Kathryn has asked me to say a few words in response to Sarah’s prompt for today. She knows it’s a subject close to my heart and indeed, one on which I am most knowledgeable. At least compared to her. I once heard that an expert can be defined by the dog in the room who knows more than those around him. On that premise, I shall oblige and share with you my innermost thoughts. In reverse order, they are:
Number 6
Holidays. As you may remember, I quite enjoy these because there are two options. Firstly, I may stay at home and be pampered by the old lady or secondly, I spend time at that hotel where they select a female to keep me company. It’s simple; if we don’t hit it off, they bring in another and so on until they think they have found the perfect match. It’s a bit like speed dating really and although it’s hard to wrench myself away from the first one I meet, variety is the spice of life. A very spicy time I usually have too.
Number 5
Curtains. It’s curious, really; more of an un-separation. They install enormous floor to ceiling windows so that they can see out into the garden from all the downstairs rooms. Next, they install a dog to warn off predators and then when the said dog goes off in response to intrusion on his or her patch, they come storming down the stairs and close all the curtains as if they want to pretend that the windows aren’t there at all. Moreover, no one ever specified what I should bark at. Neither did they say I couldn’t wipe my mouth on the bits of hanging material.
Number 4
Food. Another un-separation, I’m afraid. Christmas was a prime example. Turkey, gravy, stuffing, potatoes, sprouts, carrots, bread sauce and trifle. On one plate. Mixed up with extra custard and some pre-chewed bits of crispy bacon. Of course, I don’t complain but you can see what I have to contend with.
Number 3
Children. They should be separated from the larger humans when there is food around. They are far more reasonable and if you’re prepared to accept a little treat that’s been pre-owned and pre-slobbered over, you’re onto a winner. Sometimes it’s by accident, sometimes not although I have to say that those morsels that are surrupticiously slipped under the table are usually the least tasty. Basically, if it’s really good, they’re not going to give it away easily and you might need to instigate an accident in order to liberate the item from the child’s sticky grasp.
Number 2
Wildlife. Well, what I mean is wildlife outside versus wild life indoors. I’ve got it worked out but I don’t think they have. They are given to vast generalisations about animals and imagine that every wild creature they come across is somehow the same as me but without the luxuries. Wrong. Firstly, I’m here because we made a deal. They pay me with food for the privilege of my presence, both aromatically and visually. Secondly, I am from very fine breeding unlike humans who breed wildly without discrimination.
Number 1
Chocolates. Humans say that chocolates are bad for dogs. Hasn’t anyone every told them that they’re bad for humans? Yes, I suppose so but if they slip the odd box of chocolates into their diets, are they vilified for doing so? No. Hypocritical, that’s what it is. Being able to separate the idea of healthy living with living healthily is beyond them. Why it has to be beyond me I don’t know. I have to be content with ripping up the paper with pictures of chocolates – yes, pictures - they left lying around. You should have seen the panic on her face when she saw the debris. As if I would eat their chocolates. As if.
Wednesday 25 June 2008
Tuesday 24 June 2008
Crazy Hair Days
Do you remember how last week I told how her fur was the same colour as mine? Well it's not now. And long may it stay that way. At least whilst she's got those funny shades in it. I'm kind of worried. Worried that she might want to do the same to me. First of all, she smells really rough, like bad eggs. Even I wouldn't eat bad eggs. Secondly, it sticks out all over the place. I bet it cost her a bit, too.
I've seen pictures in some dog books of poodles with weird furdos but I've never met one in real life. I don't think they're the sort of dog you'd meet in the forest. Probably too busy getting their fur done and gossiping about the latest line in sparkly collars.
Some of them have naturally wild fur and that's OK. If you like that sort of thing. Obviously, I carry the traditional style of my breed; the distinguished, smooth, shiny look. It's somehow dignified. It's also practical which is more than I can say about her hair. I'd like to see her gallop through the stream and come out looking as attractive as I do. Might improve the smell a bit too.
I've seen pictures in some dog books of poodles with weird furdos but I've never met one in real life. I don't think they're the sort of dog you'd meet in the forest. Probably too busy getting their fur done and gossiping about the latest line in sparkly collars.
