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.

Reserved parking

Yes, yes, yes, I know. The time between my blog entries is getting longer and longer. It's not that I don't care, it's just that the summer has brought with it so many new and interesting opportunities for fun and merriment that I simply don't know whether I'm coming or going at the moment.

The little people recently spent a week down south in Brighton with their father, whilst the little long man came to my house to spend a week with HIS father. Talk about musical parenting. The little long man took up residence in the little peoples room and is no where near as careful about ensuring the door is closed properly, allowing me unrestricted access to all the chewy little people things. I have had a fine old time stealing and stashing away for safe keeping as much contraband as a baby puppy can carry. Of course most of my booty has since been reclaimed by that infernal clippy cloppy woman and the long man but, due to the shear scale of my felony, there are still a fair number of pieces of prime swag lying as yet undiscovered around the house a whole fortnight after the return of the gruesome twosome.

The long man has, at long last, gotten out from under my paws and started his new job as a carer for the mentally bewildered. He seems to think that the Karma of his noble toil will in some way balance out all the crappy things he's done in the past and benefit him spiritually. My hairy arse it will. I doubt very much he would ever be considered for Sainthood at any rate. It's only a matter of time before he commits some form of indescretion again and spoils it all. It is to be hoped that he cares for his ward better than he cares for his best friend (That's me just in case you're in any doubt.) or he'll be back down the job centre faster than you can say "it was an accident" or "corporate manslaughter".

The long man and I haven't been making our usual visits to Worden park of late. Partly because of him now having to work for a living rather than being kept like some kind of third rate gigolo by the clippy cloppy woman and partly because the chap from the council that looks after the park has told us we're no longer welcome. In my opinion said individual is nothing more than a jumped up little jobsworth with a Napolean complex. It was a particularly hot day when last the long man and I visited our most favourite park in the whole wide world and, as you all probably by now are very well aware, I do love a nice swim. Swimming is one of my most favourite pastimes and these two factors combined led to my decision to cool down by plunging headlong into the pond where the flappy, feathery flying things that float live. They, that is to say the flappy, feathery flying things that float, are not what you would call the most sociable of creatures. Bloody ignorant little sods if you ask me. And so, as I dived gracefully, athletically and majestically into the cool, clear water they went absolutely berserk. Flapping and quacking and generally making a right kerfuffle. All these shenanigans brought the aforementioned Gestapo, sorry - council, officer careering through the trees toward the long man.

Now what the long man lacks in sense he more than makes up for in stature and so, as the petulant parky got closer to the long man, his pace began to slow until he came to a stop no more than two paces from the long man, who then took two paces forward forcing the local government representative to crane his neck backward if he wanted to continue his tirade. A tirade which was met with the long man's gormless, slack jawed, glassy-eyed frown.

For some reason at this point the jackbooted, litter picking midget's tone took on a much friendlier and far croakier timbre as he explained that dogs swimming in the nature reserve was prohibited and asked if the long man would mind awfully asking me to depart. Now I'm sure the long man in no way meant to come across as a pedant, however after pointing out that a dog is indeed perfectly natural and then enquiring as to just exactly where the bloody signs informing us that the pond was a bleeding nature reserve were pedantic is exactly how he appeared. The upshot of the conversation being that the long man and I are no longer welcome in that part of town. And so it was with heavy heart that, after he'd emptied the poo bag he'd been carrying on the path, and I'd emptied my bowels on the crazy golf course, we left.

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.

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.)

It's all gravy

Another week over and done with. All my days seem to be blending seamlessly into one long, tedious, mind numbingly dull period of my worthless existence, due mainly to the long man and my current status as, at least technically, a pair of homeless bums. Tramps. Bloody hobos. The weekends are, however, considerably better, but then how could they not be? I'd have to spend my weekends with my head stuck in a rabbit hole and my tail set on fire for it to be less preferable. Anyway, once again I digress. As I was saying, the weekends are considerably better since we tend to spend them at the clicky ankled lady's house and I get to see plenty of Audrey. I'm no great Audrey fan but at least we speak the same language. Trying to get one of my people to understand what I'm trying to tell them is like, well, I don't know what it's like, it's unique but safe to say bloody difficult.

