Though it’s the same, it sounds different. It used to be like cymbals clanging, reverberating and twanging the hairs in my ear flaps. I understand that it’s not what most people do; most would ring the bell or open the door with a key. She does both and I really appreciate that, especially now. Of course, a while ago, I’d hear the rumble of tyres over the bricks on the driveway, the rasping ratchet of her handbrake being yanked up and the clunk of the door. There would usually be a hiatus, a silence protruding into this cacophony announcing her arrival whilst she rummaged in her pockets for the key on the koala ring. As she entered, she would simultaneously ring the doorbell to let everyone in the household know that she had arrived. By this time, I would have found the thing I was looking for, the item to be given upon the opening of the door and my official duties would begin.
I’m not sure how I came to get this job. It could be because of my past. It could be hereditary. It could be because of my ‘experience’ in my former life. If I was to describe how it is to fulfil my role, I would liken it to that of Black Rod. I act as a personal attendant, usher and doorkeeper at meetings, admission of strangers to the house and perform the task of arresting anyone guilty of contempt, disorder or disturbance of the house’s proceedings. It is a fact that Black Rod is usually appointed from the senior ranks of the armed forces so I leave you to draw your own conclusions on that one.
Anyway, this problem I’ve got with my hearing is causing mayhem. I hear the bell but it’s more like a distant sleigh-bell in a dream and the rest that has gone before is just an auditory blank. And so this morning I got a bit confused. The back legs are a bit stiff and when I stand up, it takes a while for the old circulation to get going and I can only attribute my moment of madness to this time lag between mind and body. I just about managed to get there as the door was being closed, I’d had no time to get the thing and before I knew it, I’d grabbed the hem of her dress and I’d no idea why. And because I’d no idea why and because I was so shocked and appalled at this undignified display of senility, I didn’t even let go straight away. The shame of it. No damage done, fortunately, except to my pride.
Note to self: I must remember to get the thing on the way there regardless of my lateness. Better to be late and fully equipped for the job in hand than turn up looking clueless.
Wednesday 21 May 2008
Tuesday 20 May 2008
Behind the facade
To those on the outside, our life is completely normal and sane. The only small hint of any subversion of suburban life is the slobber-encrusted, battered cat flap blemishing an otherwise well-presented house in a sought after area of the town.
Denied the opportunity to scare the wits out of passers-by to the extent I used to enjoy, I now take great pleasure in startling visitors to the front door by poking my distinguished platinum snout through the opening. Interestingly, one of the girl’s friends has had the same idea and rather than ringing the door bell when she comes, sticks her head through the cat flap and shouts. One day, this is going to lead to trouble, I know it.
In between all these comings and goings of dogs and small humans, the occasional cat slips through. Very fast. Once inside, the external facade of peace fades to the mere trace of a memory and you’re lucky if you can find a quiet corner anywhere. My favoured place in front of the French windows in the sitting room (previously the dining room that no one used and was blissfully quiet) is now taken up with their tent. This is obviously not a good thing. However, every cloud has a silver lining as they say and this particular one has an outer one made of heavy duty canvas and an inner tent with sewn-in groundsheet. See how brainwashed I’ve been? Anyway, the tent goes when they go and when they go, the old lady comes to STAY. Yay! Five days of sympathy and food. No walks – probably – but this only compounds my plight and I will be elevated to almost angelic status for the duration. Happy holidays indeed. Only five days to go and counting.
Denied the opportunity to scare the wits out of passers-by to the extent I used to enjoy, I now take great pleasure in startling visitors to the front door by poking my distinguished platinum snout through the opening. Interestingly, one of the girl’s friends has had the same idea and rather than ringing the door bell when she comes, sticks her head through the cat flap and shouts. One day, this is going to lead to trouble, I know it.
In between all these comings and goings of dogs and small humans, the occasional cat slips through. Very fast. Once inside, the external facade of peace fades to the mere trace of a memory and you’re lucky if you can find a quiet corner anywhere. My favoured place in front of the French windows in the sitting room (previously the dining room that no one used and was blissfully quiet) is now taken up with their tent. This is obviously not a good thing. However, every cloud has a silver lining as they say and this particular one has an outer one made of heavy duty canvas and an inner tent with sewn-in groundsheet. See how brainwashed I’ve been? Anyway, the tent goes when they go and when they go, the old lady comes to STAY. Yay! Five days of sympathy and food. No walks – probably – but this only compounds my plight and I will be elevated to almost angelic status for the duration. Happy holidays indeed. Only five days to go and counting.
Monday 19 May 2008
Last Orders
Right here, right now doesn’t seem to exist in this household anymore. Right now, I’m hankering after my evening stroll and they’re flicking through a camping catalogue. They’re not going for another week, for Pete’s sake.