Some of them have naturally wild fur and that's OK. If you like that sort of thing. Obviously, I carry the traditional style of my breed; the distinguished, smooth, shiny look. It's somehow dignified. It's also practical which is more than I can say about her hair. I'd like to see her gallop through the stream and come out looking as attractive as I do. Might improve the smell a bit too.
Saturday 21 June 2008
Madness, I tell you, Madness!
They're burning their dinner outside again. Not unusual, you say? No but it's raining. He's under the oak tree. Perhaps he's hoping to bbq some pidgeon droppings. And then She keeps following me around with a camera. I've been here for five and a half years and she's only just realised that I don't like being photographed. Perhaps it's because she's never had a camera of her own and because it's her birthday tomorrow, she's now got one. I hope the novelty wears off. And I hope if she puts one of my pictures up here, it shows my best side. At least I've got one.
Tuesday 17 June 2008
A little snippet
I've been a busy sorting out Kathryn's novel for her so I haven't had time to blog over the last few days. Just so you don't think I've disappeared off the face of the earth altogether (not such a ridiculous assumption only a fortnight ago), I've decided to offer a little snippet of what I've been up to:
I haven’t really set the scene properly for you have I? First of all, there’s her. She has fur almost the same shade as mine but she doesn’t have the white beard. She’s quite bumpy and the lumps shift around according to what she wears. Her face is a bit shiny sometimes and sometimes, she draws black lines around her eyes or colours in her lips. She also covers her claws in different shiny shades of grey. If she walked properly with her forepaws on the ground, I reckon she would be bigger than me. Stop there. I’ve just had the most unpleasant image come to mind; I’ve noticed that gravity is unkind to humans and this shift of direction could have untold implications. Right that’s it. No more on that subject. She smells of food, mainly. Sometimes, in the morning after her shower, she smells a bit flowery, almost fruity but it doesn’t last and she rubs her fingers all over the food they’re going to eat. Her pockets are the best. She keeps biscuits in there for me.
The giant husband human has a lot of fur on his head and it sprouts out on his cheeks and chin too although every now and then it disappears and he suddenly smells excessively strong. But it’s out of a bottle, you know. Typically, humans are slaves to artifice and don’t appreciate the beauty of nature; the pads on the underside of my paws are impregnated with the sweetest aroma and ideally located for dabbing behind my ears, on my stomach or just about anywhere I can reach. It’s just there, waiting to be shared. A decent scent is not just for Christmas.
There’s a small, male human who collects woodlice and a slightly bigger female one who talks incessantly. And then there are the two bigger ones; one in the bedroom who only comes down to eat or attach himself to the television with a piece of wire and the other one who is supposed to have left but comes back to empty the freezer. Interestingly, the all have different types of fur which suggests to me that they’re a pack of mongrels.
You can see my problem; they really defy description. I suppose that actions maketh the man and some things are best left to the imagination, particularly the ones I’m thinking of so let’s press on with her story.
I haven’t really set the scene properly for you have I? First of all, there’s her. She has fur almost the same shade as mine but she doesn’t have the white beard. She’s quite bumpy and the lumps shift around according to what she wears. Her face is a bit shiny sometimes and sometimes, she draws black lines around her eyes or colours in her lips. She also covers her claws in different shiny shades of grey. If she walked properly with her forepaws on the ground, I reckon she would be bigger than me. Stop there. I’ve just had the most unpleasant image come to mind; I’ve noticed that gravity is unkind to humans and this shift of direction could have untold implications. Right that’s it. No more on that subject. She smells of food, mainly. Sometimes, in the morning after her shower, she smells a bit flowery, almost fruity but it doesn’t last and she rubs her fingers all over the food they’re going to eat. Her pockets are the best. She keeps biscuits in there for me.
The giant husband human has a lot of fur on his head and it sprouts out on his cheeks and chin too although every now and then it disappears and he suddenly smells excessively strong. But it’s out of a bottle, you know. Typically, humans are slaves to artifice and don’t appreciate the beauty of nature; the pads on the underside of my paws are impregnated with the sweetest aroma and ideally located for dabbing behind my ears, on my stomach or just about anywhere I can reach. It’s just there, waiting to be shared. A decent scent is not just for Christmas.