This weekend was a little bit of a break from the norm in that the long man didn't stay with me. He left me at Audrey and the shouty woman's house, then buggered off to some place called Brighton on a stag. I think he might've been lying. For one thing it would take ages to ride a stag all the way to the south coast and for another I found a train ticket in his pocket when I was rifling throught his jacket looking for chewable stuff. And biscuits. He's a bloody fantasist. He'd spent all week looking forward to his trip but I don't think the reality lived up to his expectations because when he returned to collect me he seemed very down. He was walking ever so slowly, he was moaning and groaning, he was rocking and reeling, he couldn't stand for more than a few minutes at a time and he was a very funny colour. In fact he was, alternately, several very funny colours ranging from a bluey-grey through to a very Simpson-esque yellow. He lounged on the settee all afternoon telling everyone that would listen that he'd had a great time! See what I mean, fantasist, I don't know who he thought he was kidding. Nothing that leaves you looking and feeling that rough could possibly have been in any way enjoyable. Maybe he will think twice before dumping me for his bloody mates next time.

To his credit, before he left, he did take me for a very long walk and then made me a delicious breakfast with extra gravy on. I know it was only because he was feeling guilty but hey, gravy's gravy. And he gave me a brand new bone which had loads and loads of bits of dead cow still attached to it. Very tasty. Unfortunately he neglected to tell the shouty woman that we had already been for our morning meander around the heavily scented streets of Salford, and so just as I was settling down for a morning in front of the telly thingy I was attached to my lead and dragged all around the estate again! Oh and just to add insult to injury, although he didn't mention that important nugget before dumping me he DID tell her that I'd been fed, so I didn't even get seconds to make up for it. That said, the shouty woman is pretty damned generous with her biscuits, and if there's one quality I admire in my people it's generosity with biscuits.

In other news, I was extremely perturbed earlier today when I saw an advertisement for an upcoming movie release. The movie in question is called "Hachi: A Dog's Tale"! Plagerism I thought. I'm not having that I thought. And so I engaged the help of my legal team. Well, when I say "legal team" I actually mean Audrey, but she's pretty clever generally. Her response, as ever, was something less than satisfactory. She told me to get lost. Typical. And this was AFTER she'd eaten the biscuits I gave her in anticipation of her help. The cow. My next idea was to google legal advice on the internet whereupon I came across some disappointing news. Some guy with mad hair and a bushy moustache, Mark Twain, wrote a short story called "A Dog's Tale" slightly before I did. In 1903 actually. All things considered I think I might drop my plans since there's a bloody good chance I'd get my backside sued. You know what people are like these days. Compensation culture and all that. In these litigious times one can't be too careful. I'm still not happy, and I bet the film's crap.

I have become quite obsessed with gardening lately, and I think I have quite an eye for floral design. There was this big, long flowery thing growing up and around the gate in the clicky ankled lady's back garden which was nice but I thought would look better lying on the decking. So, very carefully, I dug it up and placed it there. I was just standing back admiring my work when the clicky ankled lady turned up and, far from being happy, she screamed "My bloody clematis", followed by a load of verbal, and very rude, abuse directed at yours truly. Then, get this, she picked it up and put it in the bin! If that's not a case of cutting off your nose to spite your face then I don't know what is. The long man on the other hand seems quite keen that I should keep on gardening, I heard him on the phone earlier arranging to get me a spade next weekend. I can't wait for that.

Trailer for that film I mentioned...

Get me out of here

Bloody hell that long man is getting so very needy of late. He isn't going to work this week, he's poorly (Malingering if you ask me.) with something called "rain hard syndrome" and as a result my routine is all to cock. I did get a chance of a lie in this morning, but I missed my shows on Radio 4 because he had the telly thingy on instead. No "Woman's hour" and I've missed "the Archers" too. He had me lay on his knee this morning for over an hour tickling my ears. I know I've moaned about a lack of special tickles from the long man in recent weeks, I admit I missed them when he and the clippy cloppy woman first parted company, but I've outgrown all that now. Developed other interests. Too little, too late. He can stick his tickles where the sun doesn't shine. (That would be Salford I suppose, all the time we spend over there now and I don't recall seeing the sun once!) And even more annoyingly he asked me if I loved him! Well, I choked on my reply. I'd rather hurt him honestly than mislead him with a lie. Let's face it folks, even if he were in the least little bit lovable, which he most certainly is NOT, I'm a dog. And as such, I have no concept of love. Or hate. So at least I don't hate him. You'd think that would be enough wouldn't you?

