Another Christmas. I’m old and sensible now, and don’t get so carried away as I did in my youth, so no humiliating encounters with waste bins or cheese. Santa Paws did his customary stocking stuff, very acceptable – several bones, a pig’s ear and a soft festive puppy to be ripped to shreds. And there was lots of that snowy stuff that sets my fur off to such good effect. The Aidan took this picture – I’m thinking of making him my official paparazzo.
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Bark the herald…
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12:52 pm 12:52 pm
New Ears Day?
posted in: Christmas - 1 Comment
1:21 pm 1:21 pm
It’s nearly six o’clock and they haven’t arrived yet. Never mind; I’m sure I can make do with the old ones.
Taking a stand
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1:56 pm 1:56 pm
I’m on hunger strike and no one has noticed. The Maze prisoners never had this problem. Like theirs, it’s all about status and privileges. On Christmas Day things were all right. As well as the usual soft toys of indeterminate species, reinforced rubber balls and chews, I was given a large bone-shaped biscuit, a couple of bags of snacks, and a pot of turkey stuff with a picture of a terrier on the front. That’s what really set the old brain cells whirring, that picture. It was quite obviously stating, with no perceivable ambiguity, that small pots of moist turkey dinner were for terriers, and that terriers were for small pots of moist turkey dinner. So why have I been reclassified back to sacks of complete dried food, the sort of thing one would feed to a Rottweiller/whippet cross? So far, though, my cause has yet to be taken up by the mass media or any of the radical political splinterings. I suspect that the Mum, who doles out the slops (note the streetwise prison lingo?) has grasped what’s going on, but her only and pitifully inadequate response has been to put the contents of my bowl back in the sack, mix it around a bit, and refill the bowl, together with a couple of doggie choc biscuits. Doggy chocolate! There’s another injustice – you don’t see the humans eating it, do you?
p.s. I did strike one blow for international canine culinary liberation – I stole half a Fivemiletown cheese that the Dad was about to eat on Christmas afternoon. They didn’t punish me then, because it was Christmas Day, and now they can’t because of that frankly speciesist, if sometimes useful, myth that if you don’t chastise a dog straightaway, you can’t do it at all as he won’t be able to remember what it was he did wrong. Ha!
A little knowledge
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1:58 pm 1:58 pm
I know all about Christmas. Having resided with this particular bunch of house-humans for over a year, I even know their own little family foibles and traditions. So when the plastic tree went up on the little table, the decorations and lights draped over it, and two hours later the fancy new (now fused) lights removed and the old ones put on, I wasn’t confused, I knew what was happening. And when the shiny packages began to appear around it… They’ve got some for me somewhere; I smelled the paradisial odour of Jolly’s Pet Superstore in the Mum’s rucksack, then in the cupboard under the stairs (I lost the scent after that, but they’re bound to turn up soon).
Unfortunately Christmas also brings with it the occasional misunderstanding. This morning at around six o’clock I heard voices next door. Only two possibilities sprang to mind; either a burglar after my Christmas presents or Santa Claus on his way to bring them to me. Either way the answer was to bark. The Mum, the Rory and the Dad all came down in succession to tell me not to worry, but I wasn’t going to be fobbed off that easily. Ellie didn’t join in my frantic howling but then it’s her first Christmas. I don’t suppose she even knows what a stocking is…
I don’t think I like Boxes Day much, either.
posted in: Christmas, baths, food, humans, music - No Comments
1:50 pm 1:50 pm
It started badly, when the Dad came downstairs an hour or two later than usual, by which time the odd things I’d eaten yesterday had wreaked their vengeance. The kitchen floor has no idea what’s hit it; being mopped twice in three days.
So much unprecedented housework obviously went to the Mum’s head, for as soon as she’d put the mop away, she appeared wrapped up in her big white apron. Big white aprons only mean one thing in this house: a dog’s bathtime. It wasn’t too bad, actually; the water was a decent temperature and she made some attempt to keep the shampoo out of my eyes, though she wouldn’t let me give a proper shake to see how far I could spread the bubbles. But afterwards I enjoyed my usual post-balneum dash about the house, barking madly, just in case any dogs peeping through the windows get the idea that I’m some sort of clean-living softie.
