Watching paint dry

Welcome, dear reader, to the fiftieth entry in my now legendary and universally adored blog. Thanks to you all for your support.

And now that the platitudes are out of the way I'll crack on with my inane ramblings.

Firstly, as much as it sticks in my craw to have to admit it, I may have understimated the long man. Either that or, as is more likely, I have very much overestimated the quite obviously tin pot organisation to whom he'd applied when looking for his new job. He's only gone and got the position, leaving me wondering just how many backsides he has had to sniff to swing that one. Oh, and get this, a man's best friend is, supposedly, his dog. Ergo, I am the long man's best friend, but did he bother to tell me about his little bit of good luck? Did he buggery. I only found out about it via Facebook. Bloody typical.

For a change, and a very pleasant change indeed, the news that he has wrangled himself a half decent job has kept a smile on his face. The clippy cloppy woman took a couple of days off work as the weekend approached and continued her love affair with the noisy, sucky thing and the tins of smelly stuff. I wouldn't mind quite so much if not for the fact that I heard her mention she wants to move house. If that is to be the case, then why the hell does she have to keep cleaning this one? Pointless in the extreme if you ask me. Shame she never asks me, I could make her life so much easier if she did.

The little people have gone to stay with their father for a couple of weeks. Apparently this time of year is called "Easter" and is some kind of religious festival where, as far as I can ascertain, people celebrate a magic rabbit that lays chocolate eggs. Religion is something of a mystery to me, I just can't get my head around it.

On Friday I was sent to stay with Audrey et al in Salford so that the long man and the clippy cloppy woman could (surprise surprise) go off gallavanting around North Yorkshire to a place called "Whitby" on that damned Vespa of theirs. As far as I can figure they planned to drink lots of that stuff that makes you wee a lot and wobble, eat burgers and then sleep in a field. They really know how to have a good time eh?

My weekend was possibly marginally more fun than theirs. Also marginally more fun than having your tail nailed to a plank. In case you've missed the sarcasm here let me be frank, it was crap. It was as boring as a boring thing, and then some. Audrey stayed out of the way for the most part, she's not daft. The shouty woman spent most of the first day smearing that coloured stuff all over the walls in the kitchen and left me to my own devices. I just lay in the doorway and watched.

The clicky ankled lady spent most of her time making "tut" noises and getting in the shouty woman's way. Getting in the shouty woman's way is not to be advised. Unless you like her being more shouty than usual. I personally am not even keen on the level of shoutiness she already seems to have attained. My nerves were in tatters.

Once all the colouring in, tutting and shouting ended I retired to my favourite spot in front of the hot, flickery, burny thing in the clicky ankled lady's living room, anticipating an evening of quality time and biscuits. I do like quality time. And biscuits. Next thing I know, the clicky ankled lady gets her coat on and buggers off out for the evening without so much as a by your leave. And there was I thinking the whole point of my having to stay the night in Salford was so that I would have a little company. I might as well have just stayed at home.

The following day wasn't as bad though. Obviously riddled by guilt the long man and the clippy cloppy woman decided to treat me to a lovely, long walk around Worden park for the first time in ages. Not before time too. Free of the lead at last I made it my mission to get as dirty and stinky as I possibly could before getting back in the metal box thingy, and let me tell you - Worden park in April was designed for getting a puppy filthy. I was chest deep in mud at several points during the walk. The river at this time of year is much deeper too, more than deep enough for swimming in. I was having a fine old time bounding through the undergrowth, squelching through the marshy bits and diving in and out of the stinking water when the long man decided he wanted to play with that bloody tennis ball of his. He took it out of his pocket and proceeded to throw it around with gay abandon. I have now, however, put an end to that particular annoyance. I accidentally on purpose managed to lose it in the river. It took me two attempts, the first time it bobbed to the surface for the long man to retrieve. But the second time, being the clever puppy I am, I ensured that I put a hole in the damned thing first so that it sank like a brick. I did feel a pang of guilt when I saw the look on his face as he realised it was gone forever, but I soon got over that. Life, dear reader, is too short for regrets. And it is too bloody short for chasing tennis balls around.

