Tuesday, 30 November 2010

The second coming

Well, major changes once again in the world of this particular puppy, but before I get to that just give me a moment or two to bring you up to speed on the events of the last few months.

Biggest event was the long man, clippy cloppy woman, little people and I going on our first family holiday together. When I heard we were going away I took a look at the holiday pictures from the pre-puppy days and so was looking forward to sun, sea, sand, sangria and sniffing. Dreams of far flung, exotic locations filled my nights in the run up to our departure. Imagine my disappointment when, early in the morning on the day we were to leave, I was bundled into the back of the metal box thingy, crammed between a suitcase, a rucksack and a fishing rod, and driven hundreds of miles across the most inhospitable terrain this side of Kandahar to spend a week in a bloody tent at the foot of an enormous mountain. I thought we'd joined the Mudjahadin until I saw the launderette and playground.

The little people and I had a fantastic time climbing up the aforementioned mountain, known as Snowdon and apparently the highest mountain in the country. It was very exciting, with gun men and helicopters and explosions and white knuckle near misses, but we survived to tell the tale. Honestly. Check it out here.

Another major event of the summer was the arrival of another of those bloody horrible, smelly Vespa things. This one intended for the clippy cloppy woman so she could join the long man on his noisy, smelly rides. I don't know if it's a coincidence but the long man, soon after this purchase, decided he didn't want his Vespa any more and has put it ip for sale. He's since bought an enormous beast of a motorcycle, a Triumph, saying he needs it to get to work quicker. I doubt "need" comes into it. It's bigger, faster, heavier and scarier than the scooter it replaces. That man seems determined to take the most ridiculous chances with his personal safety. That's all well and good, but does he take into consideration what might happen to me after he's crashed through the pearly gates backwards and in a fireball? Does he balls.

And now for the BIG news. Okay, I'm being a bit sarcastic here, and you've probably guessed already, but the long man and I have, once again, been exiled to the dirty old town of Salford. The long man and the clippy cloppy woman had spent much of the previous several months arguing about really important matters. It got to the point where you'd have been forgiven for believing that they were only happy when they were shouting. Not great for the nerves I must admit but the house was just about big enough for me to avoid them pretty much all of the time. Then one Sunday evening they had a massive bust up about a pizza and the long man being "stupid". In all honesty I can't see as how the long man had a leg to stand on arguing against that particular point but argue he did. The result... Salford. Not just for him, for me too. I don't even LIKE pizza and I wholly agree that he's as bright as a bag of spanners, but did that save me. Harrumph.

So here we are, shivering our hairy arses off and eating a lot of toast. I must say, he's taking it really rather well. He doesn't smell half as empty as he did last time, and he's not moping around the place feeling sorry for himself this time which is a blessed relief. I swear if I'd had to put up with that crap again I'd have torn the chip out of my own neck and turned myself into the rescue centre.

The long man and I spend a lot of time walking around since our return. One of my favourite walks is to Swinton precinct where there is a very nice chap who sells, amongst other things, all manner of dried pork products passed fit for canine consumption. Earlier today we took a little trot down to see him and the long man bought me a big bag of pigs ears. I do love pigs ears, almost as much as I like biscuits, but I got to thinking whilst munching on my luncheon, who is it that has taken it upon his, or her, self to start amputating ears from swine? Grateful as I am for my pork based treats it does seem odd to me that someone would be so cruel as to mutilate animals in such a way. Can you imagine the conversation in the sty after the ear harvest?

"Hey, Porky." Says Applesauce.


"OI, PORKY!" she repeats.



"What?" Replies Porky.


Still, all this aside, they are very tasty indeed. And I suppose it would be silly to eat the whole pig all at once.

It's snowing in Salford today. I do love the snow. I love the crispy crunch as I bounce through it. I love the cool crystals of ice between my toes. I love the clean, fresh streets after a new flurry. And most of all, I love turning the snow in the garden from virginal white to dirty yellow. Enjoy the little things, it's very important.

Friday, 25 June 2010

Reserved parking

Yes, yes, yes, I know. The time between my blog entries is getting longer and longer. It's not that I don't care, it's just that the summer has brought with it so many new and interesting opportunities for fun and merriment that I simply don't know whether I'm coming or going at the moment.

The little people recently spent a week down south in Brighton with their father, whilst the little long man came to my house to spend a week with HIS father. Talk about musical parenting. The little long man took up residence in the little peoples room and is no where near as careful about ensuring the door is closed properly, allowing me unrestricted access to all the chewy little people things. I have had a fine old time stealing and stashing away for safe keeping as much contraband as a baby puppy can carry. Of course most of my booty has since been reclaimed by that infernal clippy cloppy woman and the long man but, due to the shear scale of my felony, there are still a fair number of pieces of prime swag lying as yet undiscovered around the house a whole fortnight after the return of the gruesome twosome.

The long man has, at long last, gotten out from under my paws and started his new job as a carer for the mentally bewildered. He seems to think that the Karma of his noble toil will in some way balance out all the crappy things he's done in the past and benefit him spiritually. My hairy arse it will. I doubt very much he would ever be considered for Sainthood at any rate. It's only a matter of time before he commits some form of indescretion again and spoils it all. It is to be hoped that he cares for his ward better than he cares for his best friend (That's me just in case you're in any doubt.) or he'll be back down the job centre faster than you can say "it was an accident" or "corporate manslaughter".

The long man and I haven't been making our usual visits to Worden park of late. Partly because of him now having to work for a living rather than being kept like some kind of third rate gigolo by the clippy cloppy woman and partly because the chap from the council that looks after the park has told us we're no longer welcome. In my opinion said individual is nothing more than a jumped up little jobsworth with a Napolean complex. It was a particularly hot day when last the long man and I visited our most favourite park in the whole wide world and, as you all probably by now are very well aware, I do love a nice swim. Swimming is one of my most favourite pastimes and these two factors combined led to my decision to cool down by plunging headlong into the pond where the flappy, feathery flying things that float live. They, that is to say the flappy, feathery flying things that float, are not what you would call the most sociable of creatures. Bloody ignorant little sods if you ask me. And so, as I dived gracefully, athletically and majestically into the cool, clear water they went absolutely berserk. Flapping and quacking and generally making a right kerfuffle. All these shenanigans brought the aforementioned Gestapo, sorry - council, officer careering through the trees toward the long man.

Now what the long man lacks in sense he more than makes up for in stature and so, as the petulant parky got closer to the long man, his pace began to slow until he came to a stop no more than two paces from the long man, who then took two paces forward forcing the local government representative to crane his neck backward if he wanted to continue his tirade. A tirade which was met with the long man's gormless, slack jawed, glassy-eyed frown.

For some reason at this point the jackbooted, litter picking midget's tone took on a much friendlier and far croakier timbre as he explained that dogs swimming in the nature reserve was prohibited and asked if the long man would mind awfully asking me to depart. Now I'm sure the long man in no way meant to come across as a pedant, however after pointing out that a dog is indeed perfectly natural and then enquiring as to just exactly where the bloody signs informing us that the pond was a bleeding nature reserve were pedantic is exactly how he appeared. The upshot of the conversation being that the long man and I are no longer welcome in that part of town. And so it was with heavy heart that, after he'd emptied the poo bag he'd been carrying on the path, and I'd emptied my bowels on the crazy golf course, we left.

Wednesday, 26 May 2010

Here comes the summer

There is absolutely no excuse for my recent absence from the world wide web and my legion of adoring puppy fans. No excuse whatsoever. The important thing however, so far as you lot are concerned, is that I have returned. I can picture you now, sat in front of your monitors, big cheesy grins plastered across your faces, eagerly anticipating the news of your favourite canines latest whirlwind adventures. And since, as previously mentioned, there is no excuse, then I dont have to sit here struggling to think one up just to placate you. I've been gone, get over it, I'm back, rejoice.

Before I start filling you in on the comings and goings of life in Leyland I'd just like to take a moment to say how lovely it has been to see so many of you in the flesh of late. It was especially nice to see those of you who turned up to the garden party held in my honour last weekend. And whilst on the subject of said party, I feel obliged to apologise on behalf of the clicky ankled lady for her behaviour. Anyone would have thought the party was for her benefit the way she tried to hog the limelight. And what on earth was she doing continually banging on about being another year older? For crying out loud, at her age surely another year on the tally stick is nothing to go shouting about. You were all very kind to humour her though, for which I am eternally grateful.

And now back to my blog. Let's start with the weather, the weather is always an ice breaker, and quite literally so at the moment. The weather, now that we have entered the portion of the year known as summer, has taken a turn for the better and no mistake. Phew, what a scorcher. No more ice. Gone is the snow. It's hello blue skies, light nights and balmy afternoons. Snoozing in the shade. Long lazy walks. Plenty of fluids and a good deal of moulting. And I love to live so pleasantly, live this life of luxury, lazing on a sunny afternoon in the summertime.

