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.