Result!

Let me tell you: no amount of double-bagging was going to save her tonight. Her fingers went straight into it and it remained under her fingernails for the duration of the walk. The downside was that she cut our walk short but it was worth it to see her struggling with the lead in her left hand whilst I insisted on sniffing the hedges on the right. She looked quite ridiculous with the lead stretched across in front of her and most uncomfortable. Now, you see, I know the trick. In future I will repeat what I did tonight; to do it in one place alone is too easy. I calculate that around four piles is far more effective. If there is just one, it is a clean sweep (so to speak). If there are multiple deposits, it is impossible for her to approach the last pile with the same confidence that she will be able to gather it in one stroke with the bag. And so it came to pass this evening. She ended up stroking it alright but not with the bag. Of course, it goes without saying that consistency is an important factor and one that did indeed play a part in tonight's events.

I will sleep soundly tonight knowing that I have got my revenge for all the times she's accidentally kicked me in the snout as she passes from the fridge back to the sink. And she tells people that I'm blind! Even someone who couldn't see would know that I rest my chin on the floor in front of my bed by the time they'd lived with me for six years. Then again, they say that you can't teach an old dog new tricks, don't they?

Boring Old Sunday

I know what she's thinking; that by encouraging me to write a blog, I'll spill the beans. Give the game away. Let the cat out of the bag. Whatever. But that's not how I operate. I am the International Dog of Mystery. I will never talk about it. Ever. Although I might allude to certain 'events' and naturally, my muscular physique and sharp wit are indicators that I am no ordinary labrador, she'll never know the whole story. Just bits. Right here on It's a Dog's Life. There'll be none of that fictional rubbish she writes either. And only when there's something to write about. Today wasn't one of those days. She took her eldest son back to uni today so I was left mooching around the house for most of the day. We went out for a longish walk around the streets and she kept barking 'Wait!' and 'Heel' alternately as if after all these years, she will suddenly find the right word to make me walk next to her. It was an extraordinarily dull walk. We didn't meet any other dogs (she made sure of that) and she managed to pick up without sticking her fingers through the bag; every day I hope for this to happen. Is that mean? I suppose so. It was a particularly mean thing to wish upon her because there was an awful lot of it thanks to the two packets of Minstrels and large bag of Doritos I ate in the middle of the night. Those teenagers are very accommodating, not only leaving the living room door open so that I can sleep on the sofa but leaving some snacks out for me too. They keep on about chocolate being poisonous for dogs. I think I'll be the judge of that. Anyway, for some reason, she puts the stuff in one bag (not the chocolate) and then puts it inside another. I've got no idea why; as soon as she gets back, she lobs it over the fence into the garden so that it lands next to the shovel used for collecting deposits I've left there. And it's not as if anyone is going to assess her poo-wrapping ability, she's not gift wrapping it or taking it on holiday, its security is not an issue; she's not going to be asked 'Did you pack your bags yourself?'. Humans are just so weird.

We Keep Walking

I’m a dog, OK? Got that? They haven’t. They’ve bought me a coat. A green waxed one that does up with Velcro. Velcro, I ask you! That puts me down there in the fashion stakes with toddlers and old ladies in motorized wheelchairs. And false pockets; the point of them being ....? Firstly, I don’t need pockets. Secondly, they’re on my back so I couldn’t reach them. Thirdly, as I said, they’re false. Absolutely pointless. And they bought the wrong size. They got the XXL because there was a label on it saying ‘Labradors’ amongst others. Tell me, would they go into a shop and buy a coat on the basis that it said it was suitable for humans on the label? No. Exactly. And so it slips because although they’re always watching my weight and I’m not actually as fat as they think. Does that mean that they have an eating disorder by proxy? Being overly concerned about my weight just because it’s all the rage is just too unbearable. Suddenly, they’ve started walking me twice as much as before. Which would be fine except that I’m 91 years old. Well, I’m not 91, I’m only 13 but humans are incapable of understanding this so we constantly have to bring it down to their level of understanding.

So we go for these walks around the neighbourhood. They’re so inconsistent. Sometimes they make me sit at the kerb and wait for non-existent cars to pass by and sometimes, especially if it’s raining, I get whisked across at like a ferret on a piece of elastic to the sound of them shouting ‘Come on, Monty! Be quick!’. I’ve got a friend for whom this command is a euphemism for defecating in the back garden.