There’s a small, male human who collects woodlice and a slightly bigger female one who talks incessantly. And then there are the two bigger ones; one in the bedroom who only comes down to eat or attach himself to the television with a piece of wire and the other one who is supposed to have left but comes back to empty the freezer. Interestingly, the all have different types of fur which suggests to me that they’re a pack of mongrels.
You can see my problem; they really defy description. I suppose that actions maketh the man and some things are best left to the imagination, particularly the ones I’m thinking of so let’s press on with her story.
Friday 13 June 2008
Call me old
Call me old, call me old-fashioned if you like but I think that routine is important. It’s all about expectations, the rhythm of life and knowing where you stand with people. For this reason – and no other I can think of whatsoever – I enjoy continuing the long tradition of my kind; to greet people with a gift at the door.
As you know, my hearing is fading fast to the point that I am at last getting a little peace and quiet. Perhaps a little too much but have no fear, it is interrupted most brutally from time to time. And here is my dilemma. It’s a tricky balance to achieve; if I don’t wait by the door, I’ve no idea when they’ve come in and they start shouting ‘Hello Monty!’ repeatedly in my face and slapping me on the shoulders. If I do wait there, I get bashed to bits when the door opens so it’s a lose-lose situation.
I suppose that it’s nearly retirement time. For my entire life I’ve collected an array of different items for the greeting gift: shoes, slippers, a naked doll which startled a passer-by who, viewing through the open door with poor eyesight thought the worst, dirty socks, junk mail, kitchen implements, the little girl’s transitional object which I resist referring to as ‘Katie’, crumbling, abstract Lego models and an assortment of cuddly toys. It’s a generational thing, you know and I’d be the first to admit that there is a certain amount of weirdness attached to this practice. One thing I do know is that I’m not alone because I once heard her comparing notes with her friend.
I wonder if her friend’s dog has the same problems as I do: tidier uppers. How am I supposed to do my job properly when I can’t find anything? Is it any wonder I’m permanently exhausted? I bet she wouldn’t like it if, when she was about to sit down to some writing, I hid her laptop in a cupboard.
Anyway, it’s been my job for 92 years and maybe it’s time to ease off a bit. As long as She doesn’t take it as a sign that I don’t need walking anymore. Just because I can’t hear or because my eyesight is a little cloudy, doesn’t mean that I can’t I think. It doesn’t mean that I don’t hear the birds singing, the rabbits scurrying into the undergrowth and the peacocks screeching like monkeys. I can smell the honeysuckle and that tells me that all these things are out there so that I can paper the inside of my head with pictures of days gone by. I still appreciate things. I still appreciate everyone; that’s what Labradors do, we’re eager to please. I hope She understands that. I hope she understands that one day I won’t be here, looking for something to bring to her, not even in the background. There’s irony for you; you spend your whole life looking for something that isn’t there and then one day you’re not there. She’ll be sad. They all will.
Mind you, the other morning I think I offended her. She came downstairs early and sat down. Evidently, I didn’t hear her (this story has been recounted many times) and the first clue I gave as to my continuing existence in this world was when I lifted my nose into the air, followed the trail of scent (the smell) in an arc towards the sofa. Of course, I was then able to get up and look appreciative – and let’s face it, at my age, every morning you wake up is a bonus – but I think it was too late. The damage was done: either she knows I’m decrepit or I’m seen as some sort of miscreant. As I said, a lose-lose situation.
As you know, my hearing is fading fast to the point that I am at last getting a little peace and quiet. Perhaps a little too much but have no fear, it is interrupted most brutally from time to time. And here is my dilemma. It’s a tricky balance to achieve; if I don’t wait by the door, I’ve no idea when they’ve come in and they start shouting ‘Hello Monty!’ repeatedly in my face and slapping me on the shoulders. If I do wait there, I get bashed to bits when the door opens so it’s a lose-lose situation.
I suppose that it’s nearly retirement time. For my entire life I’ve collected an array of different items for the greeting gift: shoes, slippers, a naked doll which startled a passer-by who, viewing through the open door with poor eyesight thought the worst, dirty socks, junk mail, kitchen implements, the little girl’s transitional object which I resist referring to as ‘Katie’, crumbling, abstract Lego models and an assortment of cuddly toys. It’s a generational thing, you know and I’d be the first to admit that there is a certain amount of weirdness attached to this practice. One thing I do know is that I’m not alone because I once heard her comparing notes with her friend.