The scratchy chinned man has come to live at my house now. Apparently his special friend turned out to be none too special. There must be something in the water, because hot on the heels of their separation came the news that the little long man has also joined the land of the lonesome. Still, at least the little long man and his lady weren't living in sin and therefore he isn't here knocking my karma out of kilter and ruining the feng shui like his feckless brother. It's a bloody good job too, since there isn't enough room to swing a cat in this dump as it is. Well, technically there IS enough room to swing a cat, but you'd keep banging it against walls and door frames which, although fun, is kind of frowned upon by the authorities. Camerons Britain eh? It's political correctness gone mad I tell you.

The scratchy chinned man's arrival has presented something of a dichotomy vis a vis my sleeping arrangements. On the one hand the long man has become somewhat accustomed to waking up with me by his side. He gets a big kick out of it, and I love him for that. The problem, to be frank, is that bloody clippy cloppy woman and her pig headed refusal to share the bed. I don't see the problem, there is plenty of room for the three of us, but she can be such a selfish cow at times. I have to wait for her to vacate the room before I can climb up onto the bed, whereas the scratchy chinned man sleeps alone, has no problem whatsoever with me joining him AND I get to spend an entire night on a proper mattress, which is doing my back and posture the world of good. Now as I'm sure you are all aware I am not the most sentimental puppy that ever pooed in a park, but the long man and I have become really rather close in recent months. As a result I am finding it increasingly hard to disregard his feelings and have spent the last few weeks having to drag myself off the scratchy chinned man's bed at daft-o-clock in the morning when I hear the clippy cloppy woman go for her morning ablutions and transfer myself into the loving arms of the long man. The duplicity of my actions is rather exciting in a way, but it's also disturbing my sleep pattern which isn't helping my beauty regime. If only I could get the clippy cloppy woman to start sharing with the scratchy chinned man then all our problems would be solved.

Tuesday, 13 April 2010

BARC to the future

Being as I am left all on my bloody own for dirty great chunks of the day I get to listen to the radio a lot, Radio 4 being my favourite station. As a result I am beginning to get really rather clued up on current affairs and have begun to take a great interest in this politics malarkey. I don't claim to be an expert on the subject, but I have become very interested in the upcoming general election, which isn't as you might imagine a military gentleman but is in fact some kind of competition, akin to the X-Factor but without Simon Cowell, in which the person who comes across as the least dislikable, who tells the most attractive lies and who smiles at the most children is the winner. The prize - you get to live in a place called London, rent free, and more importantly you get to be the boss of the Army. And the Navy, and the Air Force too. It occured to me the other day that being the boss of the Army, Navy and Air Force would greatly help in my plans for a New World Order. I have therefore, after much consideration, decided to form my own political party and to stand for election myself. Now obviously I know that you, dear reader, and all of my other puppy fans will without a shadow of a doubt vote for me. That goes without saying. However, even with my small army of fans I doubt that I would get enough votes to secure an overall majority and might force a hung Parliament. That just isn't enough. I want my paw to be the only one on the button of our nuclear detterent. I don't want to have to bother arguing with any one else over it. I would rather beg for forgiveness than ask for permission.

And so, in an effort to win over the rest of the population, or at least to win over fifty one percent of them, I have worked tirelessly all morning to pen a manifesto, and publish it here for your perusal. You will notice, I am sure, that unlike the manifestos of all the other major parties mine is not simply a simpering tome filled with empty promises, unattainable aspirations and assorted delusions. I promise to be honest, open, to the point and succinct.

And now to the manifesto itself...

1) Health.

We could save a huge chunk of money by all being just that little bit more careful and trying our best to have fewer accidents. The money we then save could be ploughed back into the National Health Service and spent on things like, ermmm, tablets. Oh, and biscuits. Biscuits are proven to be of great therapeutic benefit to the sick and infirm.

2) The economy.

The long man has a big bottle in his bedroom into which he puts all the coins he finds on the floor when we are out on our walks. If we all did this we would all have a big bottle of money. Sorted.

3) Policing.

If we all stop stealing things and murdering people we wont need the police so much. This is something of a no-brainer. The police could then concentrate on the scurge of modern society, that being the gangs of feral cats plaguing our streets and pooing in the passage next to my house.

4) Defence.

The army, navy and air force WILL respect my authority. As a result, so will all of you, my subjects.

5) Education.

Instead of being given one biscuit when being trained to sit/lie down/shake paws etc. all puppies will be given two biscuits. Puppies like a nice biscuit. Believe me, I know. The extra incentive will ensure improved results and happier puppies. We will pay for this measure by increasing taxes on cat food, kitty litter and squeeky mouse toys.

6) The environment.

There is a growing problem with cat poo in the passage next to my house. I will undertake to stamp out (Not literally of course, that would make even more of a mess out there.) this problem by passing legislation to ensure that cats are in future exercised ON A LEAD and accompanied at all times when outside their homes by one of their people, who must be armed with a poo bag. Any cats found to be wandering around the streets willy-nilly without a human chaperone will be rounded up and transported to a detention centre on the Isle of Dogs. And shot.

I trust I can count on your vote on May the Sixth, and remember....

A vote for Ronnie is a vote for me.

Monday, 5 April 2010

Watching paint dry

Welcome, dear reader, to the fiftieth entry in my now legendary and universally adored blog. Thanks to you all for your support.

And now that the platitudes are out of the way I'll crack on with my inane ramblings.

Firstly, as much as it sticks in my craw to have to admit it, I may have understimated the long man. Either that or, as is more likely, I have very much overestimated the quite obviously tin pot organisation to whom he'd applied when looking for his new job. He's only gone and got the position, leaving me wondering just how many backsides he has had to sniff to swing that one. Oh, and get this, a man's best friend is, supposedly, his dog. Ergo, I am the long man's best friend, but did he bother to tell me about his little bit of good luck? Did he buggery. I only found out about it via Facebook. Bloody typical.

For a change, and a very pleasant change indeed, the news that he has wrangled himself a half decent job has kept a smile on his face. The clippy cloppy woman took a couple of days off work as the weekend approached and continued her love affair with the noisy, sucky thing and the tins of smelly stuff. I wouldn't mind quite so much if not for the fact that I heard her mention she wants to move house. If that is to be the case, then why the hell does she have to keep cleaning this one? Pointless in the extreme if you ask me. Shame she never asks me, I could make her life so much easier if she did.

The little people have gone to stay with their father for a couple of weeks. Apparently this time of year is called "Easter" and is some kind of religious festival where, as far as I can ascertain, people celebrate a magic rabbit that lays chocolate eggs. Religion is something of a mystery to me, I just can't get my head around it.

On Friday I was sent to stay with Audrey et al in Salford so that the long man and the clippy cloppy woman could (surprise surprise) go off gallavanting around North Yorkshire to a place called "Whitby" on that damned Vespa of theirs. As far as I can figure they planned to drink lots of that stuff that makes you wee a lot and wobble, eat burgers and then sleep in a field. They really know how to have a good time eh?

My weekend was possibly marginally more fun than theirs. Also marginally more fun than having your tail nailed to a plank. In case you've missed the sarcasm here let me be frank, it was crap. It was as boring as a boring thing, and then some. Audrey stayed out of the way for the most part, she's not daft. The shouty woman spent most of the first day smearing that coloured stuff all over the walls in the kitchen and left me to my own devices. I just lay in the doorway and watched.

The clicky ankled lady spent most of her time making "tut" noises and getting in the shouty woman's way. Getting in the shouty woman's way is not to be advised. Unless you like her being more shouty than usual. I personally am not even keen on the level of shoutiness she already seems to have attained. My nerves were in tatters.

Once all the colouring in, tutting and shouting ended I retired to my favourite spot in front of the hot, flickery, burny thing in the clicky ankled lady's living room, anticipating an evening of quality time and biscuits. I do like quality time. And biscuits. Next thing I know, the clicky ankled lady gets her coat on and buggers off out for the evening without so much as a by your leave. And there was I thinking the whole point of my having to stay the night in Salford was so that I would have a little company. I might as well have just stayed at home.

