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.

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.

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!