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.

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