Here comes the summer

There is absolutely no excuse for my recent absence from the world wide web and my legion of adoring puppy fans. No excuse whatsoever. The important thing however, so far as you lot are concerned, is that I have returned. I can picture you now, sat in front of your monitors, big cheesy grins plastered across your faces, eagerly anticipating the news of your favourite canines latest whirlwind adventures. And since, as previously mentioned, there is no excuse, then I dont have to sit here struggling to think one up just to placate you. I've been gone, get over it, I'm back, rejoice.

Before I start filling you in on the comings and goings of life in Leyland I'd just like to take a moment to say how lovely it has been to see so many of you in the flesh of late. It was especially nice to see those of you who turned up to the garden party held in my honour last weekend. And whilst on the subject of said party, I feel obliged to apologise on behalf of the clicky ankled lady for her behaviour. Anyone would have thought the party was for her benefit the way she tried to hog the limelight. And what on earth was she doing continually banging on about being another year older? For crying out loud, at her age surely another year on the tally stick is nothing to go shouting about. You were all very kind to humour her though, for which I am eternally grateful.

And now back to my blog. Let's start with the weather, the weather is always an ice breaker, and quite literally so at the moment. The weather, now that we have entered the portion of the year known as summer, has taken a turn for the better and no mistake. Phew, what a scorcher. No more ice. Gone is the snow. It's hello blue skies, light nights and balmy afternoons. Snoozing in the shade. Long lazy walks. Plenty of fluids and a good deal of moulting. And I love to live so pleasantly, live this life of luxury, lazing on a sunny afternoon in the summertime.

The scratchy chinned man has come to live at my house now. Apparently his special friend turned out to be none too special. There must be something in the water, because hot on the heels of their separation came the news that the little long man has also joined the land of the lonesome. Still, at least the little long man and his lady weren't living in sin and therefore he isn't here knocking my karma out of kilter and ruining the feng shui like his feckless brother. It's a bloody good job too, since there isn't enough room to swing a cat in this dump as it is. Well, technically there IS enough room to swing a cat, but you'd keep banging it against walls and door frames which, although fun, is kind of frowned upon by the authorities. Camerons Britain eh? It's political correctness gone mad I tell you.

The scratchy chinned man's arrival has presented something of a dichotomy vis a vis my sleeping arrangements. On the one hand the long man has become somewhat accustomed to waking up with me by his side. He gets a big kick out of it, and I love him for that. The problem, to be frank, is that bloody clippy cloppy woman and her pig headed refusal to share the bed. I don't see the problem, there is plenty of room for the three of us, but she can be such a selfish cow at times. I have to wait for her to vacate the room before I can climb up onto the bed, whereas the scratchy chinned man sleeps alone, has no problem whatsoever with me joining him AND I get to spend an entire night on a proper mattress, which is doing my back and posture the world of good. Now as I'm sure you are all aware I am not the most sentimental puppy that ever pooed in a park, but the long man and I have become really rather close in recent months. As a result I am finding it increasingly hard to disregard his feelings and have spent the last few weeks having to drag myself off the scratchy chinned man's bed at daft-o-clock in the morning when I hear the clippy cloppy woman go for her morning ablutions and transfer myself into the loving arms of the long man. The duplicity of my actions is rather exciting in a way, but it's also disturbing my sleep pattern which isn't helping my beauty regime. If only I could get the clippy cloppy woman to start sharing with the scratchy chinned man then all our problems would be solved.

BARC to the future

Being as I am left all on my bloody own for dirty great chunks of the day I get to listen to the radio a lot, Radio 4 being my favourite station. As a result I am beginning to get really rather clued up on current affairs and have begun to take a great interest in this politics malarkey. I don't claim to be an expert on the subject, but I have become very interested in the upcoming general election, which isn't as you might imagine a military gentleman but is in fact some kind of competition, akin to the X-Factor but without Simon Cowell, in which the person who comes across as the least dislikable, who tells the most attractive lies and who smiles at the most children is the winner. The prize - you get to live in a place called London, rent free, and more importantly you get to be the boss of the Army. And the Navy, and the Air Force too. It occured to me the other day that being the boss of the Army, Navy and Air Force would greatly help in my plans for a New World Order. I have therefore, after much consideration, decided to form my own political party and to stand for election myself. Now obviously I know that you, dear reader, and all of my other puppy fans will without a shadow of a doubt vote for me. That goes without saying. However, even with my small army of fans I doubt that I would get enough votes to secure an overall majority and might force a hung Parliament. That just isn't enough. I want my paw to be the only one on the button of our nuclear detterent. I don't want to have to bother arguing with any one else over it. I would rather beg for forgiveness than ask for permission.

