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July 2010
She-Who-Thinks-She-Must-Be-Obeyed (aka
Daff) has told me I must apologise in public for starting a dog fight
last Tuesday.
Actually, that’s very
unfair, cos I didn’t start it and I think it’s dreadful that poor little
crippled chaps like me always seem to get the blame.
What happened was, me
and Sally and Mr Paddidog were snoozing in the back of the car at the
Farmhouse while John and Daff and Auntie Jill were sorting out some
stuff for the Fen Bank Shop. The kennel dogs were shouting the odds a
bit – it didn’t bother me at all but suddenly Mr P jumped up and stood
on me. Well, I ask you, would you like 37k of dog suddenly jumping on
your tender bits? I told him he was a clumsy clot and he swore at me,
so I thought – if that’s the way you want it, here goes, and I bit his
shoulder – not so much of a bite really as a little suck, just to warn
him not to make an issue of it. After all, if he hadn’t sworn at me,
it would have been over and done with in an instant.
Then Sally got
involved and started screaming, and John shouted at all of us, and Daff
opened the back of the car to see what was going on and found blood all
over Sally, and thought it was her that I’d given a bit of a nip, but
someone else spotted a teeny weeny hole in Mr P’s shoulder and
all hell broke loose. Bowls of antiseptic were brought, Mr Paddy was
bathed and sponged and comforted and fussed over, and of course that
made it worse. What a palaver! Nobody showed me any sympathy at all
for being stood on, and I’m sure my pain would have been far worse than
his little nip.
If someone hadn’t
spotted that microscopic hole and made all that to-do, it would have
been an end of it, but it gave Mr P the idea that something was wrong
with him, and on the way home he started to cry and shake, so as we were
passing the vet’s, Daff and John decided to get him checked and, would
you believe it – they hospitalised him for the afternoon and half the
evening !
Now I have a theory
that just to make things look bad for me, they must have made the hole a
lot bigger, cos when he arrived home, all bemused and wobbly, he had no
fewer than six stitches in a gash that was now more than two
inches long, instead of a tiny pin prick, and all his shoulder had been
shaved. Talk about mountains and mole-hills. He was sent out with
pink pills and brown pills and a list of care instructions as long as
your arm. And all for a nothing more than a little peck!
Daff got a bill for
£183 and started muttering something about being afraid to contact the
insurers any more, despite the fact that Paddy’s never made a claim on
his policy all the time I’ve known him (and why pay the premiums if you
daren’t make claims, I ask myself?). Nobody spoke to me that evening
and I didn’t get my nightly cuddle on the settee. Daff said she would
withhold my gravy bones till the vet’s bill had been cleared, but I know
she didn’t mean it cos gravy bones are a useful tool to get us to do
what she wants and we don’t.
And Mr P? Oh he’s
too sugary sweet for words. He’s never mentioned it again and goes on
as if nothing ever happened – unless, of course, the anaesthetic addled
his mind (a bit more) and he doesn’t remember the incident.
Anyway, if apologising
to all and sundry restores the domestic calm, and lifts the threat
hanging over my gravy bones, then I’m very sorry, Mr P.
But look at it this
way – last year, by some fluke, you won Best in Show at the Fen Bank Dog
Show. This year it would be pointless for you to enter cos you look
such a wreck with your scar and bare shoulder, so indirectly I’ve saved
you the ignominy of losing your title. You should be grateful to me
really.
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