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.
Tuesday, 10 June 2008
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.
Wednesday, 21 May 2008
Black Rod Dog
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.
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.
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.
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