Tag Archives: Dog

March Repeats

6 Mar

Here are some bits ‘n’ pieces from March 2010, because nothing says ‘tired blogger’ like recycled writing.

Image result for funny playstation

On a Broken PS3

Sony, intimidated by my threat to mobilise the world, have fixed the problem. Or, to be strictly accurate, the PS3 has fixed the problem itself. Just what we need: intelligent computers. A few tiny steps from sentience and then we’ll have Arnold Schwarzenneggers all over the place.

Let me terminate this topic by telling you that Spud is at this very moment catching up on last night’s playing; I can hear him muttering parent-approved swear words under his breath (blast/fart/crap).

He reminds me of his father, who would come home from work in the early days of our marriage and play games on his monochrome screened, 20 megabyte hard driven computer, and scream the foulest language at it. When I asked him why he played them when they had such a deleterious effect on his mood, he replied, ‘Because it relaxes me.’

Proving that even back in the Eighties computers were already smarter than some people.

Image result for funny horse

On a Horse

I read this years ago and I have always wanted to share it.  It is supposed to be a true story;  you’ll have to decide for yourself.  I soooo hope it is.

The Queen was entertaining a visiting head of state; they were parading down the Mall in a horse-drawn carriage, chatting nicely, when one of the horses made what can only be described as a rude noise.

QEII: I’m so sorry about that.

HoS: Please don’t apologise; if you hadn’t said anything, I’d have assumed it was the horse.

Image result for funny exercise

On Exercise

I was cheered by a report in the Telegraph* that says dog owners get more exercise than non-dog-owning, gym-going folk. 

*Yes, I know the report appeared months ago but give me a break; I’m exhausted from all the walking.

This is true (it says so in the papers so it must be).  My dog has short legs – shorter even than mine – and it was recommended that he get half-an-hour’s walking a day, which means that I get half-an-hour’s walking a day.  He often gets more, of course, but only if it’s not cold, not wet, not dark, not boring and I’m annoyed with the Hub.  If I’m being honest, if it was just the last qualification we would have daily three-hour walks.  

Toby also runs around a lot in the house – she’s standing up: there must be food!  He sneezed; I wonder if there’s any food?  The big one’s home; I bet she makes food.  He likes to play tug with his gezillion toys, which means that we play tug with his gezillion toys as well.   He’s very demanding; maybe we should have had another kid instead; at least they grow up and leave you: we’re stuck with this fella until he departs for that great park in the sky.  Hope there’s less poo up there.

I was also chuffed to notice a related article which claims that playing Sudoku burns off more calories than is contained in a Hobnob.  Me, I am liking this newspaper.  When I spotted that ‘Comfort eating does work’ and that superdiets are ‘based on myths’, I had to roll around in a box of Maltesers to celebrate.
*

I am a little surprised, given this rigorous exercise & diet regime, that I don’t look like Posh Spice**.  Next time I am exercising the dog  I will put away my Sudoku puzzle as I sit virtuously on my park bench, and exercise the little grey cells instead: I’m sure M. Poirot will be able to help me.

After all, we look so alike.

**I first typed, ’I am a little surprised that I don’t like Posh Spice’.***  Think it was a Freudian slip?  I don’t; I rather like her, but why does she never smile with all that she’s got to be happy about?  I bet she’s hungry.  She should follow my diet then she could look terrific and be cheerful.

***Then I corrected it and accidentally wrote, ‘I am a little surprised that I don’t loo like Posh Spice’.  Don’t think we’ll go there.

A Poem To Celebrate NaPoWriMo

15 Apr

It’s National Poetry Writing Month in the States; of course, the whole world is joining in, including me.  I’m writing like mad so I’ve been even more absent than usual.

By way of apology, here’s a poem I wrote eighteen months ago, which made me smile when I came across it in a notebook.  Something the whole family can enjoy.

 

Dog Walk On Bonar Park

Fresh-cut grass!

