Saturday, 9 January 2010

Hungry like the wolf

The long man and I went for yet another road trip today, we certainly seem to be clocking up the miles in the svan lately. He said we were going to a place called "Leeds", which got me rather excited. I'd imagined Leeds to be some kind of shop, purveyors of the finest quality pet accessories, and that I was in line for a nice new coat, but no, it's a town, a very cold, hilly, long long way away town where the scratchy chinned man and his special friend live. It was apparently the scratchy chinned mans birthday today and we were delivering a gift to him. Another gift. They don't know they're born these crazy kids. I don't get gifts. No coats, no shoes, no handbags, not a bloody thing. Unless you count biscuits. I get a lot of biscuits. Are biscuits gifts? I'm not so sure. I mean, they're nice, very welcome, a treat I suppose. But a gift? I think not. A coat, that would be a gift. Still, I do like a nice biscuit.
The journey there took absolutely ages and I was, I'm ashamed to say, very slightly sick all over myself. The svan was bouncing about a lot so maybe that was why. Or maybe it was because I ate the chocolate orange I found behind the settee this morning. Who knows? Anyway, as a result of my multi-coloured and very chocolaty yawn I was absolutely ravenous by the time we arrived at the scratchy chinned man's house. I bounded in and immediately started searching for food. It would appear that the scratchy chinned man and his special friend don't own any little people of their own because the floors were completely devoid of even the tiniest morsel of food. Not even under the beds. As I think has become obvious by now I am not a fan of little people, but they are a convenient source of left over and forgotten about food. They're so absent minded, I never forget a piece of food. Hey ho, their loss. The scratchy chinned mans special friend shared some cheese with me though, which was nice, and the scratchy chinned man fed me biscuits, lots of biscuits, and I do love being fed lots of biscuits. I wolfed them down.
The scratchy chinned man has an enormous garden and it was shoulder deep in crisp, fluffy snow. I had a great time bounding and tunnelling through it. Until, that is, my intimate feminine area began to turn blue and I had to go inside. Thankfully the scratchy chinned man's house has those carpet things on the floor like the clicky ankled lady's house, and that, combined with a good licking session, ensured that I was soon back "in the pink" so to speak.
The long man went out this evening and came back with an enormous great bucket of fried chicken from some bloke named Ken. Ken is certainly a very good fryer of chicken, and the long man is certainly a very good sneak-a-bit-of-fried-chicken-to-the-pup-without-the-clippy-cloppy-woman-noticing-er. All in all, vomit not withstanding, a pretty good day.

Thursday, 7 January 2010

Pup fiction

I hadn't actually noticed until last night, what with all the comings and goings lately, but my little people have been away. Gutted. Not gutted because they've been away, but gutted because I wasn't aware of it. I could've been having a fine old time lazing around on their bed and chewing their toys. In they walked last night without so much as a by your leave and took control of the front room. They started that "down Ronnie" and "no Ronnie thats mine Ronnie" business quicker than you could say "Grrrrr". They don't seem to realise that I have spent many hours this week laying down my scent. They really must learn to respect my authority and realise that if I've peed on it, it's mine!

It's VERY cold outside at the moment and the long man still hasn't bought me a bloody coat! I notice he has taken to wearing TWO coats whenever we venture outside lately, and a hat, and a scarf, and a pair of gloves. Then he spends nearly all the time we're walking moaning about how cold it is. I'm well aware how cold it is, I'm stark bloody naked! He's lovely, but my goodness he can be thoughtless sometimes.

A bit of a break from the norm now, I generally like to be factual in my entries but I'm going to throw in a bit of fiction for a change. I heard a joke this week and thought I'd share it with you. I've been rehearsing it for ages. It goes like this.... Theres this dog, crawling throught the desert under a blazing sun, dragging his back leg behind him and leaving a little trail of blood in the sand. He crawls all day and all night, then the next morning comes upon a little Western town full of cowboys and red Indians. (Ooops, how un-P.C. of me, I of course mean native Americans.) He crawls up the main street and heaves himself up on the hitching post, standing on his hind legs, and limps into the hardware store where he buys himself a little stetson, a little waistcoat, a little pair of boot, pair of spurs, gunbelt and two little six shooters. Then he limps across the street and into the saloon. He looks left and right real slow, then spies black Jake, leaning on the bar with his back to him. He draws his guns and shoots Jake in the back, twelve times, killing him stone dead. The Sherriff grabs the dog and drags him to the cells. Once the dog is safely locked up the sherriff says to him "Boy, we gunna hang you tomorrow, you wanna tell me why you did it?" The dog looks the Sherriff straight in the eye and says...

"He shot my paw."