And so, in an effort to win over the rest of the population, or at least to win over fifty one percent of them, I have worked tirelessly all morning to pen a manifesto, and publish it here for your perusal. You will notice, I am sure, that unlike the manifestos of all the other major parties mine is not simply a simpering tome filled with empty promises, unattainable aspirations and assorted delusions. I promise to be honest, open, to the point and succinct.

And now to the manifesto itself...

1) Health.

We could save a huge chunk of money by all being just that little bit more careful and trying our best to have fewer accidents. The money we then save could be ploughed back into the National Health Service and spent on things like, ermmm, tablets. Oh, and biscuits. Biscuits are proven to be of great therapeutic benefit to the sick and infirm.

2) The economy.

The long man has a big bottle in his bedroom into which he puts all the coins he finds on the floor when we are out on our walks. If we all did this we would all have a big bottle of money. Sorted.

3) Policing.

If we all stop stealing things and murdering people we wont need the police so much. This is something of a no-brainer. The police could then concentrate on the scurge of modern society, that being the gangs of feral cats plaguing our streets and pooing in the passage next to my house.

4) Defence.

The army, navy and air force WILL respect my authority. As a result, so will all of you, my subjects.

5) Education.

Instead of being given one biscuit when being trained to sit/lie down/shake paws etc. all puppies will be given two biscuits. Puppies like a nice biscuit. Believe me, I know. The extra incentive will ensure improved results and happier puppies. We will pay for this measure by increasing taxes on cat food, kitty litter and squeeky mouse toys.

6) The environment.

There is a growing problem with cat poo in the passage next to my house. I will undertake to stamp out (Not literally of course, that would make even more of a mess out there.) this problem by passing legislation to ensure that cats are in future exercised ON A LEAD and accompanied at all times when outside their homes by one of their people, who must be armed with a poo bag. Any cats found to be wandering around the streets willy-nilly without a human chaperone will be rounded up and transported to a detention centre on the Isle of Dogs. And shot.

I trust I can count on your vote on May the Sixth, and remember....

A vote for Ronnie is a vote for me.

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.)

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.

Call a spayed a spayed

Now I have, in an attempt to educate myself further, read quite a lot about the 1939-1945 conflict with Germany and, more relevantly to this post, the rise and fall of the Nazi party. The atrocities carried out by this frankly evil shower are beyond belief, and it was only a matter of time before both the long man's Grandfathers decided enough was enough and, together with a gang of their pals, went out there and gave the Germans a good old kicking. After a long struggle they defeated Hitler, who only had one ball, Goering, who had two but very small, Himler, who was very similar, poor old Goebbels, who had no balls at all, and all their cohorts. Not only did the long man's Grandfathers fight the good fight, but his Grandmothers also had to suffer terrible hardships such as forgoing bananas and having to substitute gravy browning for stockings. Now, aside from many, many other vile acts and beliefs, one thing that the Nazi's were rather keen on was something called "eugenics". This included some Teutonic tosser by the name of Josef Mengele performing forced hysterectomies on many women, and was one of the things that said Grandparents tried to ensure would never happen again. Well I'm here to tell you, puppy fans, that eugenics is alive and kicking and being performed at the Vets4Pets veterinary clinic in Leyland to this very day! There was I expecting to have my nails clipped or my bottom checked, as usually happens when the long man takes me there, when I felt a sharp scratch on my leg and passed out, only to awake several hours later in a cage, feeling nauseus, with a lamp shade on my head and my uterus in a bucket. Happy? I most certainly am not. The long man came to collect me much later with a nervous smile on his face and a pocket full of biscuits. Just when I start to think that man cannot possible sink any lower he goes out of his way to prove me wrong. I swear the only thing stopping me from attempting to tear his throat out as he sleeps is the cold-war doctrine of mutually assured destruction. That and this bloody lamp shade. It's not all bad news though. For one thing I hate kids anyway, and I am getting a lot more biscuits than usual.

Aside from having my canine rights completely disregarded and my womb horribly violated it's not been such a bad week. Home is fast getting back to how I remember it. Lots of tickles, lots of walking and lots of biscuits. I have also almost competely re-scented every room in the house. That fat, flat faced white cat from over the road got the shock of its short life yesterday when it jumped over my back gate and came face to face with yours truly. If not for this infernal cone I'd have had the little bugger too.