Just tell me why this lure of the outside is so damn complicated. You want to sleep outside? Fine. Do it. Why then do you need to order a £400 tent, more bedding than you can shake a tent pole at (why not just take your lovely smelly bedding from home, I say) and spend hours debating how many saucepans to take and the variety of meals that can be cooked in just one of them.
And a compass? What’s that all about? Surely they can smell their way around wherever they’re going. Heaven knows they smell strong enough so it wouldn’t be that difficult. And torches. Torches so that they can see when they get up in the night. That’s a laugh; I’ve seen them getting up in the night and they usually have their eyes shut. That’s why I sleep half way down the stairs and not at the top otherwise I’d get kicked on a regular basis. Actually, I do get kicked on a regular basis but that’s another story. Anyway, let me tell you, if you have to go outside in the night, you soon learn to control your bladder. Especially after the last visit before bedtime when the grass is cold, wet and you go to sleep with soggy paws. In terms of being at one with nature, there is nothing more sobering than urinating outdoors late at night.
Just tell me why this lure of the outside is so damn complicated. You want to sleep outside? Fine. Do it. Why then do you need to order a £400 tent, more bedding than you can shake a tent pole at (why not just take your lovely smelly bedding from home, I say) and spend hours debating how many saucepans to take and the variety of meals that can be cooked in just one of them.
And a compass? What’s that all about? Surely they can smell their way around wherever they’re going. Heaven knows they smell strong enough so it wouldn’t be that difficult. And torches. Torches so that they can see when they get up in the night. That’s a laugh; I’ve seen them getting up in the night and they usually have their eyes shut. That’s why I sleep half way down the stairs and not at the top otherwise I’d get kicked on a regular basis. Actually, I do get kicked on a regular basis but that’s another story. Anyway, let me tell you, if you have to go outside in the night, you soon learn to control your bladder. Especially after the last visit before bedtime when the grass is cold, wet and you go to sleep with soggy paws. In terms of being at one with nature, there is nothing more sobering than urinating outdoors late at night.
Sunday 18 May 2008
Monty's List
She's making a list again. For their mad trip, I think. I was going to show it to you but quite frankly, it's as boring as it gets. Boring and long. There was only one curious thing on it and that was 'Details of Albert's place'. Who's Albert?
Anyway, I can't answer that but it did get me thinking about my own list.
I once heard that some humans have an ongoing joke about sending people they dislike to 'the island'. The concept of this island is a metaphorical one, shared amongst a specific group of individuals, perhaps within their workplace. Much can be achieved with such a scheme and it is by no means as monopolised by humans as they care to think although my own version is slightly more sophisticated. I find their methods slightly underhand, sly and cruel whereas my own are more honest and effective.
It has not gone unnoticed by Her that since that incident - and I'm sorry to bang on about it - that our relationship has been a little frosty to say the least. I'm now in Stage Two of the operation having moved from complete avoidance (Stage One)to generally shifty behaviour complemented by a certain look. This is my failsafe advice to anyone finding themselves in a sticky situation with a member of the household:
Be sitting up and comfortable
Tilt your chin downwards slightly
Hunch your shoulders a little (vulture-like)
Now stare at your target for at least five minutes without moving even on provocation
Repeat three times a day for seven days
Always finish the course
It is guaranteed that your target will be in no doubt whatsoever that they are on your list. I would say that being the biddable fellow I am, my list is generally quite short and consists mostly of dogs rather than humans. However, He has now migrated to my list along with Her. Usually She does the unspeakable things to my ears, takes me to be poked at the vets and He feeds me; on this basis there is no contest. But yesterday, He fed me as usual and then rammed the thing in my ear when I was still eating! So now I've got my work cut out and this is where the old saying that you shouldn't bite the hand that feeds you becomes particularly pertinent. Therefore, I have had to skip Stage One and zip straight to Stage Two because obviously, I cannot ignore my food source. On the other hand, if he behaves himself, I might give him a reprieve. It all depends on whether I get any scraps from that barbecue or not...
Thus, I hope to have demonstrated how much can be achieved from the sitting position. As I said, sophisticated and mellow; dignified even. Yes, that's it a dignified silence.
Anyway, I can't answer that but it did get me thinking about my own list.
I once heard that some humans have an ongoing joke about sending people they dislike to 'the island'. The concept of this island is a metaphorical one, shared amongst a specific group of individuals, perhaps within their workplace. Much can be achieved with such a scheme and it is by no means as monopolised by humans as they care to think although my own version is slightly more sophisticated. I find their methods slightly underhand, sly and cruel whereas my own are more honest and effective.
