Saturday, 28 January 2017

The Consequence of Night Time Vomits

Bundled into the car by the master today at 9.15am, we were soon bouncing along the motorway, then country roads, eventually stopping at a car park I'd never been to. I poop outside as soon as I can, such is my opinion of his driving skill. I think he sometimes forgets I'm in the boot. He says he doesn't want to be late. I say, 'then leave earlier'.

Anyway, with all the new smells around me, I leave my spoor everywhere to remind the locals of my visit, even crossing a bed of shrubbery to pee on a particularly fragrant plant. The master isn't amused as he has to follow me and people are looking. It's an affluent area where the locals respect the footpaths and don't use rockeries as stepping stones.Then we follow the main road for a while until he stops and opens a shop door. 

It's the vet's. 

My nose is overwhelmed by all the smells, particularly that of fear. My rear starts to tremor worse than an epileptic alcoholic with the DTs. The master reassures me, then tells me to behave. I reckon he's scared a confused vet will treat me for alcoholism and epilepsy and not the real reason I am there: vomiting.

You see, for a few nights now, I've been jumping off their bed and puking on the bedroom carpet, bringing up undigested omelette that the master shared with me for breakfast (he adds an extra egg so I get my fair share). I thought I was being respectful throwing up away from the bed. They didn't see it that way. They became increasingly irritated. I can't help it if my tummy doesn't puke to a timetable that fits in around their alarm clock.

The vet checked my weight - the same, despite being starved for 24hrs; my teeth and gums; then my temperature. Bear in mind this is the first time I have met the woman and off she goes with her thermometer probing areas not even my tongue has ever breached. I am not amused. I climb up on the master, who is assisting the molester, but his grip on me is firm. A minute later the vet woman removes it and calls me 'hot'. Yeah, well, your compliments are too late. Next time, I expect dinner and a date before I'll allow you access to that part of my anatomy again. When she starts squeezing into my stomach, I've had enough. I growl then snarl until she desists. 

By this time the examination table is wobbling like an earthquake, such is my shaking. 

She pulls out three syringes.

The shaking gets louder.

The noise reminds me of the last time I was in this surgery: when my chance of having pups was taken away. I also remember that this is where they put us to sleep. I am not ready to die. I've still got a new toy that needs the stuffing pulled out of it. My life is not over. 

My hackles rise, allowing her to jab me in the soft bit without too much discomfort: antibiotics, anti-inflammatories then antacids, injected one after another. When I'm lifted off the table, I make for the door but the master and the vet want to discuss my dietary needs over the next few days, plus he's oh so interested in the medication.

By the time we get out, there is a waiting room full of annoyed canines, who bark their irritation at me.

"Do hurry up. Some of us are properly ill." That's posh designer dogs from a well-groomed area for you. 

I tell them to 'Woof off' but I'm in a minority here and they are bigger than me. I change tack and sit quietly, longing to be outside again, away from the stink. 

I'm relieved to be taken home. I'm on a special diet now and off the morning omelette. Life isn't fair. Just to be awkward I spit out the tablets I've got to take for my stomach. And if they think I'm waiting an hour before breakfast because of medication, they can shove that idea right up their own thermometer probe area.   

Tuesday, 3 January 2017

A Belated Merry Christmas and Happy New Year

"You could have been killed!" screamed the master at me from the roadside.

It wasn't my fault. I heard 'Right' (which is universal shorthand for 'Right let's go') and I went. How was I supposed to know Jess had decided she wanted to sniff the letterbox causing her lead to get tangled with my extending lead handle, making the lead's lock click off? I walked across the road and, as he yanked me back, the lead cord just zipped longer. The master looked back at me to find me staring back at him from the middle of the road as a white Skoda Octavia's brakes screeched it to a halt. If I'd known it was that easy to make traffic stop, I would do it more often. I'm like a brindle crossing.   

The way he related the tale to the mistress you would have thought it was a drama. I didn't know the vet's was closed because of the holiday. I think if he'd made any more of it, he would have needed the hospital himself. I'm sorry he got a fright. I'm not looking to get a new master just yet.

Later, when he felt better, he joked if I had been squished, it would have been the perfect time of year to pick up a replacement. In the Post-Christmas Dog Rescue Sale there's always lots of choice and plenty of puppies. 'Christmas leftovers' he called them. I didn't think this was funny. If he'd said it on social media, he would have been flamed by dog lovers across the world, except in China. There, dogs are not just for Christmas, they're for Christmas dinner. Plus, for those so inclined, there's the bonus of four legs. I wonder if the Chinese butchers team up with puppy farms prior to Christmas, offering a shortened life in return for an all-u-can-eat dog treat buffet. 

I checked out the menu at a 'Buffet King Charles Spaniel' restaurant in Beijing. They offer multiple canine meal deal options: a 'Chihuahua for one', a 'Labrador for a family' and a 'Newfoundland for visiting Americans'. I think it was a joke. Newfoundland is in Canada.

Westerners don't eat dog for psychological reasons, because we're their best friends. It's frowned upon to eat carnivores.There's a lesson for cows, pigs and sheep. Eat other animals and humans will stop eating you.  

Sunday, 20 November 2016

An Old Dog

Today a stranger called me 'pup'. I've not been called that in a long time. I'm old now, with a grey face to prove it. I enquired at the pet shop if they had any 'Just For Dogs' in brindle. The assistant laughed and suggested I try mixing a few colourants. What a waste of money. If I wanted the 'mud brown' look, I could have rolled in a field of cowpats.

I've also got arthritis. That's mainly why I've not been writing. My joints have been too sore. For a time I was hobbling around on three legs; then I got special medicine, and now the master's got me on cod liver oil to stop my joints clicking. It helps a little but my legs still get shaky after exercise. Licking helps but I keep getting told off about it. Especially in bed.