I wonder if her friend’s dog has the same problems as I do: tidier uppers. How am I supposed to do my job properly when I can’t find anything? Is it any wonder I’m permanently exhausted? I bet she wouldn’t like it if, when she was about to sit down to some writing, I hid her laptop in a cupboard.
Anyway, it’s been my job for 92 years and maybe it’s time to ease off a bit. As long as She doesn’t take it as a sign that I don’t need walking anymore. Just because I can’t hear or because my eyesight is a little cloudy, doesn’t mean that I can’t I think. It doesn’t mean that I don’t hear the birds singing, the rabbits scurrying into the undergrowth and the peacocks screeching like monkeys. I can smell the honeysuckle and that tells me that all these things are out there so that I can paper the inside of my head with pictures of days gone by. I still appreciate things. I still appreciate everyone; that’s what Labradors do, we’re eager to please. I hope She understands that. I hope she understands that one day I won’t be here, looking for something to bring to her, not even in the background. There’s irony for you; you spend your whole life looking for something that isn’t there and then one day you’re not there. She’ll be sad. They all will.
Mind you, the other morning I think I offended her. She came downstairs early and sat down. Evidently, I didn’t hear her (this story has been recounted many times) and the first clue I gave as to my continuing existence in this world was when I lifted my nose into the air, followed the trail of scent (the smell) in an arc towards the sofa. Of course, I was then able to get up and look appreciative – and let’s face it, at my age, every morning you wake up is a bonus – but I think it was too late. The damage was done: either she knows I’m decrepit or I’m seen as some sort of miscreant. As I said, a lose-lose situation.
Wednesday 11 June 2008
Aged Angels
You tend to think of angels as being either young or ageless so when someone told her she was angel, it went to her head. A heavenly being she is not. A picture of heavenly being she certainly isn’t. Kind person? Occasionally. Guardian and guide? Getting closer. Financial backer? Now, there’s the rub.
Along with the technologizing of the word – and lord knows there’s enough of that in the house - has come the technologizing of motherhood. The umbilical cord to her eldest child has been replaced by a broadband connection. Parents used to hear from their children a couple of times a term. She hears from hers a couple of times a day. He’ll tell her when he’s bored, ask what she’s doing, what the weather’s going to be like and can he have some money for the rail fare home? Before my hearing went, I saw an advert on television for a new service offered by the directory enquiries people where you can phone them up and ask them anything at all and they will find the answer to your question. She could do that job. Or they could do hers.
I don’t know how she’s going to cope when the next one goes. At the moment, communication can be difficult given that he’s in his bedroom most of the time, usually wearing headphones and I know for a fact that she’s sent him a message on MSN to tell him that his dinner’s ready. I suppose it all depends upon whether he engages fully with that university lifestyle you hear them raving about. After all, you can’t be sitting at the computer and the bar of the Student Union simultaneously. Or maybe you can; I don’t know, I can’t keep up.
And she can’t keep up recently either, I’ve noticed. Her knees are creakier than mine and I’m 92 (or is it 99?) so if she did grow angel wings, I’m sure it would be jolly helpful but somehow, it seems unlikely.
Along with the technologizing of the word – and lord knows there’s enough of that in the house - has come the technologizing of motherhood. The umbilical cord to her eldest child has been replaced by a broadband connection. Parents used to hear from their children a couple of times a term. She hears from hers a couple of times a day. He’ll tell her when he’s bored, ask what she’s doing, what the weather’s going to be like and can he have some money for the rail fare home? Before my hearing went, I saw an advert on television for a new service offered by the directory enquiries people where you can phone them up and ask them anything at all and they will find the answer to your question. She could do that job. Or they could do hers.
I don’t know how she’s going to cope when the next one goes. At the moment, communication can be difficult given that he’s in his bedroom most of the time, usually wearing headphones and I know for a fact that she’s sent him a message on MSN to tell him that his dinner’s ready. I suppose it all depends upon whether he engages fully with that university lifestyle you hear them raving about. After all, you can’t be sitting at the computer and the bar of the Student Union simultaneously. Or maybe you can; I don’t know, I can’t keep up.