After that, of course, I was quite worn out, and retired to my bed for a mid-morning rest. That was when the real trouble started. One of the Aidan’s wrapped-up things from yesterday turned out to be a mouth-organ, and he had the kind idea of playing me a tune on it. I didn’t realize what it was, at first, and stretched out quite bestofpossibleworldsly as he sat down beside me. But at the first notes something went terribly wrong. Not that the sound was bad in itself, you understand me; he’s a tuneful sort of boy, and I’m distinctly partial to a bit of music, especially the folk or rock varieties. Ask the Rory, if you don’t believe me; the number of times I’ve had to make a subtle adjustment to his mixer when he’s recording his electric guitar… But this was different. There was something about that mouth-organ sound that brought back terrible memories. Something really black that happened to me long ago, years before I came to live with this human pack. I cried while the Aidan was playing; horrible little yelps, I’m sure they must have been, but I just couldn’t help myself. He stopped really quickly, thinking he might have hurt my ears, but it wasn’t that, it wasn’t that at all. Afterwards I just kept trembling, my legs rigid with fear and my heart beating so fast that it seemed as though it would pop out of my half-dried fur. I couldn’t tell them what it was, of course, and I can’t tell you either, but it brought back all the nightmares. They don’t know anything about my old life, what happened to me before I was found wandering outside the hospital in Belfast and was brought here to the little town of Enniskillen. They know that I used to belong to an old man, they can tell that by the way I get excited when I see one in the distance, but before today they’d only imagined happy scenes. It’s a bit sad, really; I’d like to leave them their illusions. But they were kind, especially the Aidan, stroked me until I calmed down and wrapped me up in my nice smelly blanket (the Mum keeps trying new kinds of washing powder, but I’ve got it throroughly imbued by now). And in the end I went to sleep, and woke up later quite happy. A bit wobbly maybe, but happy overall.
I had a good day after that, I have to admit, though not many of my friends were out at the park, and after my evening walk there was a bit of muddle between the Aidan and the Dad, each one thinking the other had brought me in while I stayed outside on the doorstep for ten minutes. At first I thought they’d left me out deliberately, for being naughty, but after a few minutes I remembered where I was, and knew they wouldn’t do that without coming out again to explain it. So I gave a big bark; though I say it myself, I have the bark of a dog at least twenty pounds bigger, and they all rushed to the front door and let me in again.
So, despite everything, Boxes Day hasn’t ended too badly; I’m lying across the Rory’s feet now, with my head against the radiator, and the sweet smell of chocolate orange in my nostrils. Life isn’t so bad, really, even without a cardboard box.
Christmas Day 2007
posted in: Christmas, humans, toys - No Comments
1:51 pm 1:51 pm
A perplexing day. I knew something was wrong when the Gawain and the Rory, our adolescent house-humans, came downstairs at seven o’clock in the morning. Generally speaking, if it isn’t a school or a catching bus day (the Gawain’s job seems to be running after buses, though he can’t be much good at it, as when he sets off to get one, he usually doesn’t come back home for several weeks) I can be pretty sure of a quiet spot curled up on their feet until well after midday. So I was on my guard as soon as they came down, especially as they weren’t making any groaning noises.
Then they, with the Aidan, each found themselves a giant red sock (I warned you this was going to be bizarre) and began taking things out of the socks; thrilling things wrapped up in crunchy paper, an awful lot of them smelling of chocolate. It was all most exciting, what with the boys making their little yapping noises, and the smells, and the rustling paper. And what was more, the Mum brought through another of the big socks and gave me a new teddy bear out of it. He’s a bit of a wimp, with a very nerdy hand-knitted jumper, but I’ll soon get rid of that, together with his ears and probably a paw or two.
Anyway, by now I was getting the hang of the thing; it was obviously a special kind of treasure hunt. So when the house-humans all went out I joined in the game by checking through the kitchen bin. Nothing doing, though I knocked it to the ground (quite an achievement, as it’s five times my height) and spread the contents all across the floor. I thought they’d be hurt if I didn’t look properly. They were a bit disappointed when they got back, though they didn’t say much, even the Mum only said “Bad” a couple of times before putting the rubbish back and spraying the bin with that evil-smelling anti-puppy stuff. Cheek, I call it; the vet says I’m six and a half.
Then, to add insult to … well, insult, they trooped into the dining room where they’ve recently installed a thing that looks (though doesn’t smell or feel) like a tree, and started getting more of these wrapped up objects from underneath it. Socks yes, trees yes, bins no. How’s a chap supposed to work that out? I did get some more stuff myself, though: a cotton bone (haven’t seen that Lab’s one since the kitchen floor debacle), some decent snacks and one of those puzzle balls that humans fill with snacks and test their dog’s intelligence by watching to see if he can undo it. My intelligence doesn’t need testing; I just gnawed straight through the thing. Result. Or it would have been, if the Mum hadn’t taken it off me at that point and put it in a high-up cupboard. Honestly, you show a bit of initiative…
All this wore me out so thoroughly that I fell asleep in front of Polar Express and was only woken by the Aidan nudging my face with his. The trouble was, I was immersed in a dream about my own early puppyhood and thought he was one of my insubordinate little brothers. As soon as I’d stretched out to snap a warning I realised, but by then it was too late. The Dad, who hardly ever tells me off, was very cross and made me sit outside in the rain to contemplate my wickedness. Quite right, of course; the cardinal rule of living with house-humans is not to let them see your teeth. But I do wish the Aidan had waited until I was awake before, er, waking me up.
