"The dog is a gentleman; I hope to go to his heaven, not man's." – Mark Twain, Letter to W D Howells, 4/2/1899

Archive for February, 2015

Rufus and the Crab.

“Seashore” Scottish Terrier pastel by Muriel Helen DawsonThey’re pesky wee creatures.

Every day, at about this time, I walk down to the beach. My mistress, the one who writes books, has a house not far from the shore. She likes to come down here when the weather is warm. “No bloody telephone, and no one dropping in unannounced. Absolute heaven.” I don’t much care where we stay as long as I can protect her. She doesn’t need protecting at this hour of the day. She is in her little shed writing mystery stories. She’s reasonably safe in there, so I have a bit of time where I can come down to the shore and take in all the aromas.

The seagulls can be a bit of a nuisance, but it’s this damn crab that really gets up my nose. It should be frightened of me, but no matter what I do it does not seem to care. It bit me on the nose the first time I encountered it. I keep my distance since then. I run at it and bark at it, but it just stands there waving its legs in the air. I get the feeling that it would be quite tasty, but how the hell do you get hold of it.

I’ve wasted enough time worrying about that crab. There are other spots that need checking, and then it will be time to go and check on my mistress. She has her tea in the middle of the morning, and if I am close by and particularly well-behaved, I usually get one of those human biscuits, so I don’t want this annoying crab to make me late for biscuits.


One Dog For Cover.

816743674ab1048d830e38fc4ee49bb2She did it all the time, and it drove me crazy.

I don’t know what she did with the information, I’m only a dog after all, but I’m pretty sure that she used some of it to buy dog biscuits. She always had a couple of them in the pocket of her apron. She must have had some magical supplier.

We got caught a couple of times; listening at the door, peering through keyholes. She used me as an excuse, and it always seemed to work. “Sorry sir, the dog ran off and I was trying to find her, fetch her back like, so she didn’t get into no trouble like.” It always seemed to work and I came out of it with a large dog biscuit, so it all seemed harmless enough.

My mum used to say, “Always guard the one with the endless supply of dog biscuits.” Well, she didn’t actually say that, but that’s what she meant.

To be honest, I don’t do it just for the biscuits. I do it because I love her, and it’s my job to look out for her. She can’t smell danger, but I can. The biscuits are a bonus.

My nails need cutting though, I make too much noise when I walk.

I really hate getting my nails cut, but mostly I just close my eyes and think of biscuits.


Story Time.

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Rebeca felt that it was her duty.

She believed that she was teaching the animals morals. I know that sounds a little strange but if you knew Rebeca you would know that she always had her own way. I don’t know where she got the idea from, and frankly I don’t much care, all I know is that at 4pm every day, except Sunday, she would dress up in her most morally correct dress and read stories to the animals. I say animals, but mostly it was dogs with a few birds, a squirrel, and for some unknown reason, a crocodile. The whole thing is incredibly bizarre, and just a little bit concerning. 

Rebeca has the most beautiful red hair, but frankly, that is no excuse.

She does have an excellent speaking voice, but that is still no excuse.


Eric’s Ear.

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Eric is an excellent dog. Loyal and true.

Eric has an extra special talent. It concerns my wife Betty. Betty has been riding the roller coaster of emotional instability all her life. At a young age, I decided to save her, and she saved me right back.

Eric came to us a pup.

Actually, I stole him from the prick who breed animals as though they were a commodity.

He was a nasty bastard, and much bigger than I am, but I knew that he drank himself stupid on a Friday night and then attempted to walk home. He’d been prosecuted so many times for drink driving, he knew the next time it would mean prison. So he staggered home late every Friday night.

I beat him severely one Friday night; so badly that you could hear his moans over the sound of the distressed dogs on his property.

I kept Eric and found homes for the rest. A couple didn’t survive long enough for me to get them to the vet, but at least they were free for a little while.

Eric knows when Betty is starting to confuse real life for what goes on inside her head. He doesn’t keep it to himself, not Eric. He’s a sharer. He seems to know that I can look out for her when things get bad.

He doesn’t bark at me or give me a particular face, he simply drops one ear.

That ear was damaged when he was crammed into a cage as a pup. It straightened out as he got older, but he seems to know how to let it droop, at least until I notice that Betty needs help.

One hell of a dog that Eric.


Alice.

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Alice lived in a very exclusive neighbourhood.

She was a stylish dog walker and specialised in very small dogs.

“Small dogs have very big souls,” said Alice, whenever anyone asked her about her minor obsession.

Her faith in small dogs was justified. One day, while out walking her third set of dogs for the day, she broke a heal and plummeted into the street, right into the path of oncoming traffic. She skinned her knee and banged her elbow, but she did not let go of the leads that were attached to her precious customers.

The situation was dire. Catastrophe loomed [no pun intended].

As Alice lay dazed, scraped and bruised, Queenie the Corgi took charge.

“This ditzy dog walker is going to get herself run over if we don’t act quickly,” she said to the assembled pack. “We have to resist the urge to do what we normally do, and all pull in the same direction. Come on, pull!”

The pack were a bit dim but they sensed the danger in time and with their twenty four tiny little legs they dragged Alice up onto the footpath and out of danger.

Alice told Rufus and Binky to lick Alice’s wounds, because historically they had the cleanest tongues.

Alice sat on the footpath as Rufus and Binky did their wound repairing work and waited till her wits returned.

That night, as she sat on her terrace with a glass of Chardonnay in hand, she reflected on her choice of career. She felt that her decision was vindicated, and she wished that she had not wasted four years at university studying. Dog walking small dogs with big souls was her vocation.

To avoid any further need for her dogs to drag her out of traffic, Alice decided to switch to sensible shoes; the kind that light up when you walk. 


Together.

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Patience.

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YES.

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Cold stare

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