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.
Sunday, 18 May 2008
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.
Thursday, 24 April 2008
Reverse thrust
I think you'd call it a rush job. An after dinner sprint because she's had one too many chocolate biscuits from which she never drops any crumbs. As we crossed the road, she told me that she fancied a change, that we were going to try something new.
Do I get to see camels crossing the desert? No. Do I get to feel the sweet breath of Niagara Falls dampening my coat? No. Do I get to cock my leg on the Giant Redwoods in Yosemite? No. Her idea of a change is to walk exactly the same route, in reverse and faster. When I say in reverse, I don't mean that we walked backwards because that would be plain stupid (for all I know that could even be next) but we went anticlockwise instead of clockwise. Just how is this different? Any fool dog can tell that it's exactly the same pavement but that the little shrubs bordering people's gardens that she always yanks me back from, the lamp post with the 'No Fouling' sign and that rusty patch on the post box all come in the opposite order. The situation was further complicated by the velocity of her gait and it became like watching my life being rewound at high speed.
Now the consequence of all this reversal business is a difficulty in the execution of my business, the target area usually being within the last third of our walk. I strongly suspect that her hidden agenda for this reverse thrust was to avoid the embarrassment of bending down in the same area yet again to clean up after me. Little did she know. A rush job, I think you'd call it.
Do I get to see camels crossing the desert? No. Do I get to feel the sweet breath of Niagara Falls dampening my coat? No. Do I get to cock my leg on the Giant Redwoods in Yosemite? No. Her idea of a change is to walk exactly the same route, in reverse and faster. When I say in reverse, I don't mean that we walked backwards because that would be plain stupid (for all I know that could even be next) but we went anticlockwise instead of clockwise. Just how is this different? Any fool dog can tell that it's exactly the same pavement but that the little shrubs bordering people's gardens that she always yanks me back from, the lamp post with the 'No Fouling' sign and that rusty patch on the post box all come in the opposite order. The situation was further complicated by the velocity of her gait and it became like watching my life being rewound at high speed.
Now the consequence of all this reversal business is a difficulty in the execution of my business, the target area usually being within the last third of our walk. I strongly suspect that her hidden agenda for this reverse thrust was to avoid the embarrassment of bending down in the same area yet again to clean up after me. Little did she know. A rush job, I think you'd call it.
Wednesday, 23 April 2008
Picking up the pieces
They're at it again. Moving furniture around. Now, the only good thing that came out of that wretched bitch incident is that they put a nice, smelly duvet on the floor in what I've heard them referring to as the 'sitting room'. This is the same room which was previously known as the dining room. I think it's terribly rude of them to impose a change of use without consultation with me given that I was the only one who ever used it before. I'd just got it so that my aroma permeated every surface and now she's in there dusting and spraying stuff all over the place.
I've seen her looking at the duvet. That's why I'm not moving or leaving her alone in the room with it. After all, they've got two 'sitting rooms' now so why shouldn't I have two beds? Especially as my privacy has been compromised, not to mention the compensation I deserve for last week's debacle.
Anyway, as us dogs say little morsels of mirth come the way of those who wait nicely. The other day, she took me tantalisingly close to the forest. Not in it. Just next to it. We walked along the grass but every time I sniffed at the rabbit tracks leading into the undergrowth, she yanked me back. Quite cunningly, I managed to leave a little deposit. Actually, that's not strictly accurate; it was neither little, nor singular. You see, I've perfected the art of widespread distribution as this maximises the chances of her losing her grip on the bag and sticking her fingers right into it. Regular readers of my blog may remember my previous successes on this front but on this particular occasion, I reached new heights. I managed to do it in the same place as some other fellow who obviously had a less conscientious owner. The consequence of this was that she got confused over whose was who's. Only temporarily though. It became clear to her that she was picking up another dog's deposit for two reasons: firstly, she had stuck her finger in it and secondly, it was cold. That'll teach her.
I've seen her looking at the duvet. That's why I'm not moving or leaving her alone in the room with it. After all, they've got two 'sitting rooms' now so why shouldn't I have two beds? Especially as my privacy has been compromised, not to mention the compensation I deserve for last week's debacle.
Anyway, as us dogs say little morsels of mirth come the way of those who wait nicely. The other day, she took me tantalisingly close to the forest. Not in it. Just next to it. We walked along the grass but every time I sniffed at the rabbit tracks leading into the undergrowth, she yanked me back. Quite cunningly, I managed to leave a little deposit. Actually, that's not strictly accurate; it was neither little, nor singular. You see, I've perfected the art of widespread distribution as this maximises the chances of her losing her grip on the bag and sticking her fingers right into it. Regular readers of my blog may remember my previous successes on this front but on this particular occasion, I reached new heights. I managed to do it in the same place as some other fellow who obviously had a less conscientious owner. The consequence of this was that she got confused over whose was who's. Only temporarily though. It became clear to her that she was picking up another dog's deposit for two reasons: firstly, she had stuck her finger in it and secondly, it was cold. That'll teach her.
Saturday, 19 April 2008
You may have been wondering where I've been over the last couple of days, why I haven't written. The answer is that I haven't been anywhere at all. Not for a walk, anyway so I've nothing very interesting to write about. So I'm going to take the opportunity to have a moan. Now, I know you are probably thinking that this is totally out of character but sometimes things get quite intolerable and just have to be aired.
Firstly, there is the lack of the walk. This is totally unacceptable. Being too tired or busy is no excuse whatsoever. I hope she makes up for it this afternoon or I'll have to consider action.
