The second coming

Well, major changes once again in the world of this particular puppy, but before I get to that just give me a moment or two to bring you up to speed on the events of the last few months.

Biggest event was the long man, clippy cloppy woman, little people and I going on our first family holiday together. When I heard we were going away I took a look at the holiday pictures from the pre-puppy days and so was looking forward to sun, sea, sand, sangria and sniffing. Dreams of far flung, exotic locations filled my nights in the run up to our departure. Imagine my disappointment when, early in the morning on the day we were to leave, I was bundled into the back of the metal box thingy, crammed between a suitcase, a rucksack and a fishing rod, and driven hundreds of miles across the most inhospitable terrain this side of Kandahar to spend a week in a bloody tent at the foot of an enormous mountain. I thought we'd joined the Mudjahadin until I saw the launderette and playground.

The little people and I had a fantastic time climbing up the aforementioned mountain, known as Snowdon and apparently the highest mountain in the country. It was very exciting, with gun men and helicopters and explosions and white knuckle near misses, but we survived to tell the tale. Honestly. Check it out here.

Another major event of the summer was the arrival of another of those bloody horrible, smelly Vespa things. This one intended for the clippy cloppy woman so she could join the long man on his noisy, smelly rides. I don't know if it's a coincidence but the long man, soon after this purchase, decided he didn't want his Vespa any more and has put it ip for sale. He's since bought an enormous beast of a motorcycle, a Triumph, saying he needs it to get to work quicker. I doubt "need" comes into it. It's bigger, faster, heavier and scarier than the scooter it replaces. That man seems determined to take the most ridiculous chances with his personal safety. That's all well and good, but does he take into consideration what might happen to me after he's crashed through the pearly gates backwards and in a fireball? Does he balls.

And now for the BIG news. Okay, I'm being a bit sarcastic here, and you've probably guessed already, but the long man and I have, once again, been exiled to the dirty old town of Salford. The long man and the clippy cloppy woman had spent much of the previous several months arguing about really important matters. It got to the point where you'd have been forgiven for believing that they were only happy when they were shouting. Not great for the nerves I must admit but the house was just about big enough for me to avoid them pretty much all of the time. Then one Sunday evening they had a massive bust up about a pizza and the long man being "stupid". In all honesty I can't see as how the long man had a leg to stand on arguing against that particular point but argue he did. The result... Salford. Not just for him, for me too. I don't even LIKE pizza and I wholly agree that he's as bright as a bag of spanners, but did that save me. Harrumph.

So here we are, shivering our hairy arses off and eating a lot of toast. I must say, he's taking it really rather well. He doesn't smell half as empty as he did last time, and he's not moping around the place feeling sorry for himself this time which is a blessed relief. I swear if I'd had to put up with that crap again I'd have torn the chip out of my own neck and turned myself into the rescue centre.

The long man and I spend a lot of time walking around since our return. One of my favourite walks is to Swinton precinct where there is a very nice chap who sells, amongst other things, all manner of dried pork products passed fit for canine consumption. Earlier today we took a little trot down to see him and the long man bought me a big bag of pigs ears. I do love pigs ears, almost as much as I like biscuits, but I got to thinking whilst munching on my luncheon, who is it that has taken it upon his, or her, self to start amputating ears from swine? Grateful as I am for my pork based treats it does seem odd to me that someone would be so cruel as to mutilate animals in such a way. Can you imagine the conversation in the sty after the ear harvest?

"Hey, Porky." Says Applesauce.

Silence.

"OI, PORKY!" she repeats.

Silence.

"POOOOORRRRRRRKKKKKKKYYYYYYYYYY". Applesauce yells.

"What?" Replies Porky.

"POOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRRKKKKKKKKKKYYYYYYYYY!"

Still, all this aside, they are very tasty indeed. And I suppose it would be silly to eat the whole pig all at once.

It's snowing in Salford today. I do love the snow. I love the crispy crunch as I bounce through it. I love the cool crystals of ice between my toes. I love the clean, fresh streets after a new flurry. And most of all, I love turning the snow in the garden from virginal white to dirty yellow. Enjoy the little things, it's very important.

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.

Who cares?

The long man has embarked on what I consider to be a futile attempt to better himself by changing career. He has thus far done what I can only decribe as a plethora of crappy jobs, and in my opinion that suits him down to the ground. I cannot for the life of me imagine him in any position of responsibility or any position that requires a degree of common sense. Sense of any description, where the long man is concerned, isn't very common at all. Bloody rare in his case. For instance, he loves playing with his tennis ball and always brings it with us when we go to the park. Then he'll proceed to throw the bloody thing away and immediately want it back again. And does he go and get it himself? Does he balls. Muggins here has to go and fetch it for him. So, off I plod, find the damned thing, take it back to him and drop it at his feet, and what does he do? He only goes and throws it away again. Moron. Anyway, as I was saying, he wants a change of career so guess what he's applied to be, a CARER. Him. Caring. Looking after others. Ha. How in the world is that going to work? I'll tell you this, he had better not be expecting me to go to work with him and spend all my time pulling him out of the sticky stuff. I like my mornings listening to the radio and my afternoons watching loose women on the telly thingy whilst licking my lady bits and snoozing. Following the long man around and reminding him to breathe is very low down on my list of priorities I can tell you.