So I’m a chastened dog now, watching the boys with my big brown eyes while they play with the odd television-and-stick combination they call their Wee. (This is not to be confused with the other thing they call Wee which they do in the bathroom, and don’t let me in.) I’m hoping that tomorrow will be slightly less eventful. I overheard something about boxes: maybe I can curl up in one and sleep it all off.
Christmas Eve 2007
posted in: Christmas, bones, dogs, humans, walks - No Comments
1:52 pm 1:52 pm
A bit of an unfortunacy, as I think the humans call it, this morning; and I’m rather surprised not to be in more trouble.
I have a nagging feeling that it all started last night, when the Dad (I think that must be the proper word; it’s what most of the other house-humans call him) took me down to the park after his dinner. To both of our surprises, it was full of my friends, including the nice rather dopey old labrador. We had a bit of a runaround, and a chat about the weather, and why there are so many coloured lights on the outside of the human houses (mostly electric blue, though the Lab tells me that most years they are red and green). Anyway, after a while the Dad suggested that we might be getting back, and that’s when I realized my bit of luck. You see, usually when I’m at the park with the gang it’s daylight, and though I’m pretty good at pinching things from the others, the Dad always notices and makes we give them back. Last night, though, it was too dark for him to see, and I managed to get all the way home with the Lab’s new bone. How I managed to get it up the hill, I’ve really no idea, as it’s as long as one of my legs and at least three times fatter, but sompehow I did it. Desperate times, desperate measures, I suppose. Anyway, I sneaked it into the kitchen, and just managed to nudge it over the threshold into the dining room. I’m both observant and highly civilized, you see, and having noticed that the humans take their food out of the kitchen to eat it, I try, whenever possible, to do the same. It’s a sad reflection on their woeful inconsistency that they (well, the Mum, principally) periodically object to this, even going to far as to close the kitchen doors when there’s a steak pie or chocolate fudge cake for me to finish off. Anyway, this time they decided that the combination of marrowbone and carpet wouldn’t be too disastrous and that the Lab would have gone home by now (and in any case they weren’t quite positive that was who I got it from ), so they let me bring it through and gnaw on it for a few hours.
That, in retrospect, was our mistake. You see I’m not really accustomed to bones, being more of a custard cream sort of chap, and it seemed to have an unfortunate effect on my digestion, and hence on the kitchen floor overnight. But the Dad and the Mum were quite calm about it, getting to work with kitchen towels and mops and nasty smelling stuff, and letting me go outside without even a shout. Anyone would think they’d been through it all before. (Note to self: Must not ponder too deeply on this point. It may well be that I am not their First Dog; after all, as they know very well, they are far from being my First Owners; but I can certaintly aspire to being their Last.)
Anyway, when the floor was all shiny and smelling horrid, the Dad decided that a long walk would do me good, so we set off for Work. I will tell you about my Work another time; it is highly skilled and sensitive, and far too important to be explained in a footnote. While I was Working, my stomach righted itself, and I felt so bangersnmash that I ran all the way along the Sligo-Leitrim Way. (I must confess that this athletic achievement is not quite so supercanine as it sounds; the Sligo-Leitrim Way extends into neither Sligo nor Leitrim, but is a few yards of disused railway in the centre of Enniskillen. Nonetheless, it’s quite an feat for anyone with paws my size. (Feat, feet, get it?) Again, with hindsight it perhaps wasn’t the wisest course of action. By the time we got to our side of town, my legs were completely trotted-out and I had to lie down and get the Dad to carry me. He usually does this quite happily – I’m really quite pleased with his training progress – but today he seemed a bit slow on the uptake. It might have had something to do with all the bags he was carrying, but instead of simply picking me up and taking me all the way home, after a while he stopped, got out his little black box and starting talking into it. Then, a couple of minutes later, I saw the Aidan (the smallest of the house-humans and the best to be licked) running along the pavement towards me. Perhaps it was the excitement of seeing hiim, perhaps the small Jack Russell who got mixed up with us, but somehow I found myself back home under the power of my own four paws. Some sort of hypnotic trick no doubt. It really shouldn’t be allowed.