I'm getting a bit of peace and quiet today since the long man and the clippy cloppy woman have gone over to Salford to arrange with their ne'er do well friends an open day for the scooter club next Sunday. Whatever keeps them out of my fur is all good so far as I am concerned, just so long as they don't expect me to be going to the open day with them.

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.)

Peace in our time

The long man, now that he is back in the company of the clippy cloppy woman, seems to have gotten over his needy, clingy, pain in the backside phase. On Sunday the two of them took me to the clicky ankled lady's house and left me there while they went off riding their Vespa all around Manchester with a load of their friends. The clicky ankled lady didn't exactly seem enamoured by our arrival at what I heard described as "daft o'clock in the morning". Apparently Sundays are her special days when she stays in bed watching her soaps. Once they had left however I laid on a bit of my old charm and she soon seemed to warm toward me. She made me a nice cup of tea with a biscuit. I do like a nice cup of tea, especially when it comes with a biscuit. Two biscuits would've been nicer though.

The lady that lives with the mumbly man came visiting a little later whilst the clicky ankled lady and I were chillaxing in front of the fire. She has hair the same colour as mine and a funny voice that sounds a little like she's singing when she talks. Now I'm not the kind of puppy dog to turn down a nice walk along the canal so when the goldy singing lady offered to take me I jumped at the chance. Quite literally. We went and got Audrey and the shouty woman too, and off we went.

The canal is very interesting, full of things to sniff and chew, lots of bushes to run through and a multitude of quacky things paddling around to bark at. It really does have it all when it comes to walking venues. After a good while we arrived at one of those pub thingies where the people that can't walk straight go when they're thirsty. We had been there for about ten minutes when, far in the distance, both myself and Audrey heard the unmistakable sound of thirty Vespas approaching. I think the shouty woman and the goldy singing lady need to clean their ears out because they didn't hear it. They didn't even smell the blue smoke five minutes later and were only aware of the long man, clippy cloppy woman and all their ne'er do well associates arrival when they came popp-popp-popping into the car park. The long man was very excited when he saw me there, and bought me my very own packet of crisps.

Later on, when the three of us had arrived back home (Oh I do like the sound of that, "home".) the long man took me for a wander around the neighbourhood. Because of my period in exile there were so many Pmail messages to sniff, it took us ages to get back. Almost immediately upon our return both he and the clippy cloppy woman buggered off out, leaving me all on my little lonesome. Peace at last. About bloody time. Fantastic. The radio tuned to my favourite station, a bowl of food to munch on, a bone to pick at, a pigs ear to crunch away on, and my lovely new bed to lounge about on. They were gone for hours, and I was sound asleep when they returned, bringing the little people with them. The little people weren't in a particularly playful mood though, they could hardly keep their eyes open bless them.

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.

My bloody Valentine

So, there is this flower, (Pictured), and it is called a rose. The name, it would seem, doesn't really matter because it is said that no matter what it was called it would smell just as sweet, at least according to some Arab bloke called Sheik Spear. It signifies love, and is one of the most beautiful blooms in all of nature. I saw one today for the first time in the mumbly man's garden and it was indeed a lovely looking thing, and yes, it was rather fragrant. I just had to go and examine it more closely, with a view to seeing if it tastes just as good as it looks. It has these pointy, sharp things all over it called thorns. Now here is a little tip for you, puppy fans - if, whilst having a good sniff of a rose, you get one of your big, soft, floppy ears snagged on one of the thorns do not panic, and more importantly do not, under any circumstances, back off and try to pull it free as I did. That is why I am even now, several hours later, still licking the blood off my coat and sporting a three inch gash on the inside of my ear! So much blood. How much blood do you think a baby puppy has? Well judging by the state of the mumbly man's patio it must be quite a substantial amount. It looked like a scene from C.S.I. by the time I'd finished spurting and dripping all over the place. The-man-who's-name-I-refuse-to-utter was there, fixing the mumbly man's scooter, and called me over saying he would "bathe" my ear. That sounded quite pleasant and so over to him I went. He said he would bathe it in something called "Sir Jiggle spirit" which itself sounded very nice. It bloody well isn't though! By gum it burns! That man is fast taking his place as my number one target come the revolution.

