Daphne Ledward, Garden Planner, Gardener, Author and Broadcaster

Muffin's Blog

Mr Muffin makes a Public Apology   by Mr Muffin

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, thatís very unfair, cos I didnít start it and I think itís 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 Ė it didnít 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 Ė if thatís the way you want it, here goes, and I bit his shoulder Ė 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 hadnít 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 Iíd given a bit of a nip, but someone else spotted a teeny weeny hole in Mr Pís 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 Iím sure my pain would have been far worse than his little nip.

If someone hadnít 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 vetís, Daff and John decided to get him checked and, would you believe it Ė 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 Paddyís never made a claim on his policy all the time Iíve known him (and why pay the premiums if you darenít make claims, I ask myself?).   Nobody spoke to me that evening and I didnít get my nightly cuddle on the settee.   Daff said she would withhold my gravy bones till the vetís bill had been cleared, but I know she didnít mean it cos gravy bones are a useful tool to get us to do what she wants and we donít.

And Mr P?   Oh heís too sugary sweet for words.   Heís never mentioned it again and goes on as if nothing ever happened Ė unless, of course, the anaesthetic addled his mind (a bit more) and he doesnít remember the incident.

Anyway, if apologising to all and sundry restores the domestic calm, and lifts the threat hanging over my gravy bones, then Iím very sorry, Mr P.   

But look at it this way Ė 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 Iíve saved you the ignominy of losing your title.    You should be grateful to me really.

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