The clippy cloppy woman is still being very nice to me and, since the debacle that resulted in the loss of my ovaries, has become my favourite person by a long chalk. She still has issues with sharing, especially when it comes to the bed, but I'm sure that, given time, we will come to some mutually beneficial arrangement. Especially if she exiles the long man to the spare room.

I have been escorting the little people to school every morning this week. They seem to get a kick out of it and I love them for that. School is, apparently, a place of education but I think that the little people's school is failing them badly. I'm considering phoning Ofsted and getting them to give the little peoples teacher a good kick up the backside. They don't seem to have gotten any brighter since our seperation. Their vocabulary consists of nothing more than "can I have?", "get off that Ronnie it's mine." and "but whyyyyyy?". I have managed to teach one of them to get the lid off my biscuit barrell and sneak me a few of my delicious treats whilst the long man and the clippy cloppy woman are otherwise engaged. Maybe I should take up teaching?

I have the itchiest bumhole EVER, and because of this bloody contraption I've no way of licking or nibbling it. The only relief I get it dragging my bum around the furry things or the clippy cloppy woman's bedding, and that, puppy fans, is what I am going to do right now. Adieu.

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.

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.

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.

Bitch slapped

Yet another bloody birthday this week. Well, two birthdays technically. It was the little people's turn to get showered with gifts. They're both from the same litter it seems, so share the same birthday. As a result, with a number of exceptions, I had a relatively peaceful weekend. Both the little people and the clippy cloppy woman disappeared off out early on the Saturday morning and stayed out till the early evening. And then, when they did finally grace us with their prescence it was only for long enough to get changed and bugger off out again to go to their party at a place called Cheeky Monkeys. (Very fitting I thought.) They came home, hours later, all sweaty and shiny and running around like a pair of demented fluffy tails. I'd assumed that they would be tired out after all the excitement, I know I am after a visit to the woods, but no. Mad as a bag of frogs the pair of them. The long man said it was probably due to all the sugar they had eaten and that it had made their "bloody eye purr". Something to do with cats not doubt. Those filthy, rotten creatures are the bane of my life. (And the cats aren't much better!)

On the Sunday the long man, clippy cloppy woman and both the little people had tickets to go to the football match. The long man's beloved Man City were playing Portsmouth. I naturally assumed that would mean I would have a lovely, relaxing day, chewing the Sunday papers and licking my privates. But, alas, I was bundled into the car and driven to Audreys house to spend the day there, where I had to put up with the shouty woman, being shouty. I really don't know how Audrey puts up with it, it would drive me insane. My nerves were in tatters by the time my people came back for me.

Whilst at Audrey's house I tried a little bit of her food. I say a little bit, it was quite a lot actually. I intended to take a mouthful or two but my, it's moreish! Not like the dry, crunchy crap the long man gets for me. Oh no, Audreys food is moist, it's meaty, it's delicious! I think I have gotten the pooey end of the stick diet wise. That said, Audrey doesn't get a pigs ear, snout or willy for an evening treat so, as with many other things in life, it's just a case of swings and roundabouts I suppose.

One day late last week the long man decided he wasn't going to go to work. He said he was "pulling a sicky" and that his boss could go and do "four coughs", or something like that. Anyway, as a result we had an entire afternoon together in the woods. I say together, insofar as we were both in the same woods at the same time, but bless him, the long man isn't as young as he once was and tends to lag quite a long way behind and, just like time, this pup waits for no man. I saw many of the usual dogs, some of whom I am becoming very friendly with. And I seem to be getting really very popular with the people the dogs bring with them. Some of the people even give me a biscuit or two, and I do love a good biscuit. Or two. I prefer two actually. Who wouldn't?

While we were in the woods there was one nasty moment. A young springer spaniel by the name of Princess took an instant and quite disproportionatley violent dislike to my sniffing her bottom and attacked me. ME, Ronnie the Ronster, the most popular pup in the park! Well, initially, she got the upper paw, had me flat on my back and was biting my neck. I was just about to show her a few of my moves, you know, slap her around a bit and teach her a bit of a lesson when, out of nowhere, the long man appeared and smacked the bitch right in the head, then kicked her up the bottom. Obviously I don't want to sound ungrateful because he thought he was helping, but I had it under control. I was just about to open a can of whoop ass on her. I'd have had her crying for her mother. Still, fair play to the long man. We're a team I suppose, I provide the brains and the beauty and he provides the brawn. And the biscuits.