According to the clicky ankled lady I have become something of a celebrity in the local pub. At least that's what I think she meant when she called me a "bar star dog" on Saturday when I was emptying the bin in the kitchen for her. I do like to be helpful when the long man and I are staying with her. And to be frank it's a good job I did empty it for her, she was throwing out all sorts of perfectly edible food. She's a very wastful woman indeed.

Speaking of celebrity, it appears that many people, from all over the world, have been reading my inane ramblings. A plethora of puppy fans. Some live in such exotic and far flung places and some of the place names are intriguing. For instance, one reader lives in a place called LABRADOR! I thought I might like to visit Labrador, until I googled it. My word, and there was me thinking Leyland was cold, but it's positively balmy in comparison.

Audrey and I are getting on famously now that we have been spending so much time together. She can still be a little snappy, and bitey, but you know what? I've learnt to rise above it. To be the "bigger" pup. To turn the other cheek. And most importantly, I've learnt to bide my time and wait for the opportunity to put her well and truly in her place once and for all. You see, I have noticed recently that as I get older I get bigger, and stronger. Audrey, on the other hand, seems to be well passed her prime. It is only a matter of time, you just mark my words, before I take my rightful place as top dog around here. There will be no more having to let her eat my bones. No more having to let her play with my toys. No more having to wag my tail and pretend it's ok. Oh no. She will, once I'm fully developed, have to respect my authority.

It's snowing outside. I think I shall drag the long man out to the pet shop. There is not one single piece of dead pig or cow for me to munch on in this dump. I've been having to make do with the occasional packet of crisps or piece of toast and quite simply that just does not cut the mustard. After all, a girl has her waistline to consider. I know it's not P.C. to make statements like that, "body image isn't important", "big is beautiful", but let's face it - it's never the thin puppies that say things like that is it?

Flails from the riverbank

This week went as the two previous weeks have gone, bloody boring! Goodness gracious me, how I long for a little excitement, a bit of adventure, anything just to break up all of this hardcore monotony that has gotten to be a little bit out of control. It's nice to relax, to chill, to "chillax" as I hear those crazy little people saying but come on, there is a limit to how much tedium a baby puppy can abide. My philosophy is that if you're not living life on the edge then you are taking up too much room. These days I feel a very long way from the edge indeed.

And so, in a nutcase, that was my week. The weekend however, well, that was a very different matter. On Friday evening that man loaded me into the svan for the first time in two weeks, and we set off driving. A ride in the svan always heralds a fun and interesting destination. Or the vets, which is neither fun nor interesting, but generally it's somewhere enjoyable. So off we went, driving through the dark and rain slick streets. He never tells me where we're heading, so I usually make a game of the journey by trying to work it out. It was pitch black outside the svan though, which hampered my ability to ascertain our ultimate objective. At one point we passed a sign for Rivington, but carried on past at break neck speed. Then a little later I saw signs for Leyland. So that was it, I thought, Leyland. Worden park. My most favourite park in the whole wide world. Oh I was so excited. I curled up on the seat, licking my private parts happy with myself for working out our journeys end. I felt the svan bump up onto a kerb and come to a stop. I yawned, I stretched, I glanced out of the window and, to my great surprise, saw that we were at HOME! Real, proper home. Leyland. My home town. Sweet home Leyland, where the skies are so blue! Oh I was in my element, trickling wee as I leapt from the svan and bounded up to the front door where the clippy cloppy woman was waiting.

The old homestead has changed a good deal since that man and I's departure. For one thing the smells are all different now. And the indentation I had spent so many evenings making in the cushion on the settee in the back room has been totally eradicated, no doubt by that nefarious noisy, sucky thing the clippy cloppy woman is totally obsessed with. In fact all vestiges of my time there are gone, and the back yard stinks to high heaven of dirty, filty cats.

