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June 2011
You will recall that
almost a year ago I invited Sandy to share my home and my bed, only to
be told by John that we were overcrowded already and there was no room
for another dog. Well, you’re not going to believe it, but in spite of
breaking my heart, John and Daff have allowed another in, so now we are
six, and this latest interloper is a bloke!
It wasn’t unexpected,
cos Daff explained to us that this guy – called Barnaby - was only
coming for a week while his Fen Bank kennel was being renovated, and I
thought, I suppose we can put up with anything for a week. But when he
arrived, he was so full of himself that I took an instant dislike to
him.
For a start, he looks
very much like Bluebell the Terrible, only bigger, and I reckoned he
might take his cue from her and pick on me all the time. The best form
of defence being attack, I got my bit in first by having a little
grumble at him, but this only resulted in his muzzle being removed from
him and put on me. Me – I ask you! I was made to wear the
wretched thing for a whole half day, and this entirely prevented me from
cleaning up any fallen morsels from the kitchen floor, so I shut up. And
it was only for a week, after all.
I can’t believe John
and Daff are so gullible. I kept hearing remarks like, “Hasn’t he
settled well, considering he’s never lived in a home before?” and
“Hasn’t he got a sunny nature; he’s such a happy chap!”, and my Wagg
Worker would rise in my gullet. Yuk!
The first morning he
was here, he’d obviously forgotten he was in a home, cos he started his
dawn chorus at five-thirty. Mr Paddy said, I know that tune, and set
up a descant, and this magnum opus went on for ages, until we all
shouted at them and it stopped for an hour, when he tuned up again. In
some respects it wasn’t a bad thing, cos it got the grown-ups out of bed
and we got our breakfasts earlier.
It was about this time
that John and Daff discovered that Mr B was was probably the worst thief
they had ever met (not counting the late lamented Mr Carlton, whose
thieving was somewhat justified, apparently, cos he’d been living rough
for about four months before he moved in chez John and Daff). I had a
secret smile to myself, as I could have told them he was no angel, but
they’d been completely taken in by his cheerful demeanour.
He started on loaves
of bread (wholemeal, sliced, wrapped), but by the middle of the week he
had worked his way illegally through half a pound of maple-cured bacon,
a kilo of best pork medallions, four slices of toast, a chicken carcass
and a bowl of mixed strawberries and raspberries (home grown, too) and
cream. By the Thursday we had the tidiest kitchen in the village.
Not one of us would have dared to do the same, but all we heard was,
poor chap, he’s not used to domestic life and –unbelievably – he’s so
happy here, he’ll hate it when he goes back to his kennel. Oh, yuk,
yuk, YUK!
It was quite obvious
by this time that he was never going to leave, whatever sins he
committed. Admittedly, there are good things about having him here, like
he’s a boy, which evens out the boy-girl numbers in our household
(unless you count Gordon the Cat, that is, who’s a great mate of mine,
but lives a totally separate life based on the garage); and when we go
down the Patch, he doesn’t show off the fact that he’s raced, unlike the
rest of us who don’t believe in work if you can get away without it, and
hangs back when we charge through the wood (or it may be that he’s a
wuss, and is afraid of hurting himself by bumping into the trees).
Anyway, it looks as though I’m going to have to grit my teeth and bear
it.
One thing he doesn’t
know, though, is that I’m insisting he goes with me to the next
blood-letting session. That should wipe the smile off his face.
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