The following day wasn't as bad though. Obviously riddled by guilt the long man and the clippy cloppy woman decided to treat me to a lovely, long walk around Worden park for the first time in ages. Not before time too. Free of the lead at last I made it my mission to get as dirty and stinky as I possibly could before getting back in the metal box thingy, and let me tell you - Worden park in April was designed for getting a puppy filthy. I was chest deep in mud at several points during the walk. The river at this time of year is much deeper too, more than deep enough for swimming in. I was having a fine old time bounding through the undergrowth, squelching through the marshy bits and diving in and out of the stinking water when the long man decided he wanted to play with that bloody tennis ball of his. He took it out of his pocket and proceeded to throw it around with gay abandon. I have now, however, put an end to that particular annoyance. I accidentally on purpose managed to lose it in the river. It took me two attempts, the first time it bobbed to the surface for the long man to retrieve. But the second time, being the clever puppy I am, I ensured that I put a hole in the damned thing first so that it sank like a brick. I did feel a pang of guilt when I saw the look on his face as he realised it was gone forever, but I soon got over that. Life, dear reader, is too short for regrets. And it is too bloody short for chasing tennis balls around.

I'm getting a bit of peace and quiet today since the long man and the clippy cloppy woman have gone over to Salford to arrange with their ne'er do well friends an open day for the scooter club next Sunday. Whatever keeps them out of my fur is all good so far as I am concerned, just so long as they don't expect me to be going to the open day with them.

Tuesday, 30 March 2010

Who cares?

The long man has embarked on what I consider to be a futile attempt to better himself by changing career. He has thus far done what I can only decribe as a plethora of crappy jobs, and in my opinion that suits him down to the ground. I cannot for the life of me imagine him in any position of responsibility or any position that requires a degree of common sense. Sense of any description, where the long man is concerned, isn't very common at all. Bloody rare in his case. For instance, he loves playing with his tennis ball and always brings it with us when we go to the park. Then he'll proceed to throw the bloody thing away and immediately want it back again. And does he go and get it himself? Does he balls. Muggins here has to go and fetch it for him. So, off I plod, find the damned thing, take it back to him and drop it at his feet, and what does he do? He only goes and throws it away again. Moron. Anyway, as I was saying, he wants a change of career so guess what he's applied to be, a CARER. Him. Caring. Looking after others. Ha. How in the world is that going to work? I'll tell you this, he had better not be expecting me to go to work with him and spend all my time pulling him out of the sticky stuff. I like my mornings listening to the radio and my afternoons watching loose women on the telly thingy whilst licking my lady bits and snoozing. Following the long man around and reminding him to breathe is very low down on my list of priorities I can tell you.

In between his pointlessly completing application forms for jobs he has little or no chance of getting the long man has also been spending a lot of time piddling about with his Vespa. Taking bits off, swearing, putting new bits on, swearing when the new bits fall off, phoning his friends to find out where he's going wrong, putting the fallen off bits back on and then swearing before taking them off again because he forgot to do something else. I'm beginning to have something of an attention deficit where he is concerned. After finally getting the scooter looking and sounding exactly like it looked and sounded immediately before his meddling, at daft-o-clock on Sunday morning, he destroyed the peace and tranquility of another lovely Leyland Sabbath by popp-popp-popping away up the street in a cloud of thick, blue smoke. His mission, along with his friends, was to deliver a seventy nine pence Easter egg to the childrens hospital in Carlisle. I've checked, that is a round trip of one hundred and eighty four miles, and all to drop off a piece of cheap confectionary. Very noble I'm sure, but how much did the fuel for this mammoth journey cost, and more to the point how many poor little asthmatic kiddies were caused to suffer because of the scooterists selfishly pumping god knows how many cubic metres of noxious gasses into the atmosphere?

Meanwhile, free of the long man's sycophantic simpering, the clippy cloppy woman and I took the little people to visit the cat lady and the black furry coat woman. I do enjoy going out with them, and they get a big kick out of it for which I love them all the more, but the journey to the cat lady's house is not the most pleasant. Especially with Wing Commander clippy cloppy at the wheel. It's best described as a roller coaster ride of terror. She seems to use the accelerator like an on/off switch. At least in the new metal box thingy I am situated at the very rear, keeping me a far as is possible from the front which will be the point of impact when the inevitable catastrophic collision, for which we are long overdue, occurs.

The long man returned late in the evening and was walking rather gingerly, like a rider who'd had his horse stolen, and wincing whenever he sat down. Serves the damn fool right, riding all over the place at his age. He proceeded to regale us with the most mundane tales about, well, quite frankly I don't know what they were about. I tend to switch off whenever he starts banging on about most things. I really couldn't be bothered paying attention.

Tomorrow the long man has to go to Manchester for an interview with one of the companies he wants to work for. They must be mad to even consider him. Perhaps they're just toying with him, letting him down gently or are really, REALLY desperate. He's got more chance of seeing a rocking horse take a poo than getting a job with even the tiniest bit of responsibilty. Let us hope that, when the inevitable rejection letter lands on the mat, he will learn his lesson and apply for a more suitable position. Ideally part time and in a biscuit factory, giving him plenty of free time to shower me with gifts of heavily staff-discounted biscuits to which he would have access. Since I don't have fingers, puppy fans, I beg of you to cross yours on my, I mean his, behalf. Thank you, and ta-ta for now.

Wednesday, 24 March 2010

How clean is your mouser

The clippy cloppy woman is a big fan of a program on the telly thingy called "How Clean Is Your House" in which two rather ropey looking old dears go around to peoples homes to patronise them and play with faecal matter. They give you tips on how to keep your house spick and span. These so called tips, however, invariably mean you have to get your hands dirty. Well, I have come up with the perfect, faecal-matter-under-the-fingernails free way of keeping your toilet in a pristine condition. Just follow these ten easy steps to a perfectly polished pan....

Step one. Lift both the lids of your toilet and pour in a couple of capfuls of shampoo.

Step two. Get a sack and a can of tuna fish.

Step three. Place the opened can of tuna fish just inside your open back door, then crouch behind said back door with the sack.

Step four. Wait for a passing turd burier to attempt to steal the tuna.

Step five. Jump on the feline fish felon and stuff it into the sack. (I recommend wearing gloves for this part.)

Step six. Empty the sack into the toilet and quickly slam shut both toilet lids. (You may need to stand on the lid at this point.) The cat will self-agitate and make ample suds. (Don't be put off by the noises emanating from the toilet, these are noises of pleasure and the cat is in reality having a great old time thrashing around in there.)

Step seven. Flush the toilet four or five times. (This provides a "power wash" and a rinse.)

Step eight. Ensure any doors between the bathroom and the outside world are open. (Also, be sure no one is standing between the bathroom and the outside world.)

Step nine. Stand behind the toilet, as far back as is possible, and quickly lift the lids.

Step ten. The cat will rocket out of the now gleaming toilet and run outside where it will dry itself off. After completion of this procedure both the toilet and the cat will be sparkling clean.

I dont get paid for any of this stuff you know? It's all part of my altruistic nature. A service I provide, free of charge, totally gratis, to my legion of puppy fans. I don't require payment, or even gratitude, just the thought that someone, somewhere, is using my method, that they have a sparkly, shiny lavatory and that a cat has suffered greatly is payment enough for me. (Although if any of you fancy sending me a biscuit I wouldn't refuse. I do like a nice biscuit.)

Tuesday, 23 March 2010

Sandy shores

At long last I am free of that infernal lampshade! It was, apparently, put in situ to prevent me from chewing and licking on the wound that the theft of my uterus had left behind. For crying out loud, as if I'd do that anyway? Gross.

By way of celebration, once the vet had done her duty and removed my cone of shame, the long man loaded me into the svan and took me to southport beach for a good, bracing walk. Unfortunately he refused to let me off the lead, so I was forced to bound along the sandy shore like a puppy on a string. I forget sometimes how little trust he has in me, but theres always something there to remind me. Let's face it, anyone who had a heart would give me a little freedom. He used to let me off the lead all the time, those were the days.

On the way back home we stopped off at the big pet shop and he bought me a new collar and lead. The collar is rather nice, but the lead I could live without.

The long man and the clippy cloppy woman went out again this weekend on their Vespa. As ever my peace and quiet was short lived. Just an hour or so after they had popp-popp-popped away up the street in a plume of blue smoke Audrey arrived, with the shouty woman and the clicky ankled lady in tow. I had been saving half of my breakfast for later, but whilst I was greeting the two people Audrey snuck off into the kitchen and ate the bloody lot.

They were here to oversee a man who turned up shortly after their arrival and proceeded to drill holes in the wall, bugger about with the telly thingy and generally make a right mess. Curiously, Audrey informed me before his arrival that he was being sent by a virgin. I was expecting some kind of Messiah type, all long, white, cotton robes and a beard. When he arrived though he was a big, fat bloke with a red jumper and a drill who smelled a little bit like eggs and beer.

