… by proxy?

I’m getting quite worried about the Mum’s psychological equilibrium. Is it really normal to insist on bathing your dog twice in the same calendar month?

All I did was poodle down to the lough with them, did a little mild wading, just enough to get my coat nice and receptive, then had a really good roll in the greyest, grittiest dust available. She wouldn’t even let me in the house; just filled up the paddling pool with cold water and dog shampoo, then threw me in. Anyone got a number for the Canine Defence League?

I must confess that it did feel somewhat satisfactory afterwards; though probably only on the banging-head-against-brick-wall principle.

Anyway, that’s beside the point. What she definitely needs is to visit a professional*.

*n.b. I’m not really short-sighted; these are lenseless spectacles which came with the Aidan’s Doctor Who magazine. Pretty clinical, though, huh?

A typical Border Terrier,

As the day wears on will grow merrier.

It isn’t indulgence in wine;

Just the fact he’s so sleepy in the mornings all he can do until tea-time is repine.

Here I am, undergoing my bath.

Apologies for the continuing absence of a photo of me in my bath. I haven’t sold the exclusive rights to Hello; it’s just a technical problem.

Meanwhile I had a wonderful evening yesterday – the Rory took me to the park to meet his friends, including a most agreeable Old English sheepdog who reminded me about swimming. (I lost my confidence somewhat last autumn in a treacherous Donegal bay.) That’s the kind of social life house-humans ought to seek.

My principal occupation over the past couple of weeks, apart from playing chess and eating wasps, has been building up a really resilient coat. It hasn’t been easy; taking every opportunity to roll in the grit and dust, but I’ve striven dogfully and, though I say it myself, had achieved quite a solid carapace. Having shorter fur helped, as the grungy stuff could get right to the roots (probably why you don’t see many hippies with spiky hair) as did the unfermanaghlike lack of rain over the past week or so.

Sadly, all good things, especially the smelly ones, must come to an end, and my supercoat’s ending came tonight. It was really the delivery man’s fault, as the Mum and I reached the door at the same time, and she brutally womanhandled me out of the way before opening it. In doing so, her hand and my fur came into direct contact (without a brush or lead in between) for the first time in a few days.

“Ughh!” she cried in her primitive manner (how anyone with her limited vocabulary has managed to write books is a perpetual mystery) and I knew that it was only a matter of time. About three and a half hours, I think, before the apron came on and the inevitable occurred.

(One day, depending on the whims and eccentricities of the server, there may be a picture here.)

I assure you that the colour of the water is solely an optical illusion, something to do with shadows (if I’d had the chance I would have photoshopped it) and that the whole exercise was quite unecessary. Looking at my expression, I just feel sorry for the Mum now. How will she ever manage to sleep at night again?

I keep trying to explain to these house-humans that they ought to get a car – even jumped into the boot of one the other week to get the idea across, but all to no avail.

Still, if they do insist on messing around with those two-wheeled things, at least they’ve added a carriage appropriate to my dignity.

(Although the Mum keeps muttering that it’s intended for boats, not dogs.)

As a mature Norn Irish resident (think I must be seven by now according to the vet’s calculations, though my official birthday isn’t until the end of August) I’ve noticed something very odd going on. The sky has appeared on several occasions in something other than its customary grey, and we’ve gone whole afternoons at times without any rain. The house-humans mutter gloomly about glow-ball warnings and climbing change, but I note that they don’t object to lazing about the garden or playing peculiar English games with coloured balls (alas, too large for my mouth) and sadly old-fashioned wooden mallets (now if they’d been appetising plastic…)

Anyway, while they indulge in such sybaritic (ha, the Mum had to get the dictionary out for that one) pleasures, heedless of the cautionary tale of Mr. Prescott, I’ve found my burden of responsiblities to be sadly weightened. With the sun has come a horde of small yellow and black intruders, some of which the Mum courteously escorts outside, burbling something unlikely about honey – even I know that comes in jars from Traidcraft – and others which she treats with a good deal less circumspection. I don’t recognize any difference myself; they both buzz, whizz about and invade my personal space by the window. I have to spend literally hours on my guard chair waiting to catch and eat them (something else the house-humans complain about, with the old you’ll-be-sorry-when nonsense. Honestly, what damage can a small yellow and black insect possbibly inflict?)

Here I am, recovering after a recent battle. Once the Mum works out the right setting on her camera, we may even have the chance of an action shot. You may notice, incidentally, that I have had a certain amount of barbering work carried out, in accordance with the generally springlike nature of recent events. This afternoon, however, the sky is distinctly greying once again. I may have to dig out the orange coat….

It’s the Mum’s fault, as usual. Yesterday evening she went into the shed to get ice cream out of the freezer, when suddenly we, back in the house, heard the shrillest of shrieks. She tried to sound cool afterwards, of course, claimed it was the sudden motion or some such poppycock, but I know the sound of human fear when I hear it. Consequently, today when the Dad emptied the shed and tried to persuade me to go in, influenced, no doubt, by humanist propaganda about the genetic history of terriers, I turned tail and ran. I did pluck up the courage to annihilate a ping pong ball later, but apparently that wasn’t good enough. Ho hum.