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July 2012
I‘m getting complaints
that nobody hears from me these days, but, frankly, I haven’t felt much
like writing anything recently. First, it’s taken me a long time to
get over Gordon – would you believe, I even went into the garage AGAIN
this morning to look for him, even though I really knew his bed was
moved out ages ago. All the others came trooping in with me – I don’t
know what they were looking for, or what they thought I was looking for,
but at times like that a chap doesn’t need an audience. Prats, the lot
of them.
Then, this ruddy
weather’s getting me down. Racing round the Patch has been reduced to
a couple of times a week, to fit in with any short, dry spell that may
occur, and when we do go down there, the wet gets in between my poor,
crippled toes, my back feet go all red and tender, and I almost need
help to jump into the car and go home. It’s enough to give a chap
Seasonal Affective Disorder (I don’t really know what that is, but I
heard Daff say the other day that she’d got it, so it must be something
to do with the horrible summer).
 Practically every
weekend there’s been some public event to eat into my valuable time, and
you know I’m not a very social chap. First, there was the Teddy Bears’
Picnic at the Patch on Jubilee Saturday. Daff was doing teas, and I
forget what John was doing, so we were left in the charge of Auntie and
Uncle Whyers – but I suppose that was OK, because I got a lot of fuss
(we all did), and the children who came to the Picnic stroked and
tickled us a lot. Actually, we got the only decent weather that
holiday – how I laughed when I watched the River Pageant next day on the
telly!
Then there was a
disastrous dog show a fortnight ago. It was pouring with rain again,
with an icy wind, and the judge really should have gone to Specsavers,
so after an hour or so, Daff took the decision to come home. Mr Paddy
told me he had rheumatics for days afterwards. Anyway, it gave me a
good idea how NOT to organise things when it comes to MY dog show on
September 9th, and I’ll make sure that whoever judges it will
have had a recent visit to the optician beforehand.
The vets’ Open Day
last Sunday was reasonable, I suppose - if anything to do with vets is
reasonable - cos we had the only fine day in weeks, so I could stretch
out on Auntie Stella’s sleeping bag and get a good kip, although since
Faune the Three Legged Wonder joined us she gets all the sympathy and
attention, and nobody notices how disabled I am, apart from the odd,
“That dog’s limping!” when I stand up to stretch my legs. They have NO
IDEA how hard life is when you’re a special needs dog. Just because I
don’t flaunt it……..
You’ve no idea how
promiscuous Faune is, either. She became violently in love with PC
Plod a few weeks ago (how COULD she, I ask myself?) – he tried to oblige
but didn’t really know what was going on, but afterwards she went round
telling everyone she was going to have his babies – at least ten, she
said – and Daff said if she went on like this, she would have to buy her
four bras. I think she realises now she was talking rubbish, and with
a bit of luck, she will have had a major op before the next time
anything like this occurs.
To cap it all, we’ve
had another funeral. Poor Smelly Sally developed a tumour on the bone
of one of her back legs; because she already had lymphoma it was
inoperable and on May 16 she went to Rainbow Bridge. Daff and John
laid her to rest in the garden here, not at the Patch, which is so hard
to dig in as most of it’s full of roots now, although Faune the Wonder
Dog manages it all right with her one front leg, and Daff planted a
rather tasteful Photinia ‘Pink Marble’ on top (new and very unusual, she
said; she likes variegated stuff like that). It seemed funny without
her (Sally, I mean, not Daff – fat chance!) for a while, as she was
always there, lying about, except for when she made a beeline for her
breakfast or tea (funny, that), and Daff missed her badly cos she’s been
on one sort of special treatment and medication or another since last
August and mealtimes suddenly became so quick and easy. But we got
used to being five again, as we were before Faune the Legless arrived,
and Daff said she wasn’t going to fill Sally’s bed as she had enough to
do with us, and the fact that she’s got a writing job again, which means
we might get more treats when the invoices get paid.
Which brings me to
what I was going to tell you about. One day, a few weeks ago, Daff
and John had to go to the Sanctuary to pick up some biscuits for us (not
before time, too as I noticed the biscuit bin was almost empty). We
wanted to go too and see all our mates, but John said there wasn’t room
for all of us and the bags of biscuits as well, and it wasn’t fair to
take some and not others (that’s the trouble with being one of a large
family; most of the time we ALL lose out).
Anyway, we settled
down to amuse ourselves at home – Faune decided to embellish a chair leg
and I found Daff had left the lid off the rubbish bin so the rest of us
set to making confetti, and eventually the biscuits and John and Daff
came home, like they always do. I heard them talking to someone in the
garden, but as one of the bits of paper I was tearing up contained the
(albeit minute) remains of a cream cake, I decided to stay indoors and
finish the job. Faune was adding the finishing touches to her chair
leg, and the others were asleep. Eventually I needed a wee, and on
going outside, I saw the most terrifying apparition.
There, by the back
door, was Sally’s ghost – not Sally as she was latterly, all thin and
poorly, but Sally as I remember her when I moved in nearly seven years
ago, stocky and chubby, with a thick coat and pearly white teeth.
Well, I don’t mind admitting it, I started to pant and shake, nearly as
much as when there’s a thunderstorm, and with the same overwhelming
feeling of doom and gloom. Then Faune came out, and I’ve never heard
language like it – she must have learned those words in her coursing
days, if she ever did any coursing before she was dumped, that is. She
backed off down the path, teeth bared; obviously she recognised a ghost
when she saw one, too. It’s about the only time I’ve felt any real
empathy for her.
Then the rest joined
us, sniffed the apparition, and laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous,” said
Discit, who is ALWAYS RIGHT. “That’s not Sally. Sally had a long
tail that nearly reached the floor, and a wide parting.”
Well, I’m sure, being
female and noticing such trivia, she was undoubtedly correct, but you
can’t blame Faune and me - especially Faune, who didn’t know her all
that well - thinking it was Sally risen from the grave. It took us
several days to be convinced that it was actually someone from the
kennels called Meg, and even now she’s known as Sally-Meg cos no-one,
particularly the groan-ups, can tell the difference.
She’s not bad, the
newcomer. Got a mind of her own but never argues with any of us other
dogs and knows her place with us, although she does reduce Daff to
shouting at her sometimes, even though it makes no difference. If
Sally-Meg wants to do something, then she will. Likewise, if the groan
ups don’t want her to do something, she’ll just carry on in her own
sweet way unless it’s in her interest not to, and I admire that kind of
attitude. And now she’s got the Mark of Muffin on her ear (that’ll
teach her to poke her nose in my breakfast), she’s really one of the
pack.
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