On Sunday we went to visit the cat lady. It's been quite a while since we visited her house, and I had been looking forward to the opportunity to have a quiet little word with that bloody cat of hers. The place still has the stomach churning stench of the damnable little turd burier. I wasted no time in tracking her down and found her cowering behind the settee, all hissy and arched. I had more than a few stern words with her vis a vis her recent holiday at my house whilst the long man and I were in exile. I pointed out that I was most unhappy with the odours she'd left behind, told her that I would prefer it if she would stay away and warned her that if she ignored this friendly piece of advice and I ever saw her dirty, filthy, raspy tongued visage within a mile of my house I would rip off her head and pee down the hole. Then I went into the kitchen and ate her food.

The back garden of the cat lady's house had a pond similar to the pond at the clicky ankled lady's house. When last we visited the water in the pond was all hard and slippery, but this time it was much more, well, watery, and had these orange things swimming around in it. The orange things smelled a little like tuna fish, but weren't round and in a tin can. Intrigued, I tried to hook one out with my paw. My goodness, what a furore ensued! The clippy cloppy woman and the cat lady were banging on the kitchen window and screaching like banshees, and the long man came dashing out of the back door waving his arms about with a very disconcerting look on his face. Fair shook me up it did.

I've signed up to Facebook recently and have quite a number of friends on there. I think I've made a bit of a mistake by adding the long man and the clippy cloppy woman though. I've no more secrets, they've stumbled on my blog and now my biscuit ration is suffering. I will not be censored though.

The long man left the house yesterday morning wearing a tie and shiny shoes. I assume that he had to go to court and was being brought to book for some drunken indiscretion, and that he would be forced to spend a little time pleasuring Her Majesty. No such luck, the bugger was back by tea time. He must've got off on some sort of technicality.

Speaking of getting off, I'm going to get off this laptop now. It's late, and since my hysterectomy I like to get a nice early night. Bonne nuit mes amies. (That's for the French readers I now have. It's nice to be nice.)

Monday, 15 March 2010

Wee tim'rous beastie

The long man and the clippy cloppy woman have been out and treated themselves to a new shiny, metal box thingy and made a great deal of noise banging on about how it would be much more family friendly with extra room for yours truly. I note with interest that they seem to have money to throw away on things like that but pigs ears are pretty bloody thin on the ground around here. And they've still never bought me a coat. That said, I did get a little excited when they mentioned I would have a seat of my very own. When I go out with the long man in the svan I get to sit on the seat next to him and have a great view out of the front window. However, when we all went out in the old shiny, metal box thingy I was forced to be squashed between the little people in the back, and those two fiddle and fidget like they've got fleas in their under-crackers. My ribs end up black and blue from the constant pummeling meted out by their boney bloody elbows. But as usual I digress - there was I imagining a sumptuous seat all of my very own, specially contoured for the doggy derriere, and with my very own strappy thing to keep me safe. How wrong can a puppy be? The reality is that the "seat" of my very own is in fact what you people refer to as the boot. That's right, the bloody BOOT, or trunk as our colonial cousins call it. No seat, not even a cushion, and no strappy thing to keep me safe. And what is more there is a fence erected keeping me separate from the rest of them. There's no other word for it, I'm segregated.

One of the little people managed to be really very sick all over himself the other night. The long man, clippy cloppy woman and both little people were supposed to be going to visit the clippy cloppy woman's family for a party the following day and were intending to leave me behind. No great shock there. I was to spend the day with Audrey et al, and although I'd never let them know it I was quite looking forward to that. I'm getting very used to being cast aside at the drop of a hat. Anyway, as it turned out the best laid schemes of mice and long men oft go awry, and the little persons very chocalatey oral emissions put paid to any little junket they may have been planning. My disappointment at missing out on a day of being pampered by the clicky ankled lady was eased by the knowledge that their weekend had been even more ruined than mine.

I have noticed that since the theft of my internal lady parts I have become somewhat melancholy, miserable and morose. A mere shadow of my former self. I can't help but think the two things may be connected somehow. I don't seem to be as excitable as before. For instance, just yesterday the fat, flat faced feline from across the street sauntered almost right up to me when I was taking the long man for some exercise. He was goading me I'm sure, but I just couldn't be bothered. I think I may need a tonic or some kind of pick-me-up. I have heard of something called "a char tea", some kind of hot drink I suppose, that can help after a hysterectomy, but I reckon I've more chance of growing my uterus back than of getting the long man to pay for that. Now, if it were a new car, a lamp for his vespa or some of that drink that makes him sing and wobble, well then his wallet would be out like a shot. But medicine? For Ronnie? Ha. No bloody chance. Honestly, it's like being a Dickensian orphan living with this shower.

The lamp shade into which I've been shackled since my operation is becoming very smelly, and makes it difficult for me to sniff my Pmails properly. On the plus side though, it is becoming very tasty too. I think I shall take myself off and have a bit of a lick of it while I curl up infront of the telly thingy. It's not nearly as flavoursome as my bumhole, but I can't get near my bumhole with this confounded contraption frustrating my every move, so beggars can't be choosers.

And so, dear reader, until next I summon up the energy and volition to pen an entry, I shall bid you all a very fond farewell.

Thursday, 11 March 2010

Call a spayed a spayed

Now I have, in an attempt to educate myself further, read quite a lot about the 1939-1945 conflict with Germany and, more relevantly to this post, the rise and fall of the Nazi party. The atrocities carried out by this frankly evil shower are beyond belief, and it was only a matter of time before both the long man's Grandfathers decided enough was enough and, together with a gang of their pals, went out there and gave the Germans a good old kicking. After a long struggle they defeated Hitler, who only had one ball, Goering, who had two but very small, Himler, who was very similar, poor old Goebbels, who had no balls at all, and all their cohorts. Not only did the long man's Grandfathers fight the good fight, but his Grandmothers also had to suffer terrible hardships such as forgoing bananas and having to substitute gravy browning for stockings. Now, aside from many, many other vile acts and beliefs, one thing that the Nazi's were rather keen on was something called "eugenics". This included some Teutonic tosser by the name of Josef Mengele performing forced hysterectomies on many women, and was one of the things that said Grandparents tried to ensure would never happen again. Well I'm here to tell you, puppy fans, that eugenics is alive and kicking and being performed at the Vets4Pets veterinary clinic in Leyland to this very day! There was I expecting to have my nails clipped or my bottom checked, as usually happens when the long man takes me there, when I felt a sharp scratch on my leg and passed out, only to awake several hours later in a cage, feeling nauseus, with a lamp shade on my head and my uterus in a bucket. Happy? I most certainly am not. The long man came to collect me much later with a nervous smile on his face and a pocket full of biscuits. Just when I start to think that man cannot possible sink any lower he goes out of his way to prove me wrong. I swear the only thing stopping me from attempting to tear his throat out as he sleeps is the cold-war doctrine of mutually assured destruction. That and this bloody lamp shade. It's not all bad news though. For one thing I hate kids anyway, and I am getting a lot more biscuits than usual.

Aside from having my canine rights completely disregarded and my womb horribly violated it's not been such a bad week. Home is fast getting back to how I remember it. Lots of tickles, lots of walking and lots of biscuits. I have also almost competely re-scented every room in the house. That fat, flat faced white cat from over the road got the shock of its short life yesterday when it jumped over my back gate and came face to face with yours truly. If not for this infernal cone I'd have had the little bugger too.

The clippy cloppy woman is still being very nice to me and, since the debacle that resulted in the loss of my ovaries, has become my favourite person by a long chalk. She still has issues with sharing, especially when it comes to the bed, but I'm sure that, given time, we will come to some mutually beneficial arrangement. Especially if she exiles the long man to the spare room.

I have been escorting the little people to school every morning this week. They seem to get a kick out of it and I love them for that. School is, apparently, a place of education but I think that the little people's school is failing them badly. I'm considering phoning Ofsted and getting them to give the little peoples teacher a good kick up the backside. They don't seem to have gotten any brighter since our seperation. Their vocabulary consists of nothing more than "can I have?", "get off that Ronnie it's mine." and "but whyyyyyy?". I have managed to teach one of them to get the lid off my biscuit barrell and sneak me a few of my delicious treats whilst the long man and the clippy cloppy woman are otherwise engaged. Maybe I should take up teaching?

I have the itchiest bumhole EVER, and because of this bloody contraption I've no way of licking or nibbling it. The only relief I get it dragging my bum around the furry things or the clippy cloppy woman's bedding, and that, puppy fans, is what I am going to do right now. Adieu.

Tuesday, 9 March 2010

Be my friend

Just a quick note to let all my adoring public know that I'm now on Facebook... please be my friend! Just search for "Ronnie Barker" and send me a request, I am something of an attention whore and will pretty much accept anyone!

