You need the BAG!

He didn't go off in the car this morning. I've noticed he's like that a couple of times a week except when he's sneezing so loudly that even I can hear. She was still in bed. The problem is that he doesn't know the drill. You go out, you come in, you eat, you go out. Some things need attending to with urgency. All things must be done according to regulations.

This morning, under his care, I went out, came in, ate, went out, came in. He was still looking hopeful. Annoyed, possibly. Then she got up. There was an exchange. Now, she may have been in her dressing gown but she knows what to do. Some things are better not said. Non-verbal communication is essential to maintain one's dignity. She went to the door, picked up the new bag, followed me out and bingo! I have to say, though, that they weren't convinced by my look of confusion and excitement. I thought, well, if it's about ratios of outs to ins and eats then I might be in luck. She's looking rather smug.

Incidentally, I had a nice communication in response to yesterday's posting. All the way from Denmark:

Dear Monty. Whilst I must consider myself as a mere pup (I'm a blue roan cocker spaniel of 99) in comparison with your esteemed self, I feel that I have topped your achievement of (re-) learning to bark at 105; I waited until I became as deaf as a door post before re-embarking on the good, old-fashioned bark to ensure maximum attention (and, as you have discovered with your nice, well-trained old lady, they are now much more responsive to my needs).

My fan base is expanding. I've conquered Australasia, Scandinavia. Where next? The world is my bag of biscuits.

His Master's Voice

Now here's a puzzle for you. She thinks it's fine to start writing half way through her life but she can't get her head around the idea the I can start barking at the age of 105.

I know I used to do it until about 14 years ago but as I could hear less, I figured that there wasn't much point carrying on when I couldn't appreciate the delight of my own voice. At my age, you have to preserve you energy for more important things like smelling. Anyway, when they all bundled into the big car with all their worldly belongings to go off and collect lots of new smells over the course of a week, I went on holiday. A bit like the Ritz, really. The nice old lady, the one I've trained so well was very welcoming and obviously keen on learning more. It would be ungenerous of me not to acknowledge that this was a mutual, life-enhancing experience. Who says that you can never teach an old human new tricks?

She has a compact garden but which is rich in wildlife, perfect for recreational pursuits. I liked to spend a lot of time out there. This wasn't a problem for her as it gave her a chance to tidy my room and make my bed. Here comes the best bit. I barked to be let back in. And it didn't stop there. I barked to summon her and guess what? She came. In fact, she learned to come more quickly the more I barked which I think is jolly clever. You see, she recognised the quality of a quiet, manly, gruff, distinguished bark and its natural association with the need for attendance. It's so common when you hear dogs barking desperately, don't you think?

The by-product of this was that I exercised vocal cords I had forgotten about so I have her to thank for that. I later learned that my usual humans, having returned from their week away smelling interesting had obviously not undergone any similar training or intellectual stimulation. They're as slow as ever. In fact, I've almost given up barking again as they just don't seem capable of responding in quite the same way. The only reaction I got was one of puzzlement and confusion and I think that says it all.

What's the story?

I've just been out for my morning patrol in the front garden. She usually hobbles along behind me, stumbling blindly through the scents in her dressing gown gripping a little plastic bag. On this point, I must ask this: why does she use such small bags and why oh why are they almost see-through? Their inefficiency is compounded (the bags) by a faint whiff of small children. I use the terms 'faint' and 'see-through' loosely here as if talking from the viewpoint of my human.

Today, she was a bit more jerky than usual. Almost vigilant. Readers of old may remember me mentioning double-bagging moments, those sticky situations she tries to get herself out of by the most complicated manoeuvre imaginable involving two of her little bags and an immediate dash to wash her hands afterwards. Today, there was no messing. She noticed last night's message I left for our nocturnal visitors, picked it up swiftly before moving to the other side of the lawn, same bag in hand to collect this morning's contribution. It had barely enough time for to make landfall. I was whisked indoors most unceremoniously. I will have to leave examining the new mulch in the flowerbeds until later. Perhaps when she's left the door open. She's certainly preoccupied so there are no worries there. So what is it? Is it what I said yesterday? I don't think so. I've noticed her hovering around one of the noisy human's bedroom doors (you know, one of those who has shot up from small to big over the last few years). She almost knocks but then doesn't. Come to think about it, he was a bit funny yesterday too. Something is definitely afoot. I sense anticipation. What can it be?

Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed

One of my humans' many shortcomings is that they have a very narrow outlook on life. When was the last time you saw your own one following a scent on the ground? They miss all the most interesting clues.

I attribute this partially to their slowness to wake up. I am awake long before I show any outward signs to them. This has its pitfalls too. I'm fed up with being kicked and prodded and having my pulse felt. Eventually, I have to raise an eyebrow just so they'll stop it. But when I do get up, albeit more slowly than I used to, I am raring to go.

