany any member of the family, to anywhere, if he was not actively discouraged. Discouragement was usually in the shape of a large rock flung in his general direction. He could take a hint!

The day I was glad that I hadn't discouraged him was the day I tangled with Cut-tail, the leader of the marauding band of Langur monkeys that passed through the railway colony roughly twice a week. He got his name from the simple fact that he had lost almost three quarters of his magnificent appendage in some bizarre accident. The monkeys would sweep through from east to west and then back again in the reverse direction a few days later, causing havoc and stealing anything they could lay their grubby little mitts on. They were naturally destructive creatures, always hungry and curious, and they managed to cause a lot of damage during their forays. It was reassuring that they hadn't set up their base in our railway colony and that they chose only to pass through. When they arrived, we boys would get out our catty's (catapults, slingshots) and start honing our marksman skills. This always attracted the wrath of Cut-tail who would circle the outer perimeters of his troop, constantly making mock charges in our direction. Very effective tactics on his part, because we boys had enough sense to stay well away from those teeth, and as a consequence our marksmanship was either way off or so depleted in velocity that it really didn't cause the band of monkeys too much concern.

On the day of this incident, I outpaced my own pack and found myself almost amongst the troop of monkeys! This was Cut-tail's chance.

And he took it.

The message is clear … 

He raced towards me, stump of a tail held aloft, teeth bared and screaming like a banshee. Enough to make a grown man turn and run. No-contest for a boy that was hardly larger than the monkey!

I did the only honourable thing. I retreated. Rapidly!

Ten paces in front of me was a wide culvert. It was really just an open drain dug into the soil without any form of buttressing to shore up the sides. Over the years the sides had eroded and it was now considerably wider than it was originally meant to be. However, I instinctively knew that that was a natural barrier that I should put between Cut-tail and myself and I took a running leap for the other side. In my dazed panic I briefly noticed a scruffy mongrel furiously scratching himself on the other side of the drain. It looked very much like my beloved Bonzo. He just had to be my salvation for the predicament in which I had thrust myself. At least, I hoped he was.

Whilst in the air, completing my Olympic-standard jump, I felt a huge weight land squarely between my shoulder blades. This was not good but, surprisingly, this was also something I needed. My momentum, despite my terror, probably wasn't going to be enough to span the gap. The added velocity of the enraged monkey on my back certainly helped to prove Sir Isaac Newton's third law of physics. And the deranged primate appeared to be doing his damndest to impersonate Donald Trump on a bad-hair day!

Boy and monkey landed in a crumpled heap at the feet of the unsuspecting dog. Before the monkey could complete his mission of sinking his molars into a succulent-part-of-boy, the dog reacted as most dogs do. The 3F's - 'Fright', 'Flight' or 'Fight'. Fortunately Bonzo chose the third option. Cut-tail weighed up the situation and in an instant decided that he was 'out-fanged' so, with consummate ease, he casually hopped back over the culvert to join his troop. At which point the dog, ecstatic with joy at a job well done, deliriously covered me with the sloppiest kisses he could bestow.

It was almost preferable to have had the monkey on my back!

If there is a moral to the story, or a lesson to be learned, it should be the reassuring one that nothing much changes over the ages. Boys will always be boys, and get themselves into all manner of scrapes. And dogs will always surprise you with instinctive reactions that you hope they have, but of which you can never be certain.

Of course, you are always pleasantly surprised when they live up to their description of being 'man's best friend'.

'Bye for now ...

Now that I've lured you here with a blatantly misleading title I have to 'fess-up' that I am taking this opportunity to ostracize this fixation on trees!

There must be a multitude of aberrations that are much healthier to obsess about, and I shall make it my crusade to go away and focus on a few, after this post.

Since the phone-cam was apparently doing a good job I decided to continue making an effort to capture things I had already vaguely planned to use for a post. And it is an effort. Phone-cam in one hand trying to manipulate buttons that are microscopic, electric boxer on lead tugging me 'every-which-way-but-loose' in the other!

David, here's the gauntlet thrown down; come collect my boxer and then see how well you can compose 'raw' shots without resorting to Photoshop! Rant over.

I mused about the microcosm of life I can always find within the small patch of green that I visit daily. A line of trees along the cemetary wall gives sustenance to a variety of feathered friends. Pigeons are by far the most numerous, but there are colonies of 'escaped' parrots, the ubiquitous sparrows and even a few doves. The birds feed happily off the fruits, berries and insects that the trees serve up. And a right royal feast it is, too.

At ground level, in the underbrush, the killing fields, live the killers, the feral cats! They sit and wait patiently for unwary pigeons to wander into their kill zone (the other bird species are far too intelligent), and then it is a matter of 'pounce' and 'off with its head'. I've observed feathered remains almost daily, but have only ever witnessed one kill. And I have to tell you that, unlike domestic cats that appear to 'play' with their prey, feral's don't waste too much energy. Their kills are swift and deadly, and even though I cannot say it is nice to observe, I can understand how their need to do it is rooted deeply in their instinct for survival. More so when they have a family of cute little kittens to raise.

I thort I thaw a puddy-tat!

So, it is a matter of keeping one's eyes peeled. The dog knows they're there because he can scent them, but I have to spot them earlier than he does so that I can issue my "Straight On!" command. Or I end up being dragged unceremoniously into the bushes!

As I mentioned earlier, this is a microcosym of life being played out daily on a very tiny stage. The trees feed the birds, the birds feed the cats, and the dog and I, at the top of food chain, conspire to make life difficult for all of them. I guess that is the way of the world.

On a different tack. This is a little extra for 'townies'; the 'country-cousins' are already familiar with this phenomenon.

During my 'fieldcraft' training in the military, one of the lessons taught was how to navigate terrain without the aid of a compass. Not as easy as you'd think. Unless you are American! It has never ceased to amaze me how my American colleagues in the military were always able to locate NORTH without even breaking sweat. Conversely, they found it difficult to get from point 'A' to point 'B' driving a car on European roads because of the hairpins, switchbacks and roundabouts they encountered. A symptom of familiarity with how their towns and cities are built on a grid pattern.

But they could always tell you which way was North!

Well, here is a bit of information that will always help you, even in the deepest, darkest forests of your mind. And even in town if you are unfamiliar with the locale. Look for the moss on the trees, and the side that displays the thickest layer is the side that is pointing NORTH.

North to Alaska!

For the sceptical amongst my readers, I regret I didn't have a compass with me when I took that shot so that I could have shown the compass needle pointing to the big red 'N'. You will simply have to take my word for it.

Helpful information, or what ... ?