Monday, 8 March 2010

Peace in our time

The long man, now that he is back in the company of the clippy cloppy woman, seems to have gotten over his needy, clingy, pain in the backside phase. On Sunday the two of them took me to the clicky ankled lady's house and left me there while they went off riding their Vespa all around Manchester with a load of their friends. The clicky ankled lady didn't exactly seem enamoured by our arrival at what I heard described as "daft o'clock in the morning". Apparently Sundays are her special days when she stays in bed watching her soaps. Once they had left however I laid on a bit of my old charm and she soon seemed to warm toward me. She made me a nice cup of tea with a biscuit. I do like a nice cup of tea, especially when it comes with a biscuit. Two biscuits would've been nicer though.

The lady that lives with the mumbly man came visiting a little later whilst the clicky ankled lady and I were chillaxing in front of the fire. She has hair the same colour as mine and a funny voice that sounds a little like she's singing when she talks. Now I'm not the kind of puppy dog to turn down a nice walk along the canal so when the goldy singing lady offered to take me I jumped at the chance. Quite literally. We went and got Audrey and the shouty woman too, and off we went.

The canal is very interesting, full of things to sniff and chew, lots of bushes to run through and a multitude of quacky things paddling around to bark at. It really does have it all when it comes to walking venues. After a good while we arrived at one of those pub thingies where the people that can't walk straight go when they're thirsty. We had been there for about ten minutes when, far in the distance, both myself and Audrey heard the unmistakable sound of thirty Vespas approaching. I think the shouty woman and the goldy singing lady need to clean their ears out because they didn't hear it. They didn't even smell the blue smoke five minutes later and were only aware of the long man, clippy cloppy woman and all their ne'er do well associates arrival when they came popp-popp-popping into the car park. The long man was very excited when he saw me there, and bought me my very own packet of crisps.

Later on, when the three of us had arrived back home (Oh I do like the sound of that, "home".) the long man took me for a wander around the neighbourhood. Because of my period in exile there were so many Pmail messages to sniff, it took us ages to get back. Almost immediately upon our return both he and the clippy cloppy woman buggered off out, leaving me all on my little lonesome. Peace at last. About bloody time. Fantastic. The radio tuned to my favourite station, a bowl of food to munch on, a bone to pick at, a pigs ear to crunch away on, and my lovely new bed to lounge about on. They were gone for hours, and I was sound asleep when they returned, bringing the little people with them. The little people weren't in a particularly playful mood though, they could hardly keep their eyes open bless them.

Yellow ribbon day

I'll start with an apology to my legion of regular reading puppy fans, it has been far too long since my last entry and I do hope you all haven't missed me too much. I am all too aware how large a hole my absence will have left in your day to day lives, and I promise I will make more of an effort in the future.

Now that my apology is out of the way I suppose an explanation is in order. Over the last week there have been what one can only describe as an unpheaval of simply epic proportions. And just to make a nice change, the upheaval is actually a very welcome upheaval. I'll start at the very beginning. That is, in my experience, a very good place to start.

First of all there was a nice little break from the monotony of the long man and my worthless existences, we went home! Alright, it was only for one night, but that's better than nothing and these days I'm grateful for even the briefest respite. An even better thing about this most recent visit was that the little people were there! The appear to have shrunk for some reason, they seemed so much littler than when last I saw them. They also seemed much more friendly, none of this "down Ronnie" business for a change. I think it's probably a case of absence making the heart grow fonder. And let's face it, who wouldn't miss the Ronster? The clippy cloppy woman has also changed, I think she has been moulting since she seems to have much less hair than I remember.

It wasn't all good news though. The whole house absolutely stank to high heaven of CAT! The vile stench was everywhere. It turns out that whilst my back was turned the clippy cloppy woman only had one of the dirty, slimey little turd buriers staying there for a week, actually in the house! Her standards have certainly slipped since the long man and my departure. Still, after weeing a couple of times, and pooing once, and rubbing myself against every surface I could I'd pretty much managed to eradicate all traces of her indiscretion.

As ever our visit was all to brief, and we left early the following morning. That, however, was not the end of the story. The clippy cloppy woman came to visit us a couple of days later, and she and the long man spent a lot of time whispering and smiling. Then the big news, the next morning all the long man and my worldly possesions were put in the back of the svan (Depressing that it all fitted in there actually, but I suppose material possesions aren't the "be all and end all" are they?) and we went home, this time for good. All our things back in their rightful place, his clothes in the wardrobe, my bowls by the door, our toys strewn all over the back room and best of all a brand new, big, furry, ultra comfortable bed all of my very own. One I can actually fit in and stretch out on. So decadent.

The following day, back home at our house in the middle of our street, was a day for contemplation. Life, it seems, is just one long succession of ups and downs, like a roller coaster. Plunging downwards is scary, but the feeling of elation when you pull out of the dive and start climbing up out of that trough is phenomenal. You just have to remember to keep your arms (if you have arms) and legs inside the carriage at all times.

Monday, 1 March 2010

It's all gravy

Another week over and done with. All my days seem to be blending seamlessly into one long, tedious, mind numbingly dull period of my worthless existence, due mainly to the long man and my current status as, at least technically, a pair of homeless bums. Tramps. Bloody hobos. The weekends are, however, considerably better, but then how could they not be? I'd have to spend my weekends with my head stuck in a rabbit hole and my tail set on fire for it to be less preferable. Anyway, once again I digress. As I was saying, the weekends are considerably better since we tend to spend them at the clicky ankled lady's house and I get to see plenty of Audrey. I'm no great Audrey fan but at least we speak the same language. Trying to get one of my people to understand what I'm trying to tell them is like, well, I don't know what it's like, it's unique but safe to say bloody difficult.

This weekend was a little bit of a break from the norm in that the long man didn't stay with me. He left me at Audrey and the shouty woman's house, then buggered off to some place called Brighton on a stag. I think he might've been lying. For one thing it would take ages to ride a stag all the way to the south coast and for another I found a train ticket in his pocket when I was rifling throught his jacket looking for chewable stuff. And biscuits. He's a bloody fantasist. He'd spent all week looking forward to his trip but I don't think the reality lived up to his expectations because when he returned to collect me he seemed very down. He was walking ever so slowly, he was moaning and groaning, he was rocking and reeling, he couldn't stand for more than a few minutes at a time and he was a very funny colour. In fact he was, alternately, several very funny colours ranging from a bluey-grey through to a very Simpson-esque yellow. He lounged on the settee all afternoon telling everyone that would listen that he'd had a great time! See what I mean, fantasist, I don't know who he thought he was kidding. Nothing that leaves you looking and feeling that rough could possibly have been in any way enjoyable. Maybe he will think twice before dumping me for his bloody mates next time.

To his credit, before he left, he did take me for a very long walk and then made me a delicious breakfast with extra gravy on. I know it was only because he was feeling guilty but hey, gravy's gravy. And he gave me a brand new bone which had loads and loads of bits of dead cow still attached to it. Very tasty. Unfortunately he neglected to tell the shouty woman that we had already been for our morning meander around the heavily scented streets of Salford, and so just as I was settling down for a morning in front of the telly thingy I was attached to my lead and dragged all around the estate again! Oh and just to add insult to injury, although he didn't mention that important nugget before dumping me he DID tell her that I'd been fed, so I didn't even get seconds to make up for it. That said, the shouty woman is pretty damned generous with her biscuits, and if there's one quality I admire in my people it's generosity with biscuits.

In other news, I was extremely perturbed earlier today when I saw an advertisement for an upcoming movie release. The movie in question is called "Hachi: A Dog's Tale"! Plagerism I thought. I'm not having that I thought. And so I engaged the help of my legal team. Well, when I say "legal team" I actually mean Audrey, but she's pretty clever generally. Her response, as ever, was something less than satisfactory. She told me to get lost. Typical. And this was AFTER she'd eaten the biscuits I gave her in anticipation of her help. The cow. My next idea was to google legal advice on the internet whereupon I came across some disappointing news. Some guy with mad hair and a bushy moustache, Mark Twain, wrote a short story called "A Dog's Tale" slightly before I did. In 1903 actually. All things considered I think I might drop my plans since there's a bloody good chance I'd get my backside sued. You know what people are like these days. Compensation culture and all that. In these litigious times one can't be too careful. I'm still not happy, and I bet the film's crap.

I have become quite obsessed with gardening lately, and I think I have quite an eye for floral design. There was this big, long flowery thing growing up and around the gate in the clicky ankled lady's back garden which was nice but I thought would look better lying on the decking. So, very carefully, I dug it up and placed it there. I was just standing back admiring my work when the clicky ankled lady turned up and, far from being happy, she screamed "My bloody clematis", followed by a load of verbal, and very rude, abuse directed at yours truly. Then, get this, she picked it up and put it in the bin! If that's not a case of cutting off your nose to spite your face then I don't know what is. The long man on the other hand seems quite keen that I should keep on gardening, I heard him on the phone earlier arranging to get me a spade next weekend. I can't wait for that.

