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November 2011
I’ve had no end of
complaints about neglecting my blogs, but the truth is, so much has gone
on this summer and autumn that I haven’t had a second. First, there
was Bluebell’s departure to Rainbow Bridge, and her funeral at the
Patch, which sent everyone into a state of severe gloom for weeks – OK,
I know she bossed me around and used to say some dreadful things to me,
and in her last year the world went round her to the total exclusion and
neglect of all us other dogs, but, like a sick headache, you missed her
a lot when she’d gone.
Then there was Tom
Barnaby (Detective Chief Inspector, Rtd). I really didn’t think much
of him at all when he arrived, especially as he got his home under false
pretences – i.e. he should have only been with us for a week while his
kennel at Fen Bank was getting a new floor – but these kinds of
underhand things seem to happen all the time and there’s little you can
do about them.
However, as you got to
know him, he turned out to be quite a pleasant bloke; unlike Mr Paddy,
he’s always ready for some fun and a whizz round the Patch with me – Mr
P is a loner, and that can be very boring. Mr Tom’s a bit fond of the
sound of his own voice, but if that gets our meals quicker, it’s not
always a bad thing. I made him come with me to the Blood Donor
sessions; the first time he was all tense and stressed and the nurses
said if he was like that the next time, he couldn’t donate any more, but
last time he was OK, so now we’ve both got red medals and bandanas and
we make a very fine pair. He can be a bit snappy if I go near him when
he’s eating, but I ignore it and push him out of his bowl anyway, and he
just shrugs his shoulders and walks away, so he’s already got the
message as to who’s the boss of the household (in your dreams, Mr M –
Ed).
Mr Tom and I were
invited to a sleepover last month at Sapphire’s place near
Peterborough. Sapphie’s a great girl, and quite a looker in a brindled
sort of way, but Milo, that Jack Russell she lives with, is a right
pain. He came to see us just before the sleepover and, would you
believe it – he went for a swim in our pond! The pond’s hardly big
enough for fish, let alone a Jack Russell, and in it he looked like a
big white joint of meat swimming in watery gravy in a pie dish, waiting
for the oven. I told him if Daff saw him, she’d hold him under till
the bubbles stopped coming; he casually pulled up a load of bog plants
from round the edge and strolled off to wreak havoc elsewhere. Now, if
we’d done that, we’d have been candidates for rehoming. If it
happens again, I doubt he’ll get off as lightly. I looked round at his
place for a similar pond to modify, but there wasn’t one. Tom said not
to make waves as we were guests, but I’d love to have made a great big
hole in their lawn – we were never alone long enough for me to make a
start, though.
No sooner had we got
Bluebell dispatched, the Old Girl (Sally – Ed) started to go
downhill. First, we thought she was going gaga, cos she just lay in
her bed and stared into space all day; she couldn’t even be bothered to
eat, which is a cardinal sin in our house. Then she lost loads of
weight and from being a roly poly dog she turned into something like you
see in the RSPCA adverts. Anyway, to cut a long story short, it turned
out she had leukaemia. However, with white sweeties and brown sweeties
she’s a whole lot better; the specialist said she should have fifty per
cent more food than normal (huh!) and so she’s packing on the pounds
again. She clears the whole bowl, every time, and never saves any for
the rest of us, which I consider is really mean of her. Problem is
now, like a lot of old ladies, she’s started wetting her knickers when
she’s asleep and her backside is permanently yellow. Uncle Alan Vet’s
put her onto some syrup stuff which has made her a bit better, but in my
opinion she should certainly consider Tena Pants. Nobody asks my
opinion, though.
I was quite tired
after organising the dog show, so I was glad when John and Daff decided
to have a week away at Fineshade Woods before the winter – the place
where they got lost last year. This time we made sure they stuck to
proper routes and there were no serious incidents; Mr P, Sally and I had
a little adventure of our own while we were there, but I’ll tell you
about that another time. There are craft units at Top Lodge and we
met two charming ladies who helped their grown-ups to run them; a
lovely, sandy coloured girl, and a black one who’d had an argument with
a tree the previous week and had apparently opened herself up like a can
of Butcher’s Tripe and Chicken (my favourite, incidentally). By the
time we’d got to meet her, she’d been repaired after a fashion, but she
looked more like the results of a post mortem; she was also wearing a
silly knitted coat of many colours with legs in it, but I suppose she
would be feeling the cold as the vet had done a good job of turning her
into a Skinhead, or I suppose in her case it would be a Skinbody.
And talking of sandy
girls, you never know when Deep Joy is going to strike. We’d just got
home and I was looking forward to a long winter on the settee in front
of the fire when Daff got an e-mail from Auntie Sandra. Guess what –
she’d only heard from Sandy, or at least his grown-ups. And
Sandy has only got my picture near my bed. There were also
photographs; Daff told Auntie Sandra she wasn’t sure whether she’d show
me these as she thought it would only upset me, but Auntie Sandra
thought it would be OK – how does she know the feelings of a poor
crippled boy like me, I ask myself? I got some printed off, and I’ve
stuck them on the chest of drawers in our bedroom (we three boys have
our own room together; Smelly Sally and Discit sleep with John and
Daff). My heart hasn’t slowed down since Sandra’s e-mail came.
In a way, I was rather
disappointed, as ever since Sandy found a home I’d secretly hoped she
wouldn’t settle and would eventually be back at Fen Bank – I was sure
John would let her come here this time as we were six doggies for a
short time in the summer when Mr Tom arrived and dear old Bluebell was
still with us and there were no overcrowding problems then. However,
reading the e-mail, there’s no chance of this, so now I have to find
ways of getting together with her again. With the Christmas Party
coming up, surely her dad and mum could be persuaded to bring her? If
so, I promise – faithfully – not to swear at Peter Bryan, however much
he gets up my nose, and that’s a big promise, believe you me.
Oh, and Sandy, get the
grown-ups to buy a 2012 calendar and have a good look at that handsome
February fellow – how’s that for a dishy Calendar Boy?
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