I've finally achieved my life-long ambition of sleeping every night in a human bed. I've devoted lots of crying and whining late at night until finally, the master and mistress relented. And by that, I mean the mistress.Their bed is big enough for the three of us but I still like a heat so tend to pick a side to warm me, pressing myself against their body. If I share the love on alternate nights they don't get too cranky. A couple of nights ago, I pushed a little too hard to get comfy and the master ended up with his legs on the floor. No wonder he's got a bad back. Maybe he should take cod liver oil too.

My main reason for writing this was to warn all my dog friends about a scam that is being perpetrated by the local estate agents. All across Paisley, they have erected 'For Sale' or 'Coming To Market' signs allegedly selling lamp posts, fences, street signs and patches of grass. Do not be fooled. Not only do you not get exclusivity on the marked object, you also have to buy a house too. I nearly fell for it. I went along for a viewing and was furious when I discovered what was going on. I commented in the middle of the garden and didn't use a poo bag. You don't need one if it's on private property. That's what I think about your despicable behaviour, estate agents. Besides, now I'm old, you said I didn't qualify for a mortgage.

It's just as well I'm settled where I am.

Saturday, 16 January 2016

The Dog-Friendly Pub

I was disappointed by my first visit to a dog-friendly pub. It was not what I expected. It was just a smelly room, full of lumpy people who smiled and laughed a lot, despite being sad inside. There weren't any notices but it seemed like it was competition night: to see who could be the noisiest. As the night went on the volume of the chatting got louder and louder until everyone was shouting. I wasn't even allowed to participate, which I would describe as particularly dog-unfriendly.   

I'm not sure exactly what constitutes 'dog-friendly'. I didn't notice any canine modifications at all. I don't think getting a rub on the head by the tipsy woman smoking in the doorway justifies the title 'friendly', especially as she subsequently blew smoke in my face while calling me cute. As the pub served food, I had hoped to join the master for dinner, or at least hoover the spilled food from around the other tables but that wasn't allowed. I was to sit quietly and not start a fight with any of the other dogs. No fun at all.

My idea of a dog friendly pub would have dog bouncers at the door (dobermans probably); it would have a roaring, wood-burning, open fire to lie in front of; when that floor space was full, the other dogs would have comfortable couches to sit and lie upon; there would be a choice of drinks at the bar, not just what was on tap; it would have constantly refilled bowls of free gravy bones and Burns nibbles to snack on at each low table; the games' room would have tug toys to pull and tennis balls to chew; the toilets would consist of a wet room with tree stumps of varying heights, with a grass patch beside them to scratch at afterwards. It would be a howl when we start to sing. Our anthem would be "Who let the dogs out?" Answer: "woof, woof, w-woof, woof". We could drink as much as we liked and not have to worry about getting arrested when we got caught short on the way home. 

Maybe I should start up my own chain. I like the sound of 'The Brindle Breed' but can you think of any other appropriate dog-friendly pub names? Replies in the comment section please.

Thursday, 14 January 2016

My Girl

This morning I watched from the bed as the master and the mistress passed one another in the bedroom; him heading for a shower; her, already showered, going to another room with a towel around her head, dressed in a fluffy, white dressing gown. They chatted about the plans for the day from their separate locations. The master turned on the radio and the opening bars of the song 'My Girl' were playing. He began to sing: properly, out loud and in tune, in the style of The Temptations.The mistress returned with a big pleased smile on her face. It vanished when she realised he was serenading me. 

'Talking 'bout my girl'. 

It's not my fault I'm gorgeous. 

Thursday, 3 December 2015

Just a Wife?

From Dogs Naturally Magazine Facebook page
The master read this and got upset. I don't know why. I'm not planning on going anywhere anytime soon. He shared the sentiment with the mistress and she got upset too. Not at the thought of me dying. No, about the fact that he'd miss me more.

He replied that this was not true. She was a lot more difficult to replace. She smiled. He should have stopped at this point but he didn't.

"It's not as if I could go down to a wife rescue centre and pick up a replacement; one that's already been neutered, had all their shots, having been checked over by a GP. Preferably one that's not been abused in case they have issues." He then wondered if he would be better selecting a cute, young wifey or one who's already been house-trained. 

He's sleeping on my couch tonight.

Remember a wife is for life, not just for Christmas. And any more comments like that and he'll be getting a Christmas card from her divorce attorney. 

Sunday, 8 November 2015

The Fine Line Between Lost and Abandoned

There is a fine line between wanting to stay out on a walk and getting abandoned. I nearly discovered where that line was today. Fortunately I made it to the car in time before the master drove off.

Not wanting to go back to the car
And this time with perspective

We had had a great walk in the park off Glenfield Road. We walked all the way up to the waterfall and back. With all the rain it was very large and loud.


I know I've refused to come back many times, especially when I was younger. It would make him furious. But now I'm worried in case he has found a way of replacing me. 

There is a dog called Boe on the Underheugh Ark website. They are a charity that take in abandoned animals and find them foster homes until someone is able to adopt them. Boe is about the same age as me. You can see why I'm worried. He's the one on the right. 

He could be my brother. And he has the name of a character from Dr Who. The master would love to take him. Fortunately the mistress is the one with the final say and she is sensible. This is a one dog house. There's no room on my couch for two, unless it's for cuddles.

If I did end up abandoned by virtue of my own stubborn stupidity, I think the master would still find and recover me. He's always looking at the dogs up for adoption at the Dogs Trust and Underheugh. I just hope he would get in there first. I'd hate to have to relocate and train another family to my ways.