Thursday, 14 January 2010

Labour of love

Whilst on one of the long man and I's regular jaunts around the thriving metropolis that is Leyland yesterday I met a yellow Labrador by the name of Gordon. An unusual name for a dog I thought. I had a very interesting conversation with him. He was telling me he has a job, like the long man and the clippy cloppy woman have. His job title is "guide dog for the blind" which sounded very grand to me. Having been feeling somewhat unfulfilled of late I enquired about possible career opportunities in his industry. His job basically entails wandering around with a person tied to his back and making sure said person doesn't get run over by one of those shiny metal box thingies. Sounded a doddle and seems to have plenty of scope for a little mischievous fun, such as leading the person into a tree or a lamp post, or even a river, and so I asked about the pay. Get this - apparently he gets two meals a day, a few handfuls of biscuits, a nice comfortable bed to sleep in and the occasional stroke. Balls to that! I get all of that, and more, now, without having to lift a claw. And here was I believing slavery had been abolished. Gordon says it's a calling. Gordon says it's a labour of love. Gordon is a moron. His bottom did smell rather nice though.
And now for the big news. The long man took me to Worden park earlier today, and guess what? He took my lead off and let me run free, free I tell you, free as a flappy, feathery thing that whistles. Now I know what Nelson Mandela was banging on about all them years. Oh what a feeling. The wind whistling through my hair as I bounded through the bushes and bracken, whatever bracken is. The long man had brought a ball with him and threw it, then just stood there like a big gormless imbecile. I went and got it for him, brought it back and gave it him and then as soon as I turned my back he threw it away again. The muppet. I had to keep going and getting it, over and over again. I must say, that game got old pretty damn fast.

Tuesday, 12 January 2010

Ruff justice

The little people and the clippy cloppy woman came along with the long man and I for a nice walk in Worden park on Sunday. I say a nice walk, that's what it would've been if not for their incessant whining. "I'm cold", "Can we go home yet?" and "Whyyyy". Oh they make my blood boil sometimes. I mean, I think you all know by now that I'm not one to complain but come on, moaning about being cold when I'm stood there stark bloody naked. The irony of it all.

And while we're on the subject of injustice, I couldn't help but notice that, invariably, every other dog we come across whilst in the park is unrestrained. What's the deal with that? The long man has absolutely NO reason to believe that I would run away if not tied to his wrist, although given half a chance obviously I would. I'd be off like a shot. Arrivederci suckers. But that's not the point, the point is that he has NO reason to believe I would. Yet still I'm tied to his arm. What ever happened to innocent until proven guilty? Brown's Britain eh? So much for a free country. Why not go the whole hog, put a bag over my head, dress me in an orange jump suit and whip the soles of my paws with a rubber hose? At least then I'd not be bloody naked.

When we got back to this dump we call home the long man decided I needed a bath. The cheek of it. I'd just had a good roll in some fox poo in the woods so I know I was smelling fine! He slung me into three inches of luke warm water and scrubbed me to within an inch of my life with some foul smelling substance. He didn't even use conditioner. The good rubbing I received with the towel afterwards was rather enjoyable though, as was jumping all over the long man whilst I was still sopping wet through.

And now, ladies and gentlemen, I must bid you adieu. I have to arrange a meeting between the kitchen floor and one of my fragrant, curly poos. These little pleasures are all that keep me going sometimes.