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.