He, you know, that man, he went out last night and left me stuck in with the clicky ankled lady. She's not a great conversationalist, she just sits there staring at the telly thingy and burping. I was bored to bloody tears by nine. I do try to connect with her but for all the good it does I might as well be barking at the wall. That said, she does tend to give me a lot of biscuits, and I do love being given a lot of biscuits.

When "he" went out he was smelling all posh and fruity, but when he came back he smelled of food and was all smiley. It must've been wind though because at the moment I'm sure a smile would crack his miserable face. He has been very secretive about this particular nocturnal wandering but I'll get to the bottom of it, you just mark my words. I don't like being left in the dark.

The clicky ankled lady and the shouty woman went out together today. The clicky ankled lady brought me back a gift! It's about bloody time I started receiving gifts, I was beginning to feel left out. It's called a "Kong" and that man I no longer mention stuffed it full of corned beef. It's VERY nice. It's chewy, it's meaty, it's big and it's bouncy. It's got it all, everything the discerning puppy could want. I urge all you dogs out there to pester the pants off your people and get them to provide you with one. If they refuse, start chewing the furniture, they'll soon change their attitude. Now I'm not a great fan of product placement BUT... if anyone from the manufaturers of my new most favourite toy happen to be reading then a few boxes of biscuits wouldn't go amiss. Let's call it sponsorship. Or a bribe. Whatever. I don't care, a bribe of biscuits by any other name would taste as lovely.

Parklife

My life seems to be turning into a soap opera, and I'm getting stuck with all the crappy storylines. Get this for luck. Not only did I never know my father, not only was I taken away from my mothers teat way too young, before I could even walk properly, not only was I dumped in a cold, damp, windy rescue centre before being whisked away from my siblings to live in an insane asylum with a dysfunctional pack of people but now, just as I was getting used to life in the circus that is Leyland, the long man and the clippy cloppy woman have decided they don't want to be together anymore and have parted company! And guess what? Do I get to stay in the only real home I've ever known? Do I balls. Did I even get consulted on what I would like, where I would like to go, who I would like to be with? Did I BALLS. Oh no, apparently my opinion doesn't matter. I've had to come with the long man to sunny Salford where we are staying with the clicky ankled lady. At least if I was back at home I'd have the little people to play with, what have I got here? I'll tell you what I've got, I've got the long man. Normally that would be fine but, by Jove, he's absolutely no fun whatsoever at the moment. Moping around like a big girls blouse, he doesn't even smell the same now. He smells all sort of empty. I've tried everything I can think of to cheer him up. I've licked him, nibbled him, sat on him, lay on him, barked at him, even tried my old failsafe of jumping on his back and biting his ears while he sits on the bed putting his boots on. That has always previously got him laughing. Success rate at the moment - nothing. Zero. Nada. Nil. Not a bloody thing. Okay, so he tickles my ears and tummy, but he doesn't seem interested like before. It's not the same at all. No wonder the clippy cloppy woman binned him if this is what he's like, moody sod. In my opinion the miserable beggar needs a bloody good kick up the backside. He's off out in a little while to go and collect his scooter from Leyland. Maybe that'll put a smile on his face. I swear, if he doesn't buck up soon I am out of here.

In the absence of any meaningful attention from the long man I have had to entertain myself in the back garden, digging up the biscuits that Audrey has buried out there. I think the silly girl was expecting she could grow a biscuit tree. Why bother? Just eat your biscuits, then the long man gets you some more biscuits. It's a win win situation, you can have your biscuit and eat your biscuit. And then have another biscuit. Ad infinitum. And I do like a nice biscuit. The clicky ankled woman says that Audrey will have a pink fit when she finds out what I've done, but no one saw me do anything, she can't prove a thing.

There is a park near here. This park is not nearly as much fun as the park in Leyland though. For one thing there are no fluffy tails to chase. I chase the pigeons. I sometimes chase the sparrows. It gives me a sense of enormous wellbeing. And then I'm happy for the rest of the day, safe in the knowledge that there will always be a bit of my heart devoted to park life.