The clippy cloppy woman and the long man were all smiley and laughing so I left them too it and took up my favourite snoozing perch on the back of the settee, whereupon I farted and fell asleep, just like I'd never been away. I was awoken some time later when I heard the front door slam and found myself alone in the house - and with the back room door left open giving me an all too rare access all areas evening. All areas except, that is, for the most interesting area, the little people's room. Still, I had plenty to do, rubbing myself against every available surface, sniffing the pillows and chewing the furry thing outside my bedroom.

The clippy cloppy woman and the long man came back quite late and, unusually for them, they were still smiley. The three of us settled down on the settee in front of the telly thingy for some quality time before retiring.

I awoke the following morning and immediately my tail began to wag. Oh I had missed home, I hadn't realised how much until that morning. However, as with so much else in my crappy life, my joy was short lived. As soon as I'd finished my breakfast, just as I was about to go and scratch at the back door, I was bundled into the svan again and taken back to the clicky ankled ladies house. My brief moment of contentment so cruelly snatched from me. Again.

To cheer me up the long man took me to Rivington on the way to Salford, and I must admit it did work for a time. He had brought my favourite ball with him and kept throwing it away then expecting me to fetch it back. I try not to indulge him in that game too much, he loves it but it tires me out. Problem is, once I see that ball flying majestically through the air I just HAVE to chase it. At one point I set off, careering through the undergrowth, the ball in my sights, at full pelt. The ball bounced, I closed in, it bounced again and I was within a hairs breadth of it when, much to my surprise, it disappeared over the edge of a sheer drop! Being as I was totally commited to the chase I followed it and found myself ten feet above the reservoir, legs frantically scrambling for purchase in the air and plummeting, somewhat ungragefully, toward the icy waters below. The impact fair took my breath away. If I didn't know better I'd swear the long man did it on purpose. That said, he did look mortified when I saw him peer over the edge of the precipice from which I'd plunged. Mortified for all of a fifth of a second before bursting into laughter. The git. And I lost my bloody ball. Life on the edge is great, but plummeting from the edge sucks.

Three's a crowd

A very unexpected visitor arrived on my doorstep this week. There we were, "we" being that bloke and I, sat minding our own business, sharing the settee and staring at the telly thingy, when we heard that "bing bong bing bong" noise that uncannily always seems to happen just before someone comes to the front door. When that bloke opened the door you won't believe who was standing there, only the bloody CLIPPY CLOPPY WOMAN! I was so excited I did a not-so-little wee right there and then. I sniffed and sniffed and sniffed at her and she smelled just like home, wonderful. She also seemed far more friendly than when last I saw her. Funnily enough I'd been thinking about her earlier that evening as the long man had been pushing the noisy, sucky thing all over the furry things just like she used to do at home. And he'd sprayed the air with smelly stuff just like she used to too. She said that I had calmed down a lot since my forced exodus from Leyland. Not surprising really, since I've had no one to play with properly. Well, I've had Audrey, she's fun until she gets in one of her moods, but other than that I've pretty much had to entertain myself. I think I've got stuck in something of a rut.

The two of them sat together on the settee once he had made some drinks, and a little too close together for my liking! I'm not having her muscling her way back in now, where was she when he was smelling all empty? Not here that's for sure. Not putting up with his moods and sulks. Oh no, It was me, muggins here. And so, as I'm sure you will understand puppy fans, I was not in the least bit happy. I clambered up onto the settee next to the clippy cloppy woman, then scrambled over her shoulders and plonked myself right between them, resting my chin on his shoulder and my fragrant back end on her lap. Far from being impressed with my loyalty, and let us not forget it is loyalty that man in no way deserves, he told me to get down. I was somewhat taken aback I must say and didn't know what to do. Was he serious? Was he joking? Nope, he was bloody serious, and he pushed me onto the floor. Bloody cheek, that man has a brass neck.

The clippy cloppy woman stayed for hours, and that man turned the telly thingy off so not only was I ostracised but I was bloody bored too. I fidgeted, I harrumphed, I whimpered, I even tried flatulence as a tool to get a little attention (I had to stop doing that after the third time since I was in danger of soiling myself) but all to no avail. If he thinks he's going to be in line for any of that patented good Ronnie loving this week he's got another think coming.