Trailer for that film I mentioned...

Tuesday, 23 February 2010

Get me out of here

Bloody hell that long man is getting so very needy of late. He isn't going to work this week, he's poorly (Malingering if you ask me.) with something called "rain hard syndrome" and as a result my routine is all to cock. I did get a chance of a lie in this morning, but I missed my shows on Radio 4 because he had the telly thingy on instead. No "Woman's hour" and I've missed "the Archers" too. He had me lay on his knee this morning for over an hour tickling my ears. I know I've moaned about a lack of special tickles from the long man in recent weeks, I admit I missed them when he and the clippy cloppy woman first parted company, but I've outgrown all that now. Developed other interests. Too little, too late. He can stick his tickles where the sun doesn't shine. (That would be Salford I suppose, all the time we spend over there now and I don't recall seeing the sun once!) And even more annoyingly he asked me if I loved him! Well, I choked on my reply. I'd rather hurt him honestly than mislead him with a lie. Let's face it folks, even if he were in the least little bit lovable, which he most certainly is NOT, I'm a dog. And as such, I have no concept of love. Or hate. So at least I don't hate him. You'd think that would be enough wouldn't you?

According to the clicky ankled lady I have become something of a celebrity in the local pub. At least that's what I think she meant when she called me a "bar star dog" on Saturday when I was emptying the bin in the kitchen for her. I do like to be helpful when the long man and I are staying with her. And to be frank it's a good job I did empty it for her, she was throwing out all sorts of perfectly edible food. She's a very wastful woman indeed.

Speaking of celebrity, it appears that many people, from all over the world, have been reading my inane ramblings. A plethora of puppy fans. Some live in such exotic and far flung places and some of the place names are intriguing. For instance, one reader lives in a place called LABRADOR! I thought I might like to visit Labrador, until I googled it. My word, and there was me thinking Leyland was cold, but it's positively balmy in comparison.

Audrey and I are getting on famously now that we have been spending so much time together. She can still be a little snappy, and bitey, but you know what? I've learnt to rise above it. To be the "bigger" pup. To turn the other cheek. And most importantly, I've learnt to bide my time and wait for the opportunity to put her well and truly in her place once and for all. You see, I have noticed recently that as I get older I get bigger, and stronger. Audrey, on the other hand, seems to be well passed her prime. It is only a matter of time, you just mark my words, before I take my rightful place as top dog around here. There will be no more having to let her eat my bones. No more having to let her play with my toys. No more having to wag my tail and pretend it's ok. Oh no. She will, once I'm fully developed, have to respect my authority.

It's snowing outside. I think I shall drag the long man out to the pet shop. There is not one single piece of dead pig or cow for me to munch on in this dump. I've been having to make do with the occasional packet of crisps or piece of toast and quite simply that just does not cut the mustard. After all, a girl has her waistline to consider. I know it's not P.C. to make statements like that, "body image isn't important", "big is beautiful", but let's face it - it's never the thin puppies that say things like that is it?

Sunday, 21 February 2010

Flails from the riverbank

This week went as the two previous weeks have gone, bloody boring! Goodness gracious me, how I long for a little excitement, a bit of adventure, anything just to break up all of this hardcore monotony that has gotten to be a little bit out of control. It's nice to relax, to chill, to "chillax" as I hear those crazy little people saying but come on, there is a limit to how much tedium a baby puppy can abide. My philosophy is that if you're not living life on the edge then you are taking up too much room. These days I feel a very long way from the edge indeed.
And so, in a nutcase, that was my week. The weekend however, well, that was a very different matter. On Friday evening that man loaded me into the svan for the first time in two weeks, and we set off driving. A ride in the svan always heralds a fun and interesting destination. Or the vets, which is neither fun nor interesting, but generally it's somewhere enjoyable. So off we went, driving through the dark and rain slick streets. He never tells me where we're heading, so I usually make a game of the journey by trying to work it out. It was pitch black outside the svan though, which hampered my ability to ascertain our ultimate objective. At one point we passed a sign for Rivington, but carried on past at break neck speed. Then a little later I saw signs for Leyland. So that was it, I thought, Leyland. Worden park. My most favourite park in the whole wide world. Oh I was so excited. I curled up on the seat, licking my private parts happy with myself for working out our journeys end. I felt the svan bump up onto a kerb and come to a stop. I yawned, I stretched, I glanced out of the window and, to my great surprise, saw that we were at HOME! Real, proper home. Leyland. My home town. Sweet home Leyland, where the skies are so blue! Oh I was in my element, trickling wee as I leapt from the svan and bounded up to the front door where the clippy cloppy woman was waiting.
The old homestead has changed a good deal since that man and I's departure. For one thing the smells are all different now. And the indentation I had spent so many evenings making in the cushion on the settee in the back room has been totally eradicated, no doubt by that nefarious noisy, sucky thing the clippy cloppy woman is totally obsessed with. In fact all vestiges of my time there are gone, and the back yard stinks to high heaven of dirty, filty cats.
The clippy cloppy woman and the long man were all smiley and laughing so I left them too it and took up my favourite snoozing perch on the back of the settee, whereupon I farted and fell asleep, just like I'd never been away. I was awoken some time later when I heard the front door slam and found myself alone in the house - and with the back room door left open giving me an all too rare access all areas evening. All areas except, that is, for the most interesting area, the little people's room. Still, I had plenty to do, rubbing myself against every available surface, sniffing the pillows and chewing the furry thing outside my bedroom.
The clippy cloppy woman and the long man came back quite late and, unusually for them, they were still smiley. The three of us settled down on the settee in front of the telly thingy for some quality time before retiring.
I awoke the following morning and immediately my tail began to wag. Oh I had missed home, I hadn't realised how much until that morning. However, as with so much else in my crappy life, my joy was short lived. As soon as I'd finished my breakfast, just as I was about to go and scratch at the back door, I was bundled into the svan again and taken back to the clicky ankled ladies house. My brief moment of contentment so cruelly snatched from me. Again.
To cheer me up the long man took me to Rivington on the way to Salford, and I must admit it did work for a time. He had brought my favourite ball with him and kept throwing it away then expecting me to fetch it back. I try not to indulge him in that game too much, he loves it but it tires me out. Problem is, once I see that ball flying majestically through the air I just HAVE to chase it. At one point I set off, careering through the undergrowth, the ball in my sights, at full pelt. The ball bounced, I closed in, it bounced again and I was within a hairs breadth of it when, much to my surprise, it disappeared over the edge of a sheer drop! Being as I was totally commited to the chase I followed it and found myself ten feet above the reservoir, legs frantically scrambling for purchase in the air and plummeting, somewhat ungragefully, toward the icy waters below. The impact fair took my breath away. If I didn't know better I'd swear the long man did it on purpose. That said, he did look mortified when I saw him peer over the edge of the precipice from which I'd plunged. Mortified for all of a fifth of a second before bursting into laughter. The git. And I lost my bloody ball. Life on the edge is great, but plummeting from the edge sucks.

Saturday, 20 February 2010

Three's a crowd

A very unexpected visitor arrived on my doorstep this week. There we were, "we" being that bloke and I, sat minding our own business, sharing the settee and staring at the telly thingy, when we heard that "bing bong bing bong" noise that uncannily always seems to happen just before someone comes to the front door. When that bloke opened the door you won't believe who was standing there, only the bloody CLIPPY CLOPPY WOMAN! I was so excited I did a not-so-little wee right there and then. I sniffed and sniffed and sniffed at her and she smelled just like home, wonderful. She also seemed far more friendly than when last I saw her. Funnily enough I'd been thinking about her earlier that evening as the long man had been pushing the noisy, sucky thing all over the furry things just like she used to do at home. And he'd sprayed the air with smelly stuff just like she used to too. She said that I had calmed down a lot since my forced exodus from Leyland. Not surprising really, since I've had no one to play with properly. Well, I've had Audrey, she's fun until she gets in one of her moods, but other than that I've pretty much had to entertain myself. I think I've got stuck in something of a rut.

The two of them sat together on the settee once he had made some drinks, and a little too close together for my liking! I'm not having her muscling her way back in now, where was she when he was smelling all empty? Not here that's for sure. Not putting up with his moods and sulks. Oh no, It was me, muggins here. And so, as I'm sure you will understand puppy fans, I was not in the least bit happy. I clambered up onto the settee next to the clippy cloppy woman, then scrambled over her shoulders and plonked myself right between them, resting my chin on his shoulder and my fragrant back end on her lap. Far from being impressed with my loyalty, and let us not forget it is loyalty that man in no way deserves, he told me to get down. I was somewhat taken aback I must say and didn't know what to do. Was he serious? Was he joking? Nope, he was bloody serious, and he pushed me onto the floor. Bloody cheek, that man has a brass neck.

