Pizza Mutt

Apologies for the tardiness of this, my latest, entry. It's not, truth be told, that I have been particularly busy, just lazy. I thought about sitting down and writing something a few times over the weekend but couldn't be bothered. They do say though that it's the thought that counts, so that's okay then. I hope my candour is refreshing. I find that honesty is generally the best policy, unless of course the long man or the clippy cloppy woman are asking who has chewed the letters up or where their slippers have gone. In situations like that I find, rather than honesty, the best policy is to try and look terribly cute and say nothing.

The scratchy chinned man and his special friend came to visit me this weekend and he introduced me to the delights of pizza. Apparently they come in many varieties but the particular pizza he shared with me was called an "American Hot". I'm not sure if they use actual Americans, but they certainly make it hot. Not only did it make my tongue feel all burny, but it made my other end burny too. I could have done with discovering Hot Americans when the back yard was still covered in snow and I was squatting out there freezing my bits off.

I have discovered a voyeuristic side and have taken to spending great chunks of my day sat on the long man's bed and staring out of the window. There isn't actually anything of interest ever seems to happen on this street. I have seen, on the television thingy downstairs, a show called Coronation Street, and that seems much more interesting. They have murders and all sorts of shenanigans. Sat in the window upstairs the most interesting thing I see out there is the filthy cat that lives across the road. Sitting in the window, day in, day out, licking his dirty privates and giving me the evils. Oh how I'd love to bump into the furry little scum bag face to face, see how cocky he is then!

My time at the window, contemplating life, has revealed in me a previously unknown creative side, and I've written a little poem on a subject close to my heart. It's called "Nemesis" and I offer it for your perusal here dear reader......

Nails down a chalkboard,

Bills landing on the mat,

But nothing's really quite as bad,

As a dirty, filthy cat.

Hissy, scratchy creatures,

Full of bloody fleas,

I wish I had a shotgun,

I'd shoot 'em in the knees.

I'd put them in a bin bag,

I'd take away their cream,

I'd add a brick and tie it up

And throw them in a stream.

I've seen so many things,

But nothing quite as pretty,

As a cardboard box that's set on fire

Filled with a screaming kitty!

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."