And she can’t keep up recently either, I’ve noticed. Her knees are creakier than mine and I’m 92 (or is it 99?) so if she did grow angel wings, I’m sure it would be jolly helpful but somehow, it seems unlikely.
Tuesday 10 June 2008
Please release me
Good lord, you wouldn’t believe what’s been going on here. Here I am, convalescing, deserving of some quality time and attention in my senior years and they were dribbling over that little rat. Okay, so it wasn’t a rat as such, in fact, it was smaller. What is it with humans and baby animals?
Just as soon as I get the chance, I’m going to have a word with Marmaduke about this business seeing as he was the instigator of the whole farce. Rule one: what you get up to outside the house is up to you but don’t bring your work home. Rule two: don’t compromise your inscrutability or they’ll think you’ve lost it.
He should have a refresher course from the vicious one. He knows the score; if you bring home the wildlife, behead it or extract its intestines so that it loses its cute factor. Cute baby animals and humans are a bad, bad combination and to even think of bring home a rabbit when they’ve obviously got a soft spot for them is a preposterous idea.
I, at least, had the right idea. The poor little fellow was cowering in the bush with three humans standing over him, one of whom was clutching and berating a cat. He wasn’t going anywhere and I wasn’t going to chase him. Being brought back by the scruff of the neck and licked gently by Marmaduke – I don’t even want to know what he was doing with it but it wasn’t very cat-like - would be enough to paralyse anyone with fear. I almost felt sorry for him. At least, I did until She picked him up and decided that rather than leave him to chill out in peace, he should be rescued and imprisoned in a cage.
They spent the next two days trying to shove milk down his throat with a syringe, commenting regularly upon his bowel movements – another human trait, dropping obsession – and feeding him dandelion leaves of which the garden is now bare.
I just couldn’t grasp the logic here. What were they going to do, capture and imprison every bit of wildlife passing through the garden? I worry, you know, because maybe if I was a bit younger, this wouldn’t have happened. I know I’m slipping, a bit arthritic, deaf (although the jury’s still out on just how deaf I really am) and when I get a shout these days, my response time is a bit over the average.
They did see sense in the end and decided to release the poor fellow. Heaven knows if it was anywhere near where he came from but given the speed at which he shot away from the forest and into the path of the oncoming car and the dive bombing magpie, he’ll be back in our garden in no time. Whether he’ll be intact is another matter.
Just as soon as I get the chance, I’m going to have a word with Marmaduke about this business seeing as he was the instigator of the whole farce. Rule one: what you get up to outside the house is up to you but don’t bring your work home. Rule two: don’t compromise your inscrutability or they’ll think you’ve lost it.
He should have a refresher course from the vicious one. He knows the score; if you bring home the wildlife, behead it or extract its intestines so that it loses its cute factor. Cute baby animals and humans are a bad, bad combination and to even think of bring home a rabbit when they’ve obviously got a soft spot for them is a preposterous idea.
I, at least, had the right idea. The poor little fellow was cowering in the bush with three humans standing over him, one of whom was clutching and berating a cat. He wasn’t going anywhere and I wasn’t going to chase him. Being brought back by the scruff of the neck and licked gently by Marmaduke – I don’t even want to know what he was doing with it but it wasn’t very cat-like - would be enough to paralyse anyone with fear. I almost felt sorry for him. At least, I did until She picked him up and decided that rather than leave him to chill out in peace, he should be rescued and imprisoned in a cage.
They spent the next two days trying to shove milk down his throat with a syringe, commenting regularly upon his bowel movements – another human trait, dropping obsession – and feeding him dandelion leaves of which the garden is now bare.
I just couldn’t grasp the logic here. What were they going to do, capture and imprison every bit of wildlife passing through the garden? I worry, you know, because maybe if I was a bit younger, this wouldn’t have happened. I know I’m slipping, a bit arthritic, deaf (although the jury’s still out on just how deaf I really am) and when I get a shout these days, my response time is a bit over the average.
They did see sense in the end and decided to release the poor fellow. Heaven knows if it was anywhere near where he came from but given the speed at which he shot away from the forest and into the path of the oncoming car and the dive bombing magpie, he’ll be back in our garden in no time. Whether he’ll be intact is another matter.