The clippy cloppy woman stayed for hours, and that man turned the telly thingy off so not only was I ostracised but I was bloody bored too. I fidgeted, I harrumphed, I whimpered, I even tried flatulence as a tool to get a little attention (I had to stop doing that after the third time since I was in danger of soiling myself) but all to no avail. If he thinks he's going to be in line for any of that patented good Ronnie loving this week he's got another think coming.

Sunday, 14 February 2010

Dark rise to handle food

I was rudely awoken this morning, before the sun had come up, even before the flappy, feathery things had started to whistle. That man, you know the one, bounded out of bed like he'd burnt his bum shouting "Come on Ronnie, rise and shine!" Well, reluctantly, I rose, but I can tell you I was in no mood to shine at that ungodly hour of the morning. It was as black as a black Labs backside out there when I ventured out for my morning ablutions. The moon was big and low in the sky and I was overcome with the urge to sing to it, so I climbed up onto the box where they keep the tools and began serenading with all my might. I was just getting into my rythm when "he" called me inside, saying it was too early for all that noise. Too early for all that noise? Too bloody early to drag me out of my pit too but that didn't stop him did it? I don't know if he realises it but a good nights sleep is one part of my very arduous beauty regime. Lots of sleep, lots of walks, lots of water and lots of biscuits. I don't look this good by accident you know.

The obscenely early rise was because "he" was going to ride his scooter, with a load of his ne'er do well friends, to a place called Warrington, and he wanted to make sure I got a good walk beforehand. Well thanks a bunch pal. I'm no expert on health and wellbeing but I'm pretty sure I'd have coped just fine with a nice lie in, rather than being dragged around the freezing cold, poo strewn streets of Wardley at a time when the only other faces you see belong to milk men or burglars. Or cats.

Soon enough after our return to the clicky ankled lady's house "he" buggered off out on that dirty, stinky, noisy Vespa of his. Good bloody riddance. If he's not sulking or moping about he's winding me up in some other way. By this point I was wide awake and now had nothing more interesting to do than lie on the chair chewing my tail.

The clicky ankled lady got up at a far more reasonable hour and went straight into the kitchen where she started cooking a lovely big chunk of dead cow. Oh my, it did smell good. I could hear it sizzling and spitting in the oven, and the delicious aroma eminating from it was mouthwateringly good, making me more and more hungry by the minute. Eventually she took it out of the oven and placed it gently on the worktop, covering it with a tea towel before disappearing up the stairs to stand under that thing that makes it rain warm rain on you. Now what was a pup supposed to do? I can resist anything, with the unfortunate exception of temptation. And so it was that I found myself ever-so-gently pulling the tea towel off the meat, intending to maybe lick a few of the juices, maybe chew a little bit of the fat, possibly even nibble a bit of the hot, succulent cow meat. That was my intention, but unfortunately the towel snagged on the plate and I brought the whole lot crashing down, very noisely, around my ears. I heard the clicky ankled lady shouting and, I'm ashamed to say, I panicked. I even made a little wee. Quickly regaining my composure a plan sprang into my mind... I snatched up the dead cow and ran for it. Okay, maybe not exactly up there with the planning of the great train robbery, but it seemed foolproof at the time. I headed for the patio doors at full pelt, intending to hide the dead cow in the plants for later, when the heat was off. Unfortunately my plan was thwarted by the patio doors being closed and I ran smack bang into them. How, might I enquire, is one supposed to ascertain whether a set of patio doors are open or closed, especially during periods of extreme stress, when you can see straight through them? Bloody infernal glass! My bounty went bouncing and rolling across the furry thing leaving in it's wake great dollops of delicious smelling cow juice before finally coming to rest at the feet of the clicky ankled lady, who had come running down the stairs still dripping wet. I could tell she wasn't very happy as she stooped to pick up the, by now, decidely furry meat. She called me some terrible names and then stormed off into the kitchen where she washed the meat under the tap, picked the hairs off it and said "What he doesn't know wont hurt him." It certainly doesn't seem to have hurt him. The fat pig ate the bloody lot and is currently sat watching crap on the telly thingy and scratching himself.

Saturday, 13 February 2010

My bloody Valentine

So, there is this flower, (Pictured), and it is called a rose. The name, it would seem, doesn't really matter because it is said that no matter what it was called it would smell just as sweet, at least according to some Arab bloke called Sheik Spear. It signifies love, and is one of the most beautiful blooms in all of nature. I saw one today for the first time in the mumbly man's garden and it was indeed a lovely looking thing, and yes, it was rather fragrant. I just had to go and examine it more closely, with a view to seeing if it tastes just as good as it looks. It has these pointy, sharp things all over it called thorns. Now here is a little tip for you, puppy fans - if, whilst having a good sniff of a rose, you get one of your big, soft, floppy ears snagged on one of the thorns do not panic, and more importantly do not, under any circumstances, back off and try to pull it free as I did. That is why I am even now, several hours later, still licking the blood off my coat and sporting a three inch gash on the inside of my ear! So much blood. How much blood do you think a baby puppy has? Well judging by the state of the mumbly man's patio it must be quite a substantial amount. It looked like a scene from C.S.I. by the time I'd finished spurting and dripping all over the place. The-man-who's-name-I-refuse-to-utter was there, fixing the mumbly man's scooter, and called me over saying he would "bathe" my ear. That sounded quite pleasant and so over to him I went. He said he would bathe it in something called "Sir Jiggle spirit" which itself sounded very nice. It bloody well isn't though! By gum it burns! That man is fast taking his place as my number one target come the revolution.

He, you know, that man, he went out last night and left me stuck in with the clicky ankled lady. She's not a great conversationalist, she just sits there staring at the telly thingy and burping. I was bored to bloody tears by nine. I do try to connect with her but for all the good it does I might as well be barking at the wall. That said, she does tend to give me a lot of biscuits, and I do love being given a lot of biscuits.

When "he" went out he was smelling all posh and fruity, but when he came back he smelled of food and was all smiley. It must've been wind though because at the moment I'm sure a smile would crack his miserable face. He has been very secretive about this particular nocturnal wandering but I'll get to the bottom of it, you just mark my words. I don't like being left in the dark.

The clicky ankled lady and the shouty woman went out together today. The clicky ankled lady brought me back a gift! It's about bloody time I started receiving gifts, I was beginning to feel left out. It's called a "Kong" and that man I no longer mention stuffed it full of corned beef. It's VERY nice. It's chewy, it's meaty, it's big and it's bouncy. It's got it all, everything the discerning puppy could want. I urge all you dogs out there to pester the pants off your people and get them to provide you with one. If they refuse, start chewing the furniture, they'll soon change their attitude. Now I'm not a great fan of product placement BUT... if anyone from the manufaturers of my new most favourite toy happen to be reading then a few boxes of biscuits wouldn't go amiss. Let's call it sponsorship. Or a bribe. Whatever. I don't care, a bribe of biscuits by any other name would taste as lovely.

Wednesday, 10 February 2010

Flower arranging and lifes a-changing

I have reluctantly come to a very painful decision today. Henceforth there is to be no more mention of the long man in my blog entries until he decides to buck his ideas up, give his head a wobble and grow a bloody pair. He is seriously beginning to get right on my nerves now. He still smells empty, he still doesn't tickle me like he used to and he still isn't smiling so balls to him, he's on his own. Misery may love company but he can keep it to himself. As I always say, well, as I'm saying now for the first ever time but will probably say again and might do many times, a problem shared is a problem DOUBLED! And that, dear reader, is my final word on the subject.
As it so happens there are plenty of other people around here who are all more than happy to shower me with all the attention a puppy of my calibre so richly deserves. Besides Audrey there are the clicky ankled lady, the shouty woman and the mumbly man from next door. The clicky ankled lady doesn't give me as many treats whilst she is making sandwiches as the clippy cloppy woman does at home, but the work top here is lower and the bin is much easier to open so I can pretty much fend for myself, titbit wise. My life seems to be changing in so many ways at the moment.
Last night I spent the evening at Audrey and the shouty woman's house whilst he-who-shall-not-be-mentioned was at the City match. Shouty woman's settee is very comfortable and is more than big enough to stretch out on without sliding off and banging my chin on the floor. The only downside to being there was that, because Audrey has "sharing issues" (Just one of many "issues" she seems to have.), I wasn't allowed any pig bits to munch on. She can be somewhat vicious where food is concerned. Or toys. Or drinks. Or space on the settee. The other day, in an attempt to bring out her caring side, I gave her my most favourite toy to chew on. I then went and got my second most favourite toy and thought I'd settle down with her for a bit of bonding. I sat down beside her and guess what? Little bitch, she bit my face and took that toy too!
The furry thing on the floor in the clicky ankled lady's house is the same colour as the grass in the park. It's nice, but to my mind was lacking a bit of colour. I thought I would do something nice for the clicky ankled lady and went and dug up some of the flowers from her back garden, then placed them strategically around the back room. Brightened the place up a treat I thought. Admittedly there was still a little bit of soil on them, and on my paws, which was also deposited, unintentionally, on the furry thing, but you can't make an omelette without spilling milk can you? Goodness me, the way she reacted anyone would have thought I'd curled a poo out on her pillow! Such language. That's gratitude for you.