Tonight, we went for a walking in the dark and it was raining. Where’s the pleasure in that? And I was made to wear the blessed coat. And yes, it’s the same route we took last night and the night before and it still looks exactly the same. I sniffed at privet hedges and lampposts in the most annoying fashion I could in an attempt to get them to vary the route. When we got back to the front door, one of them said:

‘Have you got Monty’s coat?’

‘No. Isn’t he wearing it?’

These humans are really dumb considering that they can talk to each other.

‘I’ll go back and look for it.’

So he did. He went plodding off in the rain to look for the green waxed coat that had fallen off somewhere onto a dark grass verge. He would get very wet. What he needed was a nice new coat. Waxed, the whole length of his body, false pockets on the back and Velcro around the neck. And when he got caught short, we’d see if he could manage to urinate up a hedge without taking it off.

Chewing the Fat

This was my first posting on Kathryn's other blog www.kathrynhharriss.blogspot.com.

I sort of got a taste for it and decided not to write under a pseudonym anymore. It's just that I always fancied being called Colin. But there you go.

Colin hung around the pine table in the kitchen; its legs had an elegant turn but were chunky and immovable. The chair legs, so easily shifted with a shove from his flanks whilst foraging for crumbs were also immovable when occupied by the diners and his path to the middle would be booby-trapped by the swinging feet of the children who became more fidgety as the meal progressed. In any case, the best scraps were to be had on the outer perimeter of the meal. He knew all about perimeters.

‘I don’t want this, it’s got a fatty bit on it’, the little boy complained.

‘Just leave it on the side of your plate then’ the mother sighed.

‘Can I give it to Colin?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he’s not allowed to eat too much. Now come on, eat your dinner.’

They were the ones to talk. Look at them, midriffs hanging over their trousers under the tabletop. Quite ridiculous.

‘Look, I’m staring right at you with by best pleading expression. I’ve got saliva dripping from my chops and I’m sitting so nicely, shifting the weight between my front paws so that I look as if I could collapse with hunger at any moment.’

‘But mummy, he wants it.’

At this point, the visiting grandmother interjected: ‘You know, that dog doesn’t need to talk, does he? Just look at him, poor thing. Do you want to go out Colin?’

Not really thanks but I’d better keep her sweet; she’s the only one with the sense to give me anything decent.

Colin goes to the back door and rears up on his back legs excitedly and the grandmother lets him out with satisfaction. He runs enthusiastically out onto the patio to a distance of six feet and comes right back.

‘I thought you wanted to go out?’

What does she expect me to do? You can’t please some people.

In all the fuss, the scraping of chairs along the ceramic tiles, doors opening and shutting and the wind gusting into the kitchen and blowing some drawings off the windowsill and onto the floor, the children had become restless and wandered off.

‘Does he still do that thing where he runs around the edge of the garden at 9.30?’; it was the mother speaking but Colin was only half listening as he could now shove the chair legs aside and was licking the floor. He had vaguely heard however, and at the back of his mind, he wondered just how many times they could have the same conversation. Yawn, yawn, yawn.

‘I don’t think he could have been a hunting dog, do you? He’d have been no good if he was frightened of bangs.’

‘I reckon that he’s a failed police dog or something. ‘

Charming.

‘You know, the way he tries to ‘arrest’ people if they chase one another. Or the fact that he doesn’t like the children playing with gun-shaped things.’

‘But he’s fitted in so well with the children, hasn’t he?’ (good old Granny)

‘I don’t suppose we’ll ever know...’

Too right.

‘Do you remember the time he dragged Liam around the garden? It was so funny.’

I actually felt sorry for him afterwards but sometimes I just can’t help myself. I’ve got no idea why that boy kept coming around; did he not have any other friends? We never see him any more. Humans are fickle.

‘Oh, he’s a good dog, aren’t you?’ (the grandmother, obviously)

‘Yes’, I raise my eyebrows and almost nod.

‘Aahh’, she pats me lightly on the head. She’s happy.

The children are long gone, trying to squeeze in some more television. The parents are about to swoop down on them and demand that they go upstairs for their bath and are collecting toys scattered around the hallway. The grandmother is scraping the leftovers into Colin’s bowl as fast as she can, saying ‘Good boy, good boy’.

As if it was any trouble. What a result.