Tuesday 3 June 2008
Out for the count
I once overheard a so-called expert saying that Labradors can’t count; she was arguing that I wouldn’t notice how many handfuls of biscuits I had been given at any one time. Presumably she attributed her own obesity to mathematical genius but that’s beside the point. Naturally, I said nothing to shatter her illusions and in fact, my arrival at paradise after that last hellhole where I was tied up all day compensated for the stricter regime at mealtimes. So I let her ill-judged comment pass.
But it still eats away at me. How do they think I know when it’s time to sit behind the front door? How am I supposed to know when to patrol the boundary if I can’t count? It seems that this misconception extends to vets too. Listen, I know the drill; I’ve watched the medical dramas. No one asked me to count backwards from ten. No one bothered to tell me afterwards just how many teeth they had extracted so it’s just as well I can count. Seven. Yes, seven teeth. Gone, just like that.
He went up in my estimation for a little while. She, the master of understatement and stupidity, asked ‘I wonder if he’s in a lot of pain?’ to which He replied ‘Well, I think anyone who had seven teeth out would be.’ She keeps covering me up with a blanket. Like that’s going to help. What I need is more drugs. Only thing is that this painkilling stuff is playing havoc with my eczema and chewing it is tricky to say the least. All She keeps going on about is how nice my breath is. I bet they’ll be treating my teeth like jewels having seen the huge bill. In fact, I think that my whole body will become a temple, that She might be a little more respectful and not fall over me so often now that I’ve cost them so much. He made a very tasteless joke about getting a refund if I didn’t make it so he’s just been demoted again. She’s talking about giving me a bath and washing my blankets. Because I’m worth it, of course and there’s nothing like having to count the pennies for the vet’s bill to remind them. They keep smiling at me and stroking my head. Who says money can’t buy happiness?
But it still eats away at me. How do they think I know when it’s time to sit behind the front door? How am I supposed to know when to patrol the boundary if I can’t count? It seems that this misconception extends to vets too. Listen, I know the drill; I’ve watched the medical dramas. No one asked me to count backwards from ten. No one bothered to tell me afterwards just how many teeth they had extracted so it’s just as well I can count. Seven. Yes, seven teeth. Gone, just like that.
He went up in my estimation for a little while. She, the master of understatement and stupidity, asked ‘I wonder if he’s in a lot of pain?’ to which He replied ‘Well, I think anyone who had seven teeth out would be.’ She keeps covering me up with a blanket. Like that’s going to help. What I need is more drugs. Only thing is that this painkilling stuff is playing havoc with my eczema and chewing it is tricky to say the least. All She keeps going on about is how nice my breath is. I bet they’ll be treating my teeth like jewels having seen the huge bill. In fact, I think that my whole body will become a temple, that She might be a little more respectful and not fall over me so often now that I’ve cost them so much. He made a very tasteless joke about getting a refund if I didn’t make it so he’s just been demoted again. She’s talking about giving me a bath and washing my blankets. Because I’m worth it, of course and there’s nothing like having to count the pennies for the vet’s bill to remind them. They keep smiling at me and stroking my head. Who says money can’t buy happiness?
Monday 2 June 2008
A strange day
I knew it - a nice, long walk last night no breakfast and everyone patting me. I'm not gone yet.
Sunday 1 June 2008
Going under at the vets ......
Well, my paw’s better but what a can of worms it opened! Did she tell you what happened to my paw? No, I don’t suppose she did. Probably too busy. As you may know, I’m still under the vet (metaphorically speaking) since the Cassie incident which has scuppered any chances of female company ever again. And now? Now, I’ll be banned from playing ball, having ripped my nail off, as if the indignity of wearing that bright green boot thing on my foot wasn’t enough. And then they’re on to my teeth, talking about the contents of my ears as if I can’t hear them at all and discussing my innards as if they’re the Manager’s Special on the Meat and Fish Counter at Sainsbury’s. Of course, they’re a little past their best, I’m ninety-two for goodness’ sake. They’re going to do my teeth, a chest x-ray and flush out my ears but their hushed tones don’t fool me. I know that there’ll be no breakfast tomorrow morning. I know that they’re going to ‘get some fluids into me’ and this does not sound as civilised as I would like. I even heard mention of the fact that I might stay overnight. Mind you, those nurses are quite nice, I suppose. I’ll let you know how it goes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