It has not gone unnoticed by Her that since that incident - and I'm sorry to bang on about it - that our relationship has been a little frosty to say the least. I'm now in Stage Two of the operation having moved from complete avoidance (Stage One)to generally shifty behaviour complemented by a certain look. This is my failsafe advice to anyone finding themselves in a sticky situation with a member of the household:
Be sitting up and comfortable
Tilt your chin downwards slightly
Hunch your shoulders a little (vulture-like)
Now stare at your target for at least five minutes without moving even on provocation
Repeat three times a day for seven days
Always finish the course
It is guaranteed that your target will be in no doubt whatsoever that they are on your list. I would say that being the biddable fellow I am, my list is generally quite short and consists mostly of dogs rather than humans. However, He has now migrated to my list along with Her. Usually She does the unspeakable things to my ears, takes me to be poked at the vets and He feeds me; on this basis there is no contest. But yesterday, He fed me as usual and then rammed the thing in my ear when I was still eating! So now I've got my work cut out and this is where the old saying that you shouldn't bite the hand that feeds you becomes particularly pertinent. Therefore, I have had to skip Stage One and zip straight to Stage Two because obviously, I cannot ignore my food source. On the other hand, if he behaves himself, I might give him a reprieve. It all depends on whether I get any scraps from that barbecue or not...
Thus, I hope to have demonstrated how much can be achieved from the sitting position. As I said, sophisticated and mellow; dignified even. Yes, that's it a dignified silence.
Thursday 15 May 2008
The lure of the outdoors
You know what’s going to happen, don’t you? The tent arrived yesterday and the barmy weather that had inspired its purchase departed.
She wants to sleep under canvas. She wants to smell the dew on the roof in the mornings, not get static shocks from those nylon tunnels which look more appropriate for growing sweaty vegetables. It’s breathability, she says. Sleeping with all the windows, even when it’s minus five outside at night, just isn’t enough anymore. How he puts up with it, I’ve no idea. He doesn’t even bark or anything, just plods off up to bed each night after he’s downed a bottle of wine and let me out for my patrol. After five-and-a-half years, I think he may be about to twig: each night he thinks I’m checking my territory, doing doggy stuff. Each night, I’m gone for a long, long time. Of course, the deafness helps and I can really go for it now after, well, you know what business I’m talking about. In fact, if it hadn’t been for that bitch, my little secret would never have been let out at all. And now it’s all spoilt.
When I first arrived, I had to do a little twist and a limbo-style manoeuvre to work my way through the hole in the hedge; this was okay then as I was a fine figure of a dog. They thought it was the foxes and who was I to disillusion them? If I did, then I’d start getting the blame for the poo on the patio and the other little ....well, let’s just leave it at that. Anyway, after that blasted Cassie made a break for it, they’ve been talking about covering the hole; they’ve even joked about me going to the pub at night whilst he’s standing calling my name (and I can’t hear him, obviously, because I’m deaf).
But now my outings are scuppered. A horrible piece of chain link fencing has covered the holes. You know, it’s only a matter of time before the foxes reopen it. In fact, when they go off on this mad trip they keep on about, I can focus my attention on the work in hand without them looking over my shoulder. The boy will be too busy killing things on the computer and the cats will be just killing things and the old lady thinks that butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth; lord knows, she’s given me enough.
She wants to sleep under canvas. She wants to smell the dew on the roof in the mornings, not get static shocks from those nylon tunnels which look more appropriate for growing sweaty vegetables. It’s breathability, she says. Sleeping with all the windows, even when it’s minus five outside at night, just isn’t enough anymore. How he puts up with it, I’ve no idea. He doesn’t even bark or anything, just plods off up to bed each night after he’s downed a bottle of wine and let me out for my patrol. After five-and-a-half years, I think he may be about to twig: each night he thinks I’m checking my territory, doing doggy stuff. Each night, I’m gone for a long, long time. Of course, the deafness helps and I can really go for it now after, well, you know what business I’m talking about. In fact, if it hadn’t been for that bitch, my little secret would never have been let out at all. And now it’s all spoilt.
When I first arrived, I had to do a little twist and a limbo-style manoeuvre to work my way through the hole in the hedge; this was okay then as I was a fine figure of a dog. They thought it was the foxes and who was I to disillusion them? If I did, then I’d start getting the blame for the poo on the patio and the other little ....well, let’s just leave it at that. Anyway, after that blasted Cassie made a break for it, they’ve been talking about covering the hole; they’ve even joked about me going to the pub at night whilst he’s standing calling my name (and I can’t hear him, obviously, because I’m deaf).
But now my outings are scuppered. A horrible piece of chain link fencing has covered the holes. You know, it’s only a matter of time before the foxes reopen it. In fact, when they go off on this mad trip they keep on about, I can focus my attention on the work in hand without them looking over my shoulder. The boy will be too busy killing things on the computer and the cats will be just killing things and the old lady thinks that butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth; lord knows, she’s given me enough.
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