Wee tim'rous beastie

The long man and the clippy cloppy woman have been out and treated themselves to a new shiny, metal box thingy and made a great deal of noise banging on about how it would be much more family friendly with extra room for yours truly. I note with interest that they seem to have money to throw away on things like that but pigs ears are pretty bloody thin on the ground around here. And they've still never bought me a coat. That said, I did get a little excited when they mentioned I would have a seat of my very own. When I go out with the long man in the svan I get to sit on the seat next to him and have a great view out of the front window. However, when we all went out in the old shiny, metal box thingy I was forced to be squashed between the little people in the back, and those two fiddle and fidget like they've got fleas in their under-crackers. My ribs end up black and blue from the constant pummeling meted out by their boney bloody elbows. But as usual I digress - there was I imagining a sumptuous seat all of my very own, specially contoured for the doggy derriere, and with my very own strappy thing to keep me safe. How wrong can a puppy be? The reality is that the "seat" of my very own is in fact what you people refer to as the boot. That's right, the bloody BOOT, or trunk as our colonial cousins call it. No seat, not even a cushion, and no strappy thing to keep me safe. And what is more there is a fence erected keeping me separate from the rest of them. There's no other word for it, I'm segregated.

One of the little people managed to be really very sick all over himself the other night. The long man, clippy cloppy woman and both little people were supposed to be going to visit the clippy cloppy woman's family for a party the following day and were intending to leave me behind. No great shock there. I was to spend the day with Audrey et al, and although I'd never let them know it I was quite looking forward to that. I'm getting very used to being cast aside at the drop of a hat. Anyway, as it turned out the best laid schemes of mice and long men oft go awry, and the little persons very chocalatey oral emissions put paid to any little junket they may have been planning. My disappointment at missing out on a day of being pampered by the clicky ankled lady was eased by the knowledge that their weekend had been even more ruined than mine.

I have noticed that since the theft of my internal lady parts I have become somewhat melancholy, miserable and morose. A mere shadow of my former self. I can't help but think the two things may be connected somehow. I don't seem to be as excitable as before. For instance, just yesterday the fat, flat faced feline from across the street sauntered almost right up to me when I was taking the long man for some exercise. He was goading me I'm sure, but I just couldn't be bothered. I think I may need a tonic or some kind of pick-me-up. I have heard of something called "a char tea", some kind of hot drink I suppose, that can help after a hysterectomy, but I reckon I've more chance of growing my uterus back than of getting the long man to pay for that. Now, if it were a new car, a lamp for his vespa or some of that drink that makes him sing and wobble, well then his wallet would be out like a shot. But medicine? For Ronnie? Ha. No bloody chance. Honestly, it's like being a Dickensian orphan living with this shower.

The lamp shade into which I've been shackled since my operation is becoming very smelly, and makes it difficult for me to sniff my Pmails properly. On the plus side though, it is becoming very tasty too. I think I shall take myself off and have a bit of a lick of it while I curl up infront of the telly thingy. It's not nearly as flavoursome as my bumhole, but I can't get near my bumhole with this confounded contraption frustrating my every move, so beggars can't be choosers.

And so, dear reader, until next I summon up the energy and volition to pen an entry, I shall bid you all a very fond farewell.