Here’s a pile – let’s wee on it
Here’s a pile – let’s wee on it
Here’s a pile – let’s wee on it
Here’s a pile – let’s wee on it
Here’s a pile – let’s wee on it
Here’s a pile – let’s wee on it
Here’s a pile – let’s wee on it
Here’s a pile – let’s wee on it

Can we go home now?
I’ve an empty ass.

*

*

A-One, A-Poo, A-One-Poo-Wee

15 Dec

This is not the band you are looking for…but last night’s band did play this wonderful piece of music

Last night I went to a brass band concert with my friend Alison.  Brass bands are as vital to celebrating Christmas as chocolates and migraine so I was glad to go.

Alison has been renovating her house, so we called early, for a tour and a brew. She lives some distance from us so the Hub drove me there, and afterwards dropped us off at the hall where the concert was taking place.

Alison dotes on our dogs and asked us to bring them along.  As it had been raining all day we carried them in, to avoid their muddy paws marking her brand new and expensive carpets.  Although the paws weren’t muddy, of course, because the dogs refuse to walk in the rain and had been indoors all day.

The dogs adore Alison, in the purest form of cupboard love there is, because she brings them sausages (cooked especially) and treats whenever she visits.  As soon as they realised the car was heading her way, they whined and cried in slavering excitement.

We had the usual mad-circle run around and hysterical barking (not all of it from the dogs: I told you, she dotes on them) and it was all too much for Molly, who wet herself in joy, right there on the new carpet.  Fortunately, Alison is tolerant of their misdemeanours and assured me that the carpet could take bleach if necessary, and a little excited piddle wouldn’t harm it.  Her husband Pete smiled benignly, as he always does, being the easiest-going man I’ve ever known.

The Hub apologised, ‘It’s our fault; they haven’t been out all day because of the rai…TOBY!  NO!’  All heads whipped around to a perfect view of Toby’s backside, also known as crouching terrier, impending poo.  The Hub grabbed the dog and ran with him for the door, and the rest of us watched the plop-plop-plop of the unstoppable excrement as it carpet bombed the, well, the new carpet (and the couch: the angle at which Toby was snatched up allowing for a sideways trajectory).

Mortified, apologetic but laughing, I cleaned up the mess while the Hub and Toby stood out in the rain in disgrace.  The carpet was easily cleaned and looked none the worse for wear.  The miscreants were allowed back in.

Drama over, we all sat down to relax and drink our tea.  I felt suddenly warm and thought, but I haven’t touched mine yet, when I realised the warmth was not a hot flush if it was emanating from my lap.  I looked down to see Molly, squatting on my knees, doing the longest wee I’ve ever had the misfortune to sit under.

We think she must have seen Toby’s flight and thought she’d be better off with Mum than on the carpet.

If you thought a brass band was loud, you should have heard my scream of horror.  I jumped up, sending Molly flying across the room without the benefit of a Hub hold, and there was complete uproar – most of it from four people laughing uncontrollably, me the loudest.  I had lost it by this point and if I wet my knickers in hysteria, at least no one would know.

Alison gave me a cloth to disinfect my pants; I had a wash; and then sat on her bedroom floor in my sweater, socks and underwear, using her hairdryer on the crotch-soaked jeans because we didn’t have time for me to go home and change before the concert.

I sat in the hall, steaming quietly and stinking of disinfectant-combined-with-Brut (to disguise any unpleasant odour), and got quietly sozzled on a bottle of wine.  

It’s okay; I knew where the toilets were.

 

 

More On Doors

5 Mar

I remember another time a doorway exchange caused some confusion.

We were living in South Africa and we had a dog who had given birth to five puppies but who had no interest in caring for them.  She escaped at every opportunity and the Hub was at his wits’ end (admittedly, he didn’t have far to go), trying to persuade her to feed her pups.  

One warm Saturday morning (so, any Saturday morning; this was South Africa), Scamp sneaked out again and the Hub, watering the garden, spotted her doing her snake impression across the kitchen threshold.

We had new neighbours.  Their first impression of the kind of people we are – misogynistic husband; downtrodden wife – came when next door’s wife heard my husband scream, ‘