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."

Ouch!!!!

In a queue late? In a bloody queue late my furry ass! Quite literally as it happens. "In a queue late" was actually "innoculate". Have you any idea what "innoculate" means. I'll tell you what it bloody means. It means being dragged to some ridiculously clean and sterile dump, being pinned down by the long man, whom I had previously trusted, and having a dirty great big needle stuck up your backside! Absolutely lovely, mint, fantastic, just bloody marvellous. As much as I'd like to sit here and explain more, I can't, my butt is too bloody sore. Far too sore to sit for any length of time. And so I'm going to lie down in a darkened room and plot my revenge. They'll be sorry, you just mark my words, they'll rue the day they messed with me.