Dark rise to handle food

I was rudely awoken this morning, before the sun had come up, even before the flappy, feathery things had started to whistle. That man, you know the one, bounded out of bed like he'd burnt his bum shouting "Come on Ronnie, rise and shine!" Well, reluctantly, I rose, but I can tell you I was in no mood to shine at that ungodly hour of the morning. It was as black as a black Labs backside out there when I ventured out for my morning ablutions. The moon was big and low in the sky and I was overcome with the urge to sing to it, so I climbed up onto the box where they keep the tools and began serenading with all my might. I was just getting into my rythm when "he" called me inside, saying it was too early for all that noise. Too early for all that noise? Too bloody early to drag me out of my pit too but that didn't stop him did it? I don't know if he realises it but a good nights sleep is one part of my very arduous beauty regime. Lots of sleep, lots of walks, lots of water and lots of biscuits. I don't look this good by accident you know.

The obscenely early rise was because "he" was going to ride his scooter, with a load of his ne'er do well friends, to a place called Warrington, and he wanted to make sure I got a good walk beforehand. Well thanks a bunch pal. I'm no expert on health and wellbeing but I'm pretty sure I'd have coped just fine with a nice lie in, rather than being dragged around the freezing cold, poo strewn streets of Wardley at a time when the only other faces you see belong to milk men or burglars. Or cats.

Soon enough after our return to the clicky ankled lady's house "he" buggered off out on that dirty, stinky, noisy Vespa of his. Good bloody riddance. If he's not sulking or moping about he's winding me up in some other way. By this point I was wide awake and now had nothing more interesting to do than lie on the chair chewing my tail.

The clicky ankled lady got up at a far more reasonable hour and went straight into the kitchen where she started cooking a lovely big chunk of dead cow. Oh my, it did smell good. I could hear it sizzling and spitting in the oven, and the delicious aroma eminating from it was mouthwateringly good, making me more and more hungry by the minute. Eventually she took it out of the oven and placed it gently on the worktop, covering it with a tea towel before disappearing up the stairs to stand under that thing that makes it rain warm rain on you. Now what was a pup supposed to do? I can resist anything, with the unfortunate exception of temptation. And so it was that I found myself ever-so-gently pulling the tea towel off the meat, intending to maybe lick a few of the juices, maybe chew a little bit of the fat, possibly even nibble a bit of the hot, succulent cow meat. That was my intention, but unfortunately the towel snagged on the plate and I brought the whole lot crashing down, very noisely, around my ears. I heard the clicky ankled lady shouting and, I'm ashamed to say, I panicked. I even made a little wee. Quickly regaining my composure a plan sprang into my mind... I snatched up the dead cow and ran for it. Okay, maybe not exactly up there with the planning of the great train robbery, but it seemed foolproof at the time. I headed for the patio doors at full pelt, intending to hide the dead cow in the plants for later, when the heat was off. Unfortunately my plan was thwarted by the patio doors being closed and I ran smack bang into them. How, might I enquire, is one supposed to ascertain whether a set of patio doors are open or closed, especially during periods of extreme stress, when you can see straight through them? Bloody infernal glass! My bounty went bouncing and rolling across the furry thing leaving in it's wake great dollops of delicious smelling cow juice before finally coming to rest at the feet of the clicky ankled lady, who had come running down the stairs still dripping wet. I could tell she wasn't very happy as she stooped to pick up the, by now, decidely furry meat. She called me some terrible names and then stormed off into the kitchen where she washed the meat under the tap, picked the hairs off it and said "What he doesn't know wont hurt him." It certainly doesn't seem to have hurt him. The fat pig ate the bloody lot and is currently sat watching crap on the telly thingy and scratching himself.

My bloody Valentine

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

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

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

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

Flower arranging and lifes a-changing

I have reluctantly come to a very painful decision today. Henceforth there is to be no more mention of the long man in my blog entries until he decides to buck his ideas up, give his head a wobble and grow a bloody pair. He is seriously beginning to get right on my nerves now. He still smells empty, he still doesn't tickle me like he used to and he still isn't smiling so balls to him, he's on his own. Misery may love company but he can keep it to himself. As I always say, well, as I'm saying now for the first ever time but will probably say again and might do many times, a problem shared is a problem DOUBLED! And that, dear reader, is my final word on the subject.

