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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Running out of things

You see the problem with humans is their tendency to fantasise and exaggerate at the expense of what’s patently obvious. They call this creativity and think that it is exclusively their domain. It’s what they do to explain things outside of their limited powers of reasoning. Frustratingly, there are few instances of non-human intervention to shatter their illusions.

Take yesterday as an example. She’d been out to meet a friend in the evening. Naturally, I’ve no objections to that but it did mean that I didn’t get my after-dinner walk. But I digress. Anyway, what was she talking about the next day? Was it interesting bits of gossip about mutual friends or tales of woe (and let’s face it, humans don’t usually pass up the chance)? No. Now, before we begin, let me ask you something else: how many times in a week does she have to ‘nip out’ to the shop down the road for the odd bit of food she didn’t have the foresight to buy on the days she comes back with all those bags I’m not allowed to sniff or lick? On average, at least twice. Bear that in mind.

So here’s the story. Her friend goes into her local supermarket. It’s quite a big one in the town where she lives but I shouldn’t mention it’s name even though I’ve heard it in this house about a hundred times in the last twenty-four hours. It’s Friday night and it’s busy. She sees a rat running from the lemonade to the peanuts. Alone. The rest of the tale (pardon the pun) is of little interest to me, she complained, got home and wrote a letter (another thing they think they’ve got a monopoly on). Apparently, she was outraged at the lack of horror or surprise in their response and an allusion to the fact that this was not the first time one had been spotted.

As she rightly pointed out, rats don’t really like humans very much. They tend to go about in crowds. So this lone, brave chap was obviously out on a limb, on a mission to get necessary supplies. Admittedly, one has to question what sort of emergency requires lemonade and peanuts, except perhaps a spontaneous party but who knows? You just can’t make these wild assumptions. But she did. She thinks that if a rat is willing to put himself out there in the fray of humans on a busy Friday evening, then this automatically infers that when the shop closes, it must be teeming with their extended family and friends. Not so. I don’t think I would be overstepping the mark to say that humans don’t really like each other when in shops - never mind rats – judging by the way she goes on when she gets back with the bags. This dislike also extends to the car park but that’s another story. A long one. Anyway, let’s just say she sees a friend in the supermarket. She’s on her own with a trolley. Let’s also just say that it’s someone she doesn’t like very much. Inevitably, as they have little in common, they discuss the tragedy and hardships of supermarket shopping. Does she, therefore, make the assumption that once the shop’s closed, her ‘friend’ returns with her entire family and friends? No. I’m just making a point.

You see, rats work in packs, much like dogs. And they’re fairly intelligent, much like dogs. They’re also very agile, much like dogs. You spotting a pattern here? We like to work in teams. Small, close-nit, cosy teams. Not like humans. None of this ‘I’m going shopping’ lark’. There’s no ‘I’ in ‘team’. Just a select few. Not the exaggerated population she imagines in her warped view of things. She imagines hundreds running about randomly picking what takes their fancy of the shelves (like she does).

There are four wheels on a trolley. They don’t like to touch the handles; you never know what sort of humans have had their hands there. They don’t take their kids so there’s no need to pin them down. They don’t need someone to push and someone to put food in. They can do both. As I said, they’re intelligent. It only takes one trolley and four rats. To feed a family of two hundred. And as far as going when the shop’s shut, I really don’t blame them at all. But sometimes you just run out.

The Night Train

I think she’s got confused. Again. And now she’s trying to confuse me too. I think she overheard a phrase on Radio 4 whilst she was flattening the clothes and she got that distant look on her face which usually means trouble. Recently, it’s been carpet cleaning and furniture rearrangement but now I can feel her gaze falling square upon the top of my head, sitting as heavily as a bejewelled crown.

In a way, I suppose I’m partly to blame. There was the incident with Tyler the other night (stupid name for a dog), the other two black labs in the forest who jumped me when it was pouring with rain then and having to cross the road to avoid a punch-up with a staffy. The icing on the cake – if you’ll pardon the expression – may well have been the heap I deposited at the entrance to someone’s driveway whilst they sat at their full-length front window no doubt enjoying an after-dinner cup of tea and admiring the scenery. Okay, so that was a bit bad but what’s a dog to do?

So we go out at night. Night training. Etymologically, its origins are probably unrelated to how I came to be being walked in the pitch black. Night train, night training? That’s how her mind works; bizarrely. And here I am, bearing the brunt of it. I’m a black dog, apart from the distinctive marks of maturity under my chin, I’m walking in the blackness. She knows that my hearing isn’t what it used to be (as does the postman), that I can’t see very much and that the little I can see in this darkness is black and white and blurry. Now then, she’s got a pocket full of nice smelly biscuits so I’m not paying attention to following my scent along the pavement from yesterday, I’m completely disorientated. Of course I’m not going to pull on the lead, insist on going in any one particular direction or pick any fights. She thinks the training’s working. She’ll be writing a book about dog behaviour next.