You should see her in the mornings. Listen, I'm a dog and even I wouldn't go out in the front garden looking like that. I don't do dressing gowns. No one with any sense does. You're either up or your down. What's with this in-between stage? I'll tell you. It's the bit when the best information is out there. Opportunities. The chance to track a good, strong and fresh smell. When they do have all their faculties at their disposal, they're so preoccupied with their own smells, smothering them with stuff from cans and bottles that they miss the whole lot. A human tragedy.

Abandoned Dogs

I'm a bit hurt. Wounded, in fact. She and a whole load of other humans have been going around twitching, talking about red noses, the spring weather, the great spotted woodpecker and I just haven't had a look-in. She's been neglecting me and I've had no chance whatsoever to do any writing. But she's gone off to get dressed at last and has left the laptop on. It's a bit fiddly for my paws though, I have to say, because it's a new one and very small. I think I preferred it when she used His all the time. Anyway, let's not waste time talking about that.

The Spring Equinox approaches and I think She's into a new phase of cleaning. I say this because the other day, I was bathed. In a bath. Yes, THEIR bath. This is because apparently, until the loft conversion gets done (whatever that is), we only have one bathroom and no shower cubicle unlike the last place where there were two. So I was bathed by two ladies. Slightly undignified getting in and out. She even compared the process to lifting an old-fashioned television where the heaviest part is at the front (and I am not saying anything so rude about her) and they each man-handled me in and out by taking one end each. And then, then she said that the water wasn't as dirty as she expected it to be. I mean, how dare she? Obviously, I haven't had so much chance to season my coat with the fragrances of the land like I used to because they don't let me out on my own anymore. I was just a sitting duck for the jugs of water they kept pouring over my ears which haven't felt the same since. This is what happens when you get old. It is SO undignified. What happened to me? What they need is to put up a gate, something to keep me in, let me out to run around safely so that I can add some colour to the sterile water.

Oh, and another thing, I witnessed something very disturbing the other day, something I hope had no symbolic significance. The small humans were tearing up a picture into hundreds of tiny pieces. And the picture? It was a picture of a black wolf, a mythical creature with red eyes which had, by all accounts, been giving them nightmares. I keep telling myself. It was a picture and it was nothing to do with me, nothing more than, say, Little Red Riding Hood or Peter and the Wolf ..... did anyone else hear that quacking?

In the spirit of sharing

I forgot to mention something funny last night. Whilst I was wittering on about caring and sharing (of flapjacks) and not feeling guilty about it because I'm a dog and a male dog at that, I should have told you what I noticed amongst the papers in her bag.

It appears that they some sort of free writing exercise which is basically and excuse for writing any old rubbish (I would never stoop to such levels) and I couldn't resist reading it. Had I not been so rudely interrupted by the traitor who dares to call himself male and whipped the remaining flapjack away from my chops, the mirth at his depiction as a seagull in the piece of writing would have resonated far longer. So, in the spirit of sharing once more (never let it be said that I am less than generous) and perhaps a little revenge which they say is sweet although perhaps not so much so as the flapjack may have been had I continued to eat it, this is what I found:

The white house looms lovingly over the path through the dunes; it seems to have grown out of the sand just as the tufts of long grass edging the path have done. I check that I have drawn the curtains back. Yes. The window is shut and I notice a strand of clematis has been trapped in the sash. The front door is powder blue and the sky today is similar but slightly more vivid; a calm day, I think. When I return, I must remember to throw open the windows and get some air into the place. I love the stripped floorboards, the dark furniture and ginghams but you have to breathe some extra life into them from time to time. I will make cakes, iced and topped with cherries, line them up on cooling racks. A blue and white teapot ready to receive guests will complete the picture. I am looking forward to all that.

The boat has now steadied from welcoming my weight into its hull. The waves today are more like ripples in a pond. They are almost silent, just making a feint trickling sound. The boats sides hug the outsides of my thighs and there is a rhythm to the creaking as I row over to the island. There is a seagull on the shore and I reach into my satchel. Inside, I have some crusts of bread left over from this morning's toast. The seagull must have known I was coming. As I approach the shingle and the boat starts to rock with my movement, I take a deep breath. The lapping ripples cover the seagull's ankles as he rushes to greet me. Do seagulls have ankles? I wonder. Never mind; my seagull has no such concerns. He lives for my visits. I think I catch a smile at the corners of his beak. I throw him his crust.

The path on this island is less well trodden than the one from the house and the blades of grass feel a little sharp as they brush against my calves. It won't be long before I'm there. I put my hand into my pocket, checking for my phone. I take off my watch. When I get to the spot, I lay my watch down, check that I have a signal and lie back. I may write. I may sleep. The seagull has followed me, is peering at the over a mound of grass. He is hopeful of course, but the bread is gone and he will have to accept that it is just me here now. No bread, just me, my watch and my phone for emergencies. I hope it doesn't ring.

Apparently, it was all about journeys (it seems that they weren't told this beforehand) and I see from her notes and her powers of self-analysis that she has decided that the seagull represents Him and the things she had to organise in order to leave the house, her reluctance to leave the mess behind and her plans to put things right upon her return. So far today though, I've seen little evidence of domestic reparation and more of her tapping away on the laptop. She's possessed.