As it so happens there are plenty of other people around here who are all more than happy to shower me with all the attention a puppy of my calibre so richly deserves. Besides Audrey there are the clicky ankled lady, the shouty woman and the mumbly man from next door. The clicky ankled lady doesn't give me as many treats whilst she is making sandwiches as the clippy cloppy woman does at home, but the work top here is lower and the bin is much easier to open so I can pretty much fend for myself, titbit wise. My life seems to be changing in so many ways at the moment.

Last night I spent the evening at Audrey and the shouty woman's house whilst he-who-shall-not-be-mentioned was at the City match. Shouty woman's settee is very comfortable and is more than big enough to stretch out on without sliding off and banging my chin on the floor. The only downside to being there was that, because Audrey has "sharing issues" (Just one of many "issues" she seems to have.), I wasn't allowed any pig bits to munch on. She can be somewhat vicious where food is concerned. Or toys. Or drinks. Or space on the settee. The other day, in an attempt to bring out her caring side, I gave her my most favourite toy to chew on. I then went and got my second most favourite toy and thought I'd settle down with her for a bit of bonding. I sat down beside her and guess what? Little bitch, she bit my face and took that toy too!

The furry thing on the floor in the clicky ankled lady's house is the same colour as the grass in the park. It's nice, but to my mind was lacking a bit of colour. I thought I would do something nice for the clicky ankled lady and went and dug up some of the flowers from her back garden, then placed them strategically around the back room. Brightened the place up a treat I thought. Admittedly there was still a little bit of soil on them, and on my paws, which was also deposited, unintentionally, on the furry thing, but you can't make an omelette without spilling milk can you? Goodness me, the way she reacted anyone would have thought I'd curled a poo out on her pillow! Such language. That's gratitude for you.

Why does it always rain on me?

The long, and still bloody miserable, man took me to Rivington on Sunday for the first time in ages. Audrey came with us and brought her shouty woman along. We had a great old time dashing through the undergrowth, and Audrey taught me to swim. Afterwards, while we were getting dried off, I told her about the clippy cloppy woman and the long man falling out. She said she had noticed he was a little bit less playful lately. I asked her advice, but she wasn't very helpful really. She said I should either run away or get over it, and in either case I should shut up bothering her. Audrey isn't, it would appear, the most sensitive or caring dog in the world.

This house is very warm, and the clicky ankle lady is forever cooking meaty things which makes the whole place smell absolutely delicious, meaning I'm constantly hungry. An unfortunate coincidence however is that the long man, in his mopey, miserable mood, hasn't stocked up on pigs ears, snouts or genitalia since we left Leyland. As a result I've had to sit munching on the same rotten, stinking chunk of knotted bone for the last two days. There's no hint of flavour left in it and it's all covered in hairs. I'm seriously considering reporting him to the R.S.P.C.A.

On the plus side I'm getting a lot more exercise since we moved here. We go out in the morning before the sun comes up when all the feathery flappy things are whistling, then in the afternoon when all the little people are in the street and then again after the sun goes down, when all the metal box thingies with the blue flashy lights are zooming around the estate. There is an awful lot of dog poo on some of the streets, the dogs around these parts obviously don't seem to take a great deal of pride in training their people. The long man doesn't mind cleaning up after me, he says it keeps his hands warm and stops him from biting his nails so it's all good.

We went out earlier with Audrey and her shouty woman, and Audrey introduced me to a dog called Travis. He's a shitzhu, which isn't, as I used to think, a zoo without any lions, but an exotic breed of dog. I generally prefer my men a little taller, but he is rather good looking. I batted my eyelashes at him and offered my back end for his nasal perusal but he only seemed to have eyes for Audrey. Well, if he prefers the chav type then she's welcome to him, he'll be sorry.

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.

A rich diet

I have spent quite a lot of my spare time in the woods with the long man recently. The woods are a lead-free zone, I really enjoy the freedom. It's certainly far preferable to being stuck at home in this bloody dump. In fact, the very bowels of hell would seem preferable to this place. Okay, so I do enjoy the long man's attention, tiresome though it becomes at times, but for the love of all things holy why oh why does the clippy cloppy woman insist on wiping things and brushing things and spraying foul substances, eradicating the smells I've put down almost as soon as I've laid them. Oh, and lets not forget the hours she spends playing with that noisy, sucky thing, pushing it around every inch of every floor in the house. I cannot, for the life of me, understand what kind of weird, perverse pleasure she gets from doing it. Give me a good, old fashioned squeeky toy over the sucky thing any day of the week.