Well, I must sign off for now. I have an appointment at my Vets to get my nails clipped. Strangely, it seems the Vets have diversified and are now selling hardware and tools. I know this because the long man said he is going to get me a spade. I do hope he doesn't expect me to do any gardening after I've had my nails done, he will be bitterly disappointed.

Tata for now, puppy fans.

Hungry like the wolf

The long man and I went for yet another road trip today, we certainly seem to be clocking up the miles in the svan lately. He said we were going to a place called "Leeds", which got me rather excited. I'd imagined Leeds to be some kind of shop, purveyors of the finest quality pet accessories, and that I was in line for a nice new coat, but no, it's a town, a very cold, hilly, long long way away town where the scratchy chinned man and his special friend live. It was apparently the scratchy chinned mans birthday today and we were delivering a gift to him. Another gift. They don't know they're born these crazy kids. I don't get gifts. No coats, no shoes, no handbags, not a bloody thing. Unless you count biscuits. I get a lot of biscuits. Are biscuits gifts? I'm not so sure. I mean, they're nice, very welcome, a treat I suppose. But a gift? I think not. A coat, that would be a gift. Still, I do like a nice biscuit.

The journey there took absolutely ages and I was, I'm ashamed to say, very slightly sick all over myself. The svan was bouncing about a lot so maybe that was why. Or maybe it was because I ate the chocolate orange I found behind the settee this morning. Who knows? Anyway, as a result of my multi-coloured and very chocolaty yawn I was absolutely ravenous by the time we arrived at the scratchy chinned man's house. I bounded in and immediately started searching for food. It would appear that the scratchy chinned man and his special friend don't own any little people of their own because the floors were completely devoid of even the tiniest morsel of food. Not even under the beds. As I think has become obvious by now I am not a fan of little people, but they are a convenient source of left over and forgotten about food. They're so absent minded, I never forget a piece of food. Hey ho, their loss. The scratchy chinned mans special friend shared some cheese with me though, which was nice, and the scratchy chinned man fed me biscuits, lots of biscuits, and I do love being fed lots of biscuits. I wolfed them down.

The scratchy chinned man has an enormous garden and it was shoulder deep in crisp, fluffy snow. I had a great time bounding and tunnelling through it. Until, that is, my intimate feminine area began to turn blue and I had to go inside. Thankfully the scratchy chinned man's house has those carpet things on the floor like the clicky ankled lady's house, and that, combined with a good licking session, ensured that I was soon back "in the pink" so to speak.

The long man went out this evening and came back with an enormous great bucket of fried chicken from some bloke named Ken. Ken is certainly a very good fryer of chicken, and the long man is certainly a very good sneak-a-bit-of-fried-chicken-to-the-pup-without-the-clippy-cloppy-woman-noticing-er. All in all, vomit not withstanding, a pretty good day.

Dogmanay

It was the first day of the year this week, and also the last day of the year but, get this, the LAST day came BEFORE the FIRST day! How does that work? I can't get my head around it, but I'm happy to let it go. The long man and the clippy cloppy woman both went out early on the last day of the year, and so, thinking I could have a lazy day, I settled down for a morning of snoozing, intending to entertain myself in the afternoon with a little gentle puppy pad shredding followed by a nice chew of the cushions. However, the long man came home within a couple of hours, whilst I was still fast asleep and dreaming of chewy lamp posts, which put paid to my plans. He did fetch me a sausage roll though so, you know, every cloud and all that jazz.

The long man and I had a good deal of quality time together for the remainder of the afternoon. He was in a very nice mood and was extremely well behaved. His training is going so well, I think it's about time I started concentrating on the clippy cloppy woman. If I don't take her in hand soon I fear she may turn feral, and it would break the long mans heart if I had to send her away.

The clippy cloppy woman arrived home quite some time later, and I thought we were going to eat. Instead, we jumped into the metal box thingy and went to visit the clicky ankled woman in Salford again. I was starving, but the long man did give me a few biscuits to tide me over, and I do love a nice biscuit. Only thing better than a nice biscuit is many nice biscuits.

When we arrived at the clicky ankled ladies house Audrey and the shouty woman were already there, as per usual. I must say, even if I do say so myself (And I DO say so myself) I think I am having rather a positive effect on Audrey. A little bit of that good Ronnie style and class seems to be rubbing off on her. She can still be a little stand-offish at times, but we seem to have reached the stage in our relationship where I can have a really good, deep, two nostrilled sniff of her backside without her turning around and biting me, which is nice.