A Guilt-free Treat

There are only so many ways you can show someone you care. I've tried bounding up to them. I've tried sniffing their bottoms, their crotches, hands (especially those who don't run them under water), the backs of knees and bare toes. I've tried beating them with my tail, a glancing shove as I squeeze past them in the hallway or panting hard from behind. I've tried dribbling with my tongue hanging down – and a most impressive length it is too – I've cleared my throat of spit, chewed what's come up in the process, wiped my chin on their skirts (an effective tool with the Old Lady), I've even tried farting and if I look surprised then it's all the more poignant. I've tossed my bedding aside, ripped holes in my best blanket and delivered odd shoes here and there but to no avail. They still think I'm going out of my way to be annoying. And do you know what? I'll let you into a little secret: sometimes, just sometimes, I am. Sometimes, I get great pleasure out of waiting until they're about to leave the house, rushing from the kitchen to the living room in search of their keys (why are humans so dumb when it comes to getting in and out of houses?) or missing shoes, their coat or iPod before doing a bit of shadowing. Shadowing? It's a technique I've perfected. You have to have lightning reflexes. But that's not the clever bit. To be quick on your feet and to look old and doddery is an art form. You see, get that right and in no time, they'll be piling feelings of guilt onto themselves at the same rate that those older young humans do when they're trying to make their fur stand up.

Female humans seem to be good at guilt. That much I've noticed. Me? I eat, sleep and walk. She runs here and there, raising her voice to call them to heel, even at me which is silly seeing as how I'm deaf but I get the gist of it just the same. Guilt drives Her. I am driven by Bakers Complete and the art of compromise or lets call it being plain realistic. I know that it's not top-notch grub but it's my bread and butter and that much I've learned to accept. In between my meals, which, I must say have been ill-timed of late, I have managed to grab the odd snack. One has to be resourceful, especially in the current climate. And yes, it adds to Her stress but I can't be responsible for everything happening in this house. And no, I don't feel guilty. Take today as an example. I've been tossed aside, left alone and ignored, the Old Lady hasn't popped in with any kind words or crusts and She went off to do something called study. As a gift, She brought me back a nut flapjack. Of course, it wasn't handed to me on a plate and the experience of discovery is always sweet. The only fly in the ointment was that He interrupted me, just as the little oat pieces and nuts were exploding deliciously on my gums and I was sent into an orgasmic orbit of oral....audacity. He had the audacity to use the word audacity and all I was doing was helping myself. He took the wrapper away before I'd finished it. Bastard.

So there she was feeling guilty about abandoning me for the day, coming back to tease me with a special concealed treat. I obliged by consuming the said treat and He whips it away without any guilt whatsoever. That puts him in the same kennel as me, doesn't it? If I'm honest, I don't think that us dogs and male humans will ever completely work out the female of the species but we should go through the motions of showing we care. Bottom sniffing aside, it's a precarious balance to negotiate.

Missing Me?

It's been a tough time: walk, sleep, walk, sleep, walk, sleep. The next thing will be that I'll be sleepwalking along the road. He keeps walking me. Never heard the expression 'let sleeping dogs lie?' Obviously not. These weirdos won't let me wander around the new garden. Okay, so I wanted to meet the neighbours. One of them's called Monty too and guess what? He's not a dog. I think that the real reason they won't let me loose out there is more to do with the neighbour and less to do with me urinating on the sprouts and leeks (I think there's something metaphorical going on there), He's just scared. Imagine, 'Monty! In! Now!' doesn't sound too good when addressed to a fellow-never-met-before-or-so-much-as-sniffed-each-other's-bottoms kind of person, does it? And so we walk. Mind you, revenge is sweet. Bearing in mind that he has to pick up after me, where's the most inconvenient place you can think of? Yep, the road itself. In little piles. Lined up like those mole things do on the grass verges. The downside to this is that now we walk even more briskly across the roads and it's not because he can see a car coming.

A Job Well Done

Pierre's kind comment yesterday reminded me of a strange occurrence the other day. He is obviously a man who says exactly what he thinks with no messing around leaving room for ambiguity or doubt. Now that's the sort of human I like. Very different from our new postman. Since we've moved here, I've been getting loads more walks and it's been the male human who's been taking me which is very strange. I'd like to think that it's for my benefit but I think that really, they don't want me to soil their precious garden but that's fair enough. So there we were, making pawprints in the frost on the pavement, he had the bag at the ready in his pocket and I stopped to do my business. The postman came steaming down the driveway of a house on his bicycle and greeted my human with 'It's a fresh one, isn't it?' Now, my human answered 'Yes, it is' but he was smirking all the way home. I don't think that he really knew what the postman was talking about but he obviously appreciated the exchange just the same. And they say that dogs are weird when they greet each other. Some things are better left unsaid.