Monday, 8 February 2010

Why does it always rain on me?

The long, and still bloody miserable, man took me to Rivington on Sunday for the first time in ages. Audrey came with us and brought her shouty woman along. We had a great old time dashing through the undergrowth, and Audrey taught me to swim. Afterwards, while we were getting dried off, I told her about the clippy cloppy woman and the long man falling out. She said she had noticed he was a little bit less playful lately. I asked her advice, but she wasn't very helpful really. She said I should either run away or get over it, and in either case I should shut up bothering her. Audrey isn't, it would appear, the most sensitive or caring dog in the world.

This house is very warm, and the clicky ankle lady is forever cooking meaty things which makes the whole place smell absolutely delicious, meaning I'm constantly hungry. An unfortunate coincidence however is that the long man, in his mopey, miserable mood, hasn't stocked up on pigs ears, snouts or genitalia since we left Leyland. As a result I've had to sit munching on the same rotten, stinking chunk of knotted bone for the last two days. There's no hint of flavour left in it and it's all covered in hairs. I'm seriously considering reporting him to the R.S.P.C.A.

On the plus side I'm getting a lot more exercise since we moved here. We go out in the morning before the sun comes up when all the feathery flappy things are whistling, then in the afternoon when all the little people are in the street and then again after the sun goes down, when all the metal box thingies with the blue flashy lights are zooming around the estate. There is an awful lot of dog poo on some of the streets, the dogs around these parts obviously don't seem to take a great deal of pride in training their people. The long man doesn't mind cleaning up after me, he says it keeps his hands warm and stops him from biting his nails so it's all good.

We went out earlier with Audrey and her shouty woman, and Audrey introduced me to a dog called Travis. He's a shitzhu, which isn't, as I used to think, a zoo without any lions, but an exotic breed of dog. I generally prefer my men a little taller, but he is rather good looking. I batted my eyelashes at him and offered my back end for his nasal perusal but he only seemed to have eyes for Audrey. Well, if he prefers the chav type then she's welcome to him, he'll be sorry.

Saturday, 6 February 2010


My life seems to be turning into a soap opera, and I'm getting stuck with all the crappy storylines. Get this for luck. Not only did I never know my father, not only was I taken away from my mothers teat way too young, before I could even walk properly, not only was I dumped in a cold, damp, windy rescue centre before being whisked away from my siblings to live in an insane asylum with a dysfunctional pack of people but now, just as I was getting used to life in the circus that is Leyland, the long man and the clippy cloppy woman have decided they don't want to be together anymore and have parted company! And guess what? Do I get to stay in the only real home I've ever known? Do I balls. Did I even get consulted on what I would like, where I would like to go, who I would like to be with? Did I BALLS. Oh no, apparently my opinion doesn't matter. I've had to come with the long man to sunny Salford where we are staying with the clicky ankled lady. At least if I was back at home I'd have the little people to play with, what have I got here? I'll tell you what I've got, I've got the long man. Normally that would be fine but, by Jove, he's absolutely no fun whatsoever at the moment. Moping around like a big girls blouse, he doesn't even smell the same now. He smells all sort of empty. I've tried everything I can think of to cheer him up. I've licked him, nibbled him, sat on him, lay on him, barked at him, even tried my old failsafe of jumping on his back and biting his ears while he sits on the bed putting his boots on. That has always previously got him laughing. Success rate at the moment - nothing. Zero. Nada. Nil. Not a bloody thing. Okay, so he tickles my ears and tummy, but he doesn't seem interested like before. It's not the same at all. No wonder the clippy cloppy woman binned him if this is what he's like, moody sod. In my opinion the miserable beggar needs a bloody good kick up the backside. He's off out in a little while to go and collect his scooter from Leyland. Maybe that'll put a smile on his face. I swear, if he doesn't buck up soon I am out of here.

In the absence of any meaningful attention from the long man I have had to entertain myself in the back garden, digging up the biscuits that Audrey has buried out there. I think the silly girl was expecting she could grow a biscuit tree. Why bother? Just eat your biscuits, then the long man gets you some more biscuits. It's a win win situation, you can have your biscuit and eat your biscuit. And then have another biscuit. Ad infinitum. And I do like a nice biscuit. The clicky ankled woman says that Audrey will have a pink fit when she finds out what I've done, but no one saw me do anything, she can't prove a thing.

There is a park near here. This park is not nearly as much fun as the park in Leyland though. For one thing there are no fluffy tails to chase. I chase the pigeons. I sometimes chase the sparrows. It gives me a sense of enormous wellbeing. And then I'm happy for the rest of the day, safe in the knowledge that there will always be a bit of my heart devoted to park life.

Tuesday, 2 February 2010

Bitch slapped

Yet another bloody birthday this week. Well, two birthdays technically. It was the little people's turn to get showered with gifts. They're both from the same litter it seems, so share the same birthday. As a result, with a number of exceptions, I had a relatively peaceful weekend. Both the little people and the clippy cloppy woman disappeared off out early on the Saturday morning and stayed out till the early evening. And then, when they did finally grace us with their prescence it was only for long enough to get changed and bugger off out again to go to their party at a place called Cheeky Monkeys. (Very fitting I thought.) They came home, hours later, all sweaty and shiny and running around like a pair of demented fluffy tails. I'd assumed that they would be tired out after all the excitement, I know I am after a visit to the woods, but no. Mad as a bag of frogs the pair of them. The long man said it was probably due to all the sugar they had eaten and that it had made their "bloody eye purr". Something to do with cats not doubt. Those filthy, rotten creatures are the bane of my life. (And the cats aren't much better!)
On the Sunday the long man, clippy cloppy woman and both the little people had tickets to go to the football match. The long man's beloved Man City were playing Portsmouth. I naturally assumed that would mean I would have a lovely, relaxing day, chewing the Sunday papers and licking my privates. But, alas, I was bundled into the car and driven to Audreys house to spend the day there, where I had to put up with the shouty woman, being shouty. I really don't know how Audrey puts up with it, it would drive me insane. My nerves were in tatters by the time my people came back for me.
Whilst at Audrey's house I tried a little bit of her food. I say a little bit, it was quite a lot actually. I intended to take a mouthful or two but my, it's moreish! Not like the dry, crunchy crap the long man gets for me. Oh no, Audreys food is moist, it's meaty, it's delicious! I think I have gotten the pooey end of the stick diet wise. That said, Audrey doesn't get a pigs ear, snout or willy for an evening treat so, as with many other things in life, it's just a case of swings and roundabouts I suppose.
One day late last week the long man decided he wasn't going to go to work. He said he was "pulling a sicky" and that his boss could go and do "four coughs", or something like that. Anyway, as a result we had an entire afternoon together in the woods. I say together, insofar as we were both in the same woods at the same time, but bless him, the long man isn't as young as he once was and tends to lag quite a long way behind and, just like time, this pup waits for no man. I saw many of the usual dogs, some of whom I am becoming very friendly with. And I seem to be getting really very popular with the people the dogs bring with them. Some of the people even give me a biscuit or two, and I do love a good biscuit. Or two. I prefer two actually. Who wouldn't?
While we were in the woods there was one nasty moment. A young springer spaniel by the name of Princess took an instant and quite disproportionatley violent dislike to my sniffing her bottom and attacked me. ME, Ronnie the Ronster, the most popular pup in the park! Well, initially, she got the upper paw, had me flat on my back and was biting my neck. I was just about to show her a few of my moves, you know, slap her around a bit and teach her a bit of a lesson when, out of nowhere, the long man appeared and smacked the bitch right in the head, then kicked her up the bottom. Obviously I don't want to sound ungrateful because he thought he was helping, but I had it under control. I was just about to open a can of whoop ass on her. I'd have had her crying for her mother. Still, fair play to the long man. We're a team I suppose, I provide the brains and the beauty and he provides the brawn. And the biscuits.
Well, I must sign off for now. I have an appointment at my Vets to get my nails clipped. Strangely, it seems the Vets have diversified and are now selling hardware and tools. I know this because the long man said he is going to get me a spade. I do hope he doesn't expect me to do any gardening after I've had my nails done, he will be bitterly disappointed.
Tata for now, puppy fans.