Secondly, there was the visit to the vet. What was the point of that? It is very poor manners indeed to talk about someone as if they're not in the same room. It is even worse to poke around in their mouth, discuss their temperament and dental hygiene and not expect to be bitten. I hardly know him. Although, I do remember him, at least, which is more than could be said of the vet. I don't have to read my notes to remember that he sent me off on a jolly day out to see that nice lady at the dog hospital who did very expensive impressions of my condition. It was a fabulous place with carpets in reception but even better, they took me out to some lovely fields to see if they could get me to clear my throat like I do at home. It was worth every penny they spent on that trip just to see the man being made to run up and down the hill, having his recall tested by the nice lady whilst I jogged alongside him. Of course, I was fine but I think he needed a rest afterwards.
Anyway, the vet, having now remembered everything perfectly, was discussing whether I need an operation or not. And so she brought up the subject of my mouth and then the vet did an impression although not as good as the lady at the other place. He said it could be a rotten tooth. On his advice, she now keeps peering at me when I'm eating which is a bit off-putting as you can imagine. What she should be doing is peering at that miserable stripy cat instead; try putting him off what he was doing in the night last night. Jumped right over me with some creature in his mouth, tortured it for a while and then sat crunching it up loudly outside their bedroom door. Disgusting. The whole lot of them.
Firstly, there is the lack of the walk. This is totally unacceptable. Being too tired or busy is no excuse whatsoever. I hope she makes up for it this afternoon or I'll have to consider action.
Secondly, there was the visit to the vet. What was the point of that? It is very poor manners indeed to talk about someone as if they're not in the same room. It is even worse to poke around in their mouth, discuss their temperament and dental hygiene and not expect to be bitten. I hardly know him. Although, I do remember him, at least, which is more than could be said of the vet. I don't have to read my notes to remember that he sent me off on a jolly day out to see that nice lady at the dog hospital who did very expensive impressions of my condition. It was a fabulous place with carpets in reception but even better, they took me out to some lovely fields to see if they could get me to clear my throat like I do at home. It was worth every penny they spent on that trip just to see the man being made to run up and down the hill, having his recall tested by the nice lady whilst I jogged alongside him. Of course, I was fine but I think he needed a rest afterwards.
Anyway, the vet, having now remembered everything perfectly, was discussing whether I need an operation or not. And so she brought up the subject of my mouth and then the vet did an impression although not as good as the lady at the other place. He said it could be a rotten tooth. On his advice, she now keeps peering at me when I'm eating which is a bit off-putting as you can imagine. What she should be doing is peering at that miserable stripy cat instead; try putting him off what he was doing in the night last night. Jumped right over me with some creature in his mouth, tortured it for a while and then sat crunching it up loudly outside their bedroom door. Disgusting. The whole lot of them.
Thursday, 17 April 2008
The story behind the scar
The story behind the scar will stay in my head long after my fur’s grown back. It will be documented in my medical notes at the vets and no doubt be fodder for dinner party gossip long after I’m gone. The main thing is that it’s over now and I think that she’s seen the error of her ways. I’m still not going to look at her, even though she keeps looking at me. Good. I hope she feels really guilty. The only thing is, I’m not sure if I can carry off this deaf thing any more. Now, I know I’m a pretty tough, handsome, intelligent and all that but I have to admit that these past few days have taken their toll on me. Naturally, my pride is wounded and the visible scars on my forehead do nothing to make me feel better about things. I believe that being beaten up by a woman is even unacceptable for humans so they should have at least some idea of how I’m feeling. And then there’s the other issue of Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. You see, how it works is that you’re going about your business, cocking your leg, sniffing lampposts and rat holes one day, quite happily. The next minute, something like this happens and the little green light in your head which tells you that it’s OK is suddenly stuck on red. You can’t go around thinking that bad things only ever happen to other dogs when it’s already happened to you. A bit like an eternal bonfire night but without the camaraderie of the cats . So I’m jumpy. A car horn, a voice from behind, a car door slamming. Suddenly, she notices that I’m hearing things. This is bad news for me long term because I’d been working on my selective hearing technique and had been making real progress. So I’ll keep not looking at her, making her feel bad and hope that she forgets my little slip-ups on the hearing front.
Tuesday, 15 April 2008
I'm throwing away all the mirrors in the house
My looks are ruined. I was a handsome, upright, distinguished specimen of the Labrador breed with a certain standing in the neighbourhood and now look at me. People have come to expect my face sticking out of the cat flap in the front door as they pass by. Not now. My eyes are watering just thinking about doing it. My head’s bald, I look like I’ve got a golf ball in my cheek and the wounds from that blessed bitch are on display for all to see, encrusted with dried blood in that annoying shade of grey that us dogs hate. Before they went off, he’d made a joke about changing his T shirt from the one with the nice dribbles down the front to a red one.
‘It’s not a bull we’re going to pick up, is it?’ he asked her. I ask you. If that’s not an omen then I don’t know what is.
‘No, it’s a dog and they’re colour blind.’
‘But it might be a really annoying shade of grey’.
‘Ha. Don’t be silly’. I rest my case.
I’m not going to go over the ins and outs of what happened, you can read her blog if you fancy being really bored (at least that much hasn’t changed). All I can say is that I thought I was a gonner and if it hadn’t been for the bigger boy, I would have been. Worse still, the old lady came off worst of all and she’s my most exciting food source. Got to rest now, these drugs they’ve given me make me feel good but I just want to sleep. Some beauty sleep.
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