On the long man and I's most recent foray into the woods I discovered an odd, new type of creature. They're a bit like grey rats, but with massive, fluffy tails and an amazing ability to scamper up trees in a flash. Very impressive I must say. I tried it myself, it's not nearly as easy as they make it look. I only succeeded in hurting my back side, muddying my face and chipping a claw. Chasing them does make for very good sport. For some strange reason I noticed that their poo tastes like it has a hazlenut in every bite. If I ever catch up with one of the fluffy tails long enough to broach the topic I'll ask why.

When we got home there were some paper things, purple oblongs with a picture of a lady in a posh hat, on the table, well within my reach. Very tasty too. And quite more-ish, I ate three of them. The long man and the clippy cloppy woman were most unhappy when they found out what I had done. Apparently they are made from poorly sea creatures, because I heard the long man say that I had eaten the "sick sea squid". I didn't think they tasted very fishy though.

Pizza Mutt

Apologies for the tardiness of this, my latest, entry. It's not, truth be told, that I have been particularly busy, just lazy. I thought about sitting down and writing something a few times over the weekend but couldn't be bothered. They do say though that it's the thought that counts, so that's okay then. I hope my candour is refreshing. I find that honesty is generally the best policy, unless of course the long man or the clippy cloppy woman are asking who has chewed the letters up or where their slippers have gone. In situations like that I find, rather than honesty, the best policy is to try and look terribly cute and say nothing.

The scratchy chinned man and his special friend came to visit me this weekend and he introduced me to the delights of pizza. Apparently they come in many varieties but the particular pizza he shared with me was called an "American Hot". I'm not sure if they use actual Americans, but they certainly make it hot. Not only did it make my tongue feel all burny, but it made my other end burny too. I could have done with discovering Hot Americans when the back yard was still covered in snow and I was squatting out there freezing my bits off.

I have discovered a voyeuristic side and have taken to spending great chunks of my day sat on the long man's bed and staring out of the window. There isn't actually anything of interest ever seems to happen on this street. I have seen, on the television thingy downstairs, a show called Coronation Street, and that seems much more interesting. They have murders and all sorts of shenanigans. Sat in the window upstairs the most interesting thing I see out there is the filthy cat that lives across the road. Sitting in the window, day in, day out, licking his dirty privates and giving me the evils. Oh how I'd love to bump into the furry little scum bag face to face, see how cocky he is then!

My time at the window, contemplating life, has revealed in me a previously unknown creative side, and I've written a little poem on a subject close to my heart. It's called "Nemesis" and I offer it for your perusal here dear reader......

Nails down a chalkboard,

Bills landing on the mat,

But nothing's really quite as bad,

As a dirty, filthy cat.

Hissy, scratchy creatures,

Full of bloody fleas,

I wish I had a shotgun,

I'd shoot 'em in the knees.

I'd put them in a bin bag,

I'd take away their cream,

I'd add a brick and tie it up

And throw them in a stream.

I've seen so many things,

But nothing quite as pretty,

As a cardboard box that's set on fire

Filled with a screaming kitty!

Labour of love

Whilst on one of the long man and I's regular jaunts around the thriving metropolis that is Leyland yesterday I met a yellow Labrador by the name of Gordon. An unusual name for a dog I thought. I had a very interesting conversation with him. He was telling me he has a job, like the long man and the clippy cloppy woman have. His job title is "guide dog for the blind" which sounded very grand to me. Having been feeling somewhat unfulfilled of late I enquired about possible career opportunities in his industry. His job basically entails wandering around with a person tied to his back and making sure said person doesn't get run over by one of those shiny metal box thingies. Sounded a doddle and seems to have plenty of scope for a little mischievous fun, such as leading the person into a tree or a lamp post, or even a river, and so I asked about the pay. Get this - apparently he gets two meals a day, a few handfuls of biscuits, a nice comfortable bed to sleep in and the occasional stroke. Balls to that! I get all of that, and more, now, without having to lift a claw. And here was I believing slavery had been abolished. Gordon says it's a calling. Gordon says it's a labour of love. Gordon is a moron. His bottom did smell rather nice though.