In between his pointlessly completing application forms for jobs he has little or no chance of getting the long man has also been spending a lot of time piddling about with his Vespa. Taking bits off, swearing, putting new bits on, swearing when the new bits fall off, phoning his friends to find out where he's going wrong, putting the fallen off bits back on and then swearing before taking them off again because he forgot to do something else. I'm beginning to have something of an attention deficit where he is concerned. After finally getting the scooter looking and sounding exactly like it looked and sounded immediately before his meddling, at daft-o-clock on Sunday morning, he destroyed the peace and tranquility of another lovely Leyland Sabbath by popp-popp-popping away up the street in a cloud of thick, blue smoke. His mission, along with his friends, was to deliver a seventy nine pence Easter egg to the childrens hospital in Carlisle. I've checked, that is a round trip of one hundred and eighty four miles, and all to drop off a piece of cheap confectionary. Very noble I'm sure, but how much did the fuel for this mammoth journey cost, and more to the point how many poor little asthmatic kiddies were caused to suffer because of the scooterists selfishly pumping god knows how many cubic metres of noxious gasses into the atmosphere?

Meanwhile, free of the long man's sycophantic simpering, the clippy cloppy woman and I took the little people to visit the cat lady and the black furry coat woman. I do enjoy going out with them, and they get a big kick out of it for which I love them all the more, but the journey to the cat lady's house is not the most pleasant. Especially with Wing Commander clippy cloppy at the wheel. It's best described as a roller coaster ride of terror. She seems to use the accelerator like an on/off switch. At least in the new metal box thingy I am situated at the very rear, keeping me a far as is possible from the front which will be the point of impact when the inevitable catastrophic collision, for which we are long overdue, occurs.

The long man returned late in the evening and was walking rather gingerly, like a rider who'd had his horse stolen, and wincing whenever he sat down. Serves the damn fool right, riding all over the place at his age. He proceeded to regale us with the most mundane tales about, well, quite frankly I don't know what they were about. I tend to switch off whenever he starts banging on about most things. I really couldn't be bothered paying attention.

Tomorrow the long man has to go to Manchester for an interview with one of the companies he wants to work for. They must be mad to even consider him. Perhaps they're just toying with him, letting him down gently or are really, REALLY desperate. He's got more chance of seeing a rocking horse take a poo than getting a job with even the tiniest bit of responsibilty. Let us hope that, when the inevitable rejection letter lands on the mat, he will learn his lesson and apply for a more suitable position. Ideally part time and in a biscuit factory, giving him plenty of free time to shower me with gifts of heavily staff-discounted biscuits to which he would have access. Since I don't have fingers, puppy fans, I beg of you to cross yours on my, I mean his, behalf. Thank you, and ta-ta for now.

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.)

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.

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.

Spinning beds and poorly heads

The long man is very excited at the moment. Yesterday he got his "pride and joy" back, a funny metal thing called a "Vespa". It's very noisy, very smoky, very smelly, and to cap it all since it returned to take up residence in MY back yard he's spent most of his time rubbing it with stuff and making it all shiny. I do hope the novelty wears off soon.

Went for a lovely long walk this afternoon, once I'd managed to drag him away from my main rival for his affections for long enough. We went to the shops. It took quite some time what with strangers bothering us every ten paces, and not very bright strangers either, ooohing and ahhhing like demented morons, but we eventually made it there and back. Oh and speaking of morons, I'm sure he thinks I'm one too! Whenever I take him out he stops at every road and says "wait Ronnie wait", and then tells me when it's safe to cross over. The cheek of it. As if I'm not capable of assertaining when its safe to cross a bloody road. I mean come on, how much brain power does it take to know not to step in front of one of those big, metal, smelly things? I swear he'll be reminding me to breathe next.

Later on the long man left his drink on the floor while he went to pee in the bowl upstairs that I drink from at night. (Not sure if that particular practice is the most hygenic but I'll let it slide for now since I do have a habit of peeing where he keeps his shoes.) Anyway, I digress. Since he was gone I thought I'd finish the drink off, it's apparently called "whine" which I've always thought an odd name. Now, however, I can see where that comes from! My goodness I was poorly, I whined like a baby. The room went all wonky and things kept spinning around me. I thought I'd best go to bed but the bed wouldn't stay still long enough. At one point I thought to myself "When that bed comes around again I'm on it" but by George it was going so fast I completely missed and banged my chin on the chair leg. Cue more whining from yours truly. Eventually I found it was easier to crawl on my belly and sneak up on it. Result. Never drinking that stuff again.