We let the four people stay up late, they seemed to be having a good time and it was nice to watch them chatting, laughing and drinking those funny smelling drinks that make their legs go jiggly. Audrey and I got ourselves a comfortable spot on a spare chair and basically waited for them to tire themselves out so we could get a good nights rest. Just as they were beginning to quieten down, at around midnight, the long man turned the volume on the telly-thingy up loud. There was a dong dong dong noise, then they all cheered and started singing. Next thing you know there was what sounded like gunfire from outside and the sky lit up. I immediately thought that someone else had beaten me to it and started the revolution that I had been planning but no, fortunately, it was apparently just "those chavs from up the street" setting off fireworks. Phew.

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?

Cold calling

Whats the deal with all this white, flaky stuff falling from the sky and covering everything up? I believe it's called snow. It's pretty cool, in more ways than one. For one thing it makes it much easier to pick up my pee-mail, it's bright yellow and stands out like a sore claw. I heard the clippy cloppy woman say that I'm a Labrador, and that Labradors are bred for cold, snowy conditions. Well, all available evidence points to the fact that I am most certainly NOT a Labrador, because I am bloody freezing!

The long man, the clippy cloppy woman, the little people and I went to that place, the reserve wire, again today. Goodness me the little people were excited, they really should get out more bless them. They seemed to enjoy making balls out of the snow and throwing them at the long man, they're so easily amused, but I don't think the long man was as amused as the little people were.

After our walk we went to see Audrey, the shouty woman and the lady with the clicky ankle. When we were alone I plucked up the courage to ask Audrey what had happened to her ear. Apparently, her sister bit it off! I don't think I want to get too close to that particular branch of our family tree, not a very friendly bunch it would appear.

Finally, by George it was a busy day, we called on so many people, we went to see a lady that smells of cat. She looks very much like the clippy cloppy woman but is far more patient and friendly. We were there quite some time, and when we left we left the little people behind. I was shocked, I know they can be a bit of a handful and goodness knows I'm not their biggest fan but I must say I feel for them. I know the pain of being left in a rescue centre, people ooh-ing and ahh-ing at you but never stroking you or even giving you a little biscuit. (I love biscuits.) I do hope they find a good home soon, and in the meantime the cat lady seems quite nice so hopefully they won't be too sad. On the plus side, they won't be there to kick me out of their room, and there are so many chewable things as yet unchewed to chew. Woohoo.

Opposable thumbs and lovely cake crumbs

Apparently we're to have an important visitor soon, some guy by the name of Chris Mazday, or something like that. From what I've so far ascertained he will be bringing gifts for us all with him. I hope I get biscuits, I love biscuits. He must be a very important person because the long man and the clippy cloppy woman have spent all day decorating the house with the most vulgar and garish ornaments it has ever been my misfortune to sniff. They've also put a dirty great big tree in the corner of the room and covered it with shiny balls and lights. It doesn't smell like any tree I've ever encountered though, in fact it smells quite plasticky.

There were a lot of guests for me to play with today, a few of them I've met before but there were a few new faces. A few of them were little people, but not as little as my little people. One lady, with a black furry coat on, was especially nice to me. She smelled lovely, like lavender and biscuits. I don't know if I've ever mentioned it, but I love biscuits. They all had cake to eat, which meant I had cake to eat too. The long man kept sneaking me a bit every now and then when the clippy cloppy woman wasn't looking. And the furry coated woman kept dropping bits in her lap, I think on purpose so I could "share the wealth". I like cake. Cake and biscuits. Biscuits best, but cakes are nice too.

Well, time to take the long man for his walk, so I'll have to love you and leave you for now. I must say, even if it is a bit of a bind, I do quite enjoy having my people. It's a bit of company for me, and they're very little trouble really. Plus, the lack of an opposable thumb makes it hard for me to open the biscuit barrel, or operate a tin opener, so they do come in useful.

I love biscuits

The big people have been making a right mess of my favourite room, sticking paper to the ceiling and putting funny colours on the wall. I wouldn't mind so much but the colours are really smelly, and now I can't smell the smells I've spent the last couple of weeks depositing all over the floor. It's not fair, I'll have to wee and poo like there's no tomorrow to replenish those odours.

The big dangly thing that hangs in the middle of the ceiling and makes it light when it's dark had to be taken down tonight while they put that paper up, and I heard the long man mention that it works on "elec-trickery", which must be some kind of people magic, all very clever stuff.

The clippy cloppy woman said something intriguing earlier. It seems I'm going to be "in a queue late" tomorrow. I can't wait to find out what I'm queuing for, I hope it's biscuits. I love biscuits.