How clean is your mouser

The clippy cloppy woman is a big fan of a program on the telly thingy called "How Clean Is Your House" in which two rather ropey looking old dears go around to peoples homes to patronise them and play with faecal matter. They give you tips on how to keep your house spick and span. These so called tips, however, invariably mean you have to get your hands dirty. Well, I have come up with the perfect, faecal-matter-under-the-fingernails free way of keeping your toilet in a pristine condition. Just follow these ten easy steps to a perfectly polished pan....

Step one. Lift both the lids of your toilet and pour in a couple of capfuls of shampoo.

Step two. Get a sack and a can of tuna fish.

Step three. Place the opened can of tuna fish just inside your open back door, then crouch behind said back door with the sack.

Step four. Wait for a passing turd burier to attempt to steal the tuna.

Step five. Jump on the feline fish felon and stuff it into the sack. (I recommend wearing gloves for this part.)

Step six. Empty the sack into the toilet and quickly slam shut both toilet lids. (You may need to stand on the lid at this point.) The cat will self-agitate and make ample suds. (Don't be put off by the noises emanating from the toilet, these are noises of pleasure and the cat is in reality having a great old time thrashing around in there.)

Step seven. Flush the toilet four or five times. (This provides a "power wash" and a rinse.)

Step eight. Ensure any doors between the bathroom and the outside world are open. (Also, be sure no one is standing between the bathroom and the outside world.)

Step nine. Stand behind the toilet, as far back as is possible, and quickly lift the lids.

Step ten. The cat will rocket out of the now gleaming toilet and run outside where it will dry itself off. After completion of this procedure both the toilet and the cat will be sparkling clean.

I dont get paid for any of this stuff you know? It's all part of my altruistic nature. A service I provide, free of charge, totally gratis, to my legion of puppy fans. I don't require payment, or even gratitude, just the thought that someone, somewhere, is using my method, that they have a sparkly, shiny lavatory and that a cat has suffered greatly is payment enough for me. (Although if any of you fancy sending me a biscuit I wouldn't refuse. I do like a nice biscuit.)

Sandy shores

At long last I am free of that infernal lampshade! It was, apparently, put in situ to prevent me from chewing and licking on the wound that the theft of my uterus had left behind. For crying out loud, as if I'd do that anyway? Gross.

By way of celebration, once the vet had done her duty and removed my cone of shame, the long man loaded me into the svan and took me to southport beach for a good, bracing walk. Unfortunately he refused to let me off the lead, so I was forced to bound along the sandy shore like a puppy on a string. I forget sometimes how little trust he has in me, but theres always something there to remind me. Let's face it, anyone who had a heart would give me a little freedom. He used to let me off the lead all the time, those were the days.

On the way back home we stopped off at the big pet shop and he bought me a new collar and lead. The collar is rather nice, but the lead I could live without.

The long man and the clippy cloppy woman went out again this weekend on their Vespa. As ever my peace and quiet was short lived. Just an hour or so after they had popp-popp-popped away up the street in a plume of blue smoke Audrey arrived, with the shouty woman and the clicky ankled lady in tow. I had been saving half of my breakfast for later, but whilst I was greeting the two people Audrey snuck off into the kitchen and ate the bloody lot.

They were here to oversee a man who turned up shortly after their arrival and proceeded to drill holes in the wall, bugger about with the telly thingy and generally make a right mess. Curiously, Audrey informed me before his arrival that he was being sent by a virgin. I was expecting some kind of Messiah type, all long, white, cotton robes and a beard. When he arrived though he was a big, fat bloke with a red jumper and a drill who smelled a little bit like eggs and beer.

On Sunday we went to visit the cat lady. It's been quite a while since we visited her house, and I had been looking forward to the opportunity to have a quiet little word with that bloody cat of hers. The place still has the stomach churning stench of the damnable little turd burier. I wasted no time in tracking her down and found her cowering behind the settee, all hissy and arched. I had more than a few stern words with her vis a vis her recent holiday at my house whilst the long man and I were in exile. I pointed out that I was most unhappy with the odours she'd left behind, told her that I would prefer it if she would stay away and warned her that if she ignored this friendly piece of advice and I ever saw her dirty, filthy, raspy tongued visage within a mile of my house I would rip off her head and pee down the hole. Then I went into the kitchen and ate her food.

The back garden of the cat lady's house had a pond similar to the pond at the clicky ankled lady's house. When last we visited the water in the pond was all hard and slippery, but this time it was much more, well, watery, and had these orange things swimming around in it. The orange things smelled a little like tuna fish, but weren't round and in a tin can. Intrigued, I tried to hook one out with my paw. My goodness, what a furore ensued! The clippy cloppy woman and the cat lady were banging on the kitchen window and screaching like banshees, and the long man came dashing out of the back door waving his arms about with a very disconcerting look on his face. Fair shook me up it did.

I've signed up to Facebook recently and have quite a number of friends on there. I think I've made a bit of a mistake by adding the long man and the clippy cloppy woman though. I've no more secrets, they've stumbled on my blog and now my biscuit ration is suffering. I will not be censored though.

The long man left the house yesterday morning wearing a tie and shiny shoes. I assume that he had to go to court and was being brought to book for some drunken indiscretion, and that he would be forced to spend a little time pleasuring Her Majesty. No such luck, the bugger was back by tea time. He must've got off on some sort of technicality.