And now for the big news. The long man took me to Worden park earlier today, and guess what? He took my lead off and let me run free, free I tell you, free as a flappy, feathery thing that whistles. Now I know what Nelson Mandela was banging on about all them years. Oh what a feeling. The wind whistling through my hair as I bounded through the bushes and bracken, whatever bracken is. The long man had brought a ball with him and threw it, then just stood there like a big gormless imbecile. I went and got it for him, brought it back and gave it him and then as soon as I turned my back he threw it away again. The muppet. I had to keep going and getting it, over and over again. I must say, that game got old pretty damn fast.

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.

Pup fiction

I hadn't actually noticed until last night, what with all the comings and goings lately, but my little people have been away. Gutted. Not gutted because they've been away, but gutted because I wasn't aware of it. I could've been having a fine old time lazing around on their bed and chewing their toys. In they walked last night without so much as a by your leave and took control of the front room. They started that "down Ronnie" and "no Ronnie thats mine Ronnie" business quicker than you could say "Grrrrr". They don't seem to realise that I have spent many hours this week laying down my scent. They really must learn to respect my authority and realise that if I've peed on it, it's mine!

It's VERY cold outside at the moment and the long man still hasn't bought me a bloody coat! I notice he has taken to wearing TWO coats whenever we venture outside lately, and a hat, and a scarf, and a pair of gloves. Then he spends nearly all the time we're walking moaning about how cold it is. I'm well aware how cold it is, I'm stark bloody naked! He's lovely, but my goodness he can be thoughtless sometimes.

A bit of a break from the norm now, I generally like to be factual in my entries but I'm going to throw in a bit of fiction for a change. I heard a joke this week and thought I'd share it with you. I've been rehearsing it for ages. It goes like this.... Theres this dog, crawling throught the desert under a blazing sun, dragging his back leg behind him and leaving a little trail of blood in the sand. He crawls all day and all night, then the next morning comes upon a little Western town full of cowboys and red Indians. (Ooops, how un-P.C. of me, I of course mean native Americans.) He crawls up the main street and heaves himself up on the hitching post, standing on his hind legs, and limps into the hardware store where he buys himself a little stetson, a little waistcoat, a little pair of boot, pair of spurs, gunbelt and two little six shooters. Then he limps across the street and into the saloon. He looks left and right real slow, then spies black Jake, leaning on the bar with his back to him. He draws his guns and shoots Jake in the back, twelve times, killing him stone dead. The Sherriff grabs the dog and drags him to the cells. Once the dog is safely locked up the sherriff says to him "Boy, we gunna hang you tomorrow, you wanna tell me why you did it?" The dog looks the Sherriff straight in the eye and says...

"He shot my paw."

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.

The ballad of Ronnie and pride

Went to a place called Worden Park with the long man this afternoon. It was very enjoyable. Full of ducks and ponds and trees and poo (Some of it not even dog's poo.) to sniff. Whilst there I met with a big old black Labrador called Ben. He tried to give me a bit of advice on the do's and don't's of living with these needy people, the kind of tricks I need to learn to get an easy life. Apparently I should swallow my pride and learn to toe the line. I should only ever poo outside, should stay off the bed, should never hump a pillow no matter how bored I am, shouldn't bark while they're all sat eating at the dinner table and must NEVER rip things up or chew the little people's things. Bloody hell, what's left after you take all that out of your day? Some dog's have no self respect, I bet the cold winter nights just fly by in Ben's house. When I eventually seize power then weak, cowardly dogs like Ben will be first up against the wall, along with the filthy cats. There will be NO room in my brave new world order for weakness or cowardice. Or cats. Swallow my pride, NEVER!

Last night the clippy cloppy woman said that I had been given the wrong name and that I should really be called "Chastity". She mentioned it just after I squeezed into the bed between the two of them while they were doing that thing where they bump their lips together. If she thinks I'm answering to that name then she's got another think coming. I begrudge answering to the name I've already been saddled with.