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January 2010
Can anyone explain to
me the purpose of girls? Our house is full of them, and they seem to
fulfil no useful purpose whatsoever.
I suppose I’d better
not include Daff, as she feeds me and looks after me, but even she is
bossy, and, my, can she shout sometimes if she doesn’t like what I’m
doing.
But the others – well,
me and Mr. Paddidog could do well without them to my way of thinking,
although when I asked him if he would like to add a bit to this, he
said, “Don’t bring me into it.” ‘Course, that’s Mr. P all over,
anything for a quiet life. Besides, we all know that he’s passionately
in love with Flo Morgan, and she’s a girl, so he doesn’t want to rock
the boat.
Take the seating
arrangements in the sitting room, for instance. Everyone knows that I
always spend my evenings on the settee next to Daff so I can give her a
shove under the elbow when I want a tickle round the ears (it’s a right
old hoot if she happens to be drinking a cup of tea at the time – tee
hee!). If I have to get down for a minute for a call of nature or a
trip to the water bowl, invariably I find either Bluebell or Discit in
my place when I get back.
That shouldn’t be a
problem, because it’s a three-seater settee
 and there’s plenty of
room for a little white dog. But what happens? As soon as I start to
climb up in the empty space, one or other of them starts growling
HORRIBLY, like the very worst kind of dog fight, teeth all bared and
eyes popping out on stalks. This can go on for ages, and often the one
not in my place on the settee joins in; then it sets Daff off shouting,
and if it gets really loud, John starts shouting too. The stupid thing
is, if I call their bluff, they always get down and let me back into my
rightful place eventually, so what’s all that about? Why can’t they
move in the first place, before kicking up all that fuss and causing all
that shouting? What is really annoying is that I always get the blame,
just because I’m a boy, and it really isn’t fair. Nine times out of
ten my evenings deteriorate into a bad-tempered game of musical chairs,
and it just isn’t fair, especially with my handicap.
I sometimes try to get
Sally out of her bed by the radiator in the dining room, just to see
what would happen. She generally mutters under her breath, then gets
out immediately to let me in. I don’t usually want her bed, but I sit
in it for a token minute, then I get up and walk away. It’s the
principle of the thing, after all.
Then there’s Discit’s
illness. Just because she’s on pills night and morning and has blood
tests once a month, everyone makes out she’s an invalid. Poor little
bubba, Daff says all the time, isn’t she a poor little baby. Yuk! I
say, there’s nothing wrong with her. She can run nearly as fast as I
can (sometimes, but not often, I let her win just so people can see what
a lovely chap I am), always eats all her food and everyone else’s too if
we don’t trough like sludge gulpers (I saw one of those when I was in
the car once and thought I’d remember the name for a future occasion)
and sleeps with John and Daff at night. I think that’s disgraceful,
don’t you, and most unhygienic; I only ever sleep with either of
them if one’s ill, and that’s only to show due sympathy. Believe me,
there’s nothing pleasant about sleeping on a bed with a poorly person.
And as for Bluebell –
if I were a vet I’d have her certified. She screams every time she
wants something and it doesn’t happen immediately, jumps up people,
covering them with mud, and the only time she isn’t hyper is when she’s
asleep (and she’s had to have tablets for that, too – getting to sleep,
I mean, not being hyper). It must be awful to be recognised for your
screams – at Meets and Greets and parties people say, “Bluebell’s, here,
I can hear her screaming.” What a reputation! The thing is, she
generally gets what she wants just to stop the awful noise and it really
makes me mad, because I never make a nuisance of myself; consequently I
miss out on such a lot.
I suppose Sally’s the
best of a bad bunch. She’s been round the block a couple of times as
she’s in her ninth year, and is going very grey. She’d look a lot
better with a dose of ebony hair dye round her muzzle, but she doesn’t
believe in doing anything to make herself seem younger, consequently
she’s getting to look a real old geriatric – and she’s losing her
waist.
The thing about Sally
is, she’s always in the way. When I want to get through a doorway,
she’s always blocking it. When Daff wants to do something in the
garden, she stands so close Daff falls over her. When I try to jump
into the back of the car, she always blocks my way (and she knows quite
well it’s difficult for me with my funny foot). She’s now taken to
sleeping in John and Daff’s bedroom (though not on the bed), but to be
honest, Mr. P and I are quite glad about that, because she snores a lot
and has the most appalling wind. Daff says it smells just like
Whittlesey brick works before they demolished most of it.
The more I get to be
dominated by females, the more I turn to my mate Gordon. The first
thing I do on a morning is go into the garage to see how he is, and it
can be very disappointing if he’s already up and out. When he’s still
in his bed, we rub noses and I give him my special little whimper I
reserve for things I like. It’s a pity Gordon’s a cat, but he’s a
male, and we men must always stick together.
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