Speaking of getting off, I'm going to get off this laptop now. It's late, and since my hysterectomy I like to get a nice early night. Bonne nuit mes amies. (That's for the French readers I now have. It's nice to be nice.)

Yellow ribbon day

I'll start with an apology to my legion of regular reading puppy fans, it has been far too long since my last entry and I do hope you all haven't missed me too much. I am all too aware how large a hole my absence will have left in your day to day lives, and I promise I will make more of an effort in the future.

Now that my apology is out of the way I suppose an explanation is in order. Over the last week there have been what one can only describe as an unpheaval of simply epic proportions. And just to make a nice change, the upheaval is actually a very welcome upheaval. I'll start at the very beginning. That is, in my experience, a very good place to start.

First of all there was a nice little break from the monotony of the long man and my worthless existences, we went home! Alright, it was only for one night, but that's better than nothing and these days I'm grateful for even the briefest respite. An even better thing about this most recent visit was that the little people were there! The appear to have shrunk for some reason, they seemed so much littler than when last I saw them. They also seemed much more friendly, none of this "down Ronnie" business for a change. I think it's probably a case of absence making the heart grow fonder. And let's face it, who wouldn't miss the Ronster? The clippy cloppy woman has also changed, I think she has been moulting since she seems to have much less hair than I remember.

It wasn't all good news though. The whole house absolutely stank to high heaven of CAT! The vile stench was everywhere. It turns out that whilst my back was turned the clippy cloppy woman only had one of the dirty, slimey little turd buriers staying there for a week, actually in the house! Her standards have certainly slipped since the long man and my departure. Still, after weeing a couple of times, and pooing once, and rubbing myself against every surface I could I'd pretty much managed to eradicate all traces of her indiscretion.

As ever our visit was all to brief, and we left early the following morning. That, however, was not the end of the story. The clippy cloppy woman came to visit us a couple of days later, and she and the long man spent a lot of time whispering and smiling. Then the big news, the next morning all the long man and my worldly possesions were put in the back of the svan (Depressing that it all fitted in there actually, but I suppose material possesions aren't the "be all and end all" are they?) and we went home, this time for good. All our things back in their rightful place, his clothes in the wardrobe, my bowls by the door, our toys strewn all over the back room and best of all a brand new, big, furry, ultra comfortable bed all of my very own. One I can actually fit in and stretch out on. So decadent.

The following day, back home at our house in the middle of our street, was a day for contemplation. Life, it seems, is just one long succession of ups and downs, like a roller coaster. Plunging downwards is scary, but the feeling of elation when you pull out of the dive and start climbing up out of that trough is phenomenal. You just have to remember to keep your arms (if you have arms) and legs inside the carriage at all times.

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!

Wolves v City, dog v kitty

The long man, clippy cloppy woman, little people, cat lady and myself went out yesterday for a lovely long walk. We travelled in the metal box thingy for miles and miles to a place called Southport where we walked along a moist, sandy thing full of shells and sticks and dead fish and poo. We encountered a number of other dogs during the walk, most friendly, although one bit me on the backside, and I noticed something. The vast majority of the dogs I met were wearing jackets, like the jackets the people wear to keep them warm. Now as you know I'm not one to complain, I don't ask for much, food, warmth, squeaky toys, the odd tickle, my own side of the bed and biscuits (I love biscuits) but I can't help but feel a little hard done by now. Is it really too much for a puppy to expect a few creature comforts? A coat, some shoes, maybe even a little purse wouldn't go amiss. I'd probably be peeing against the wind expecting such things off the clippy cloppy woman, but I reckon a few days staring lovingly into my long man's eyes might do the trick. For now I'll have to make do with the rather un-ladylike woolly hat I stole off one of the little people.

The long man gets particularly excited whenever his favourite program is on the telly thingy in the front room. It's called the City match, and I must say it does look like fun, loads of people chasing a ball around a field, but it's never really held much appeal for me. Last night, however, I heard him say that City were playing against WOLVES! Well, that really whetted my appetite. There was I, sat expectantly on the settee next to the long man waiting for kick off and looking forward to seeing my brethren make mincemeat, quite literally, of his beloved City when, imagine my disappointment, instead of actual wolves another bunch of ordinary people wearing orange shirts lined up against them. I left him to it and retired to the back room for a private session of back leg nibbling and toy chewing.

Today the long man was conspicuous by his absence. The clippy cloppy woman made up for it by taking the little people and I to the cat ladies house again. It was there I learned why the cat lady smells of cat. She's only got one of the bloody things living in the house, actually IN the house, with her! Disgusting. There was I, merrily sauntering my way across the kitchen floor when I saw it, all puffed up and hissy. I was mortified. Vile, horrid creature. You know, if cats actually looked like what they really are NO ONE would allow them in their houses. They act so whiter than white, holier than thou, all "look at me I'm cleaner than a dog", when really they are nothing more than killing machines. Filthy murderers. You can't trust a cat. There's a reason why they don't use cats to herd sheep you know. You'd have no bloody sheep left, they'd eat them all soon as look at them. No no no, you can't trust a cat, not like you can trust a dog. First chance they got they'd have your bloody eyes out, then they'd sit there all "oooh shame you can't see me, I'm licking my paw and cleaning your blood off my face with it, aren't I just purr-fect?". Well, cat lovers, (A practice which is illegal by the way!) answer me this... what kind of dirty, filthy creature washes it's face with it's own spit? Makes me shudder just to think about it. And don't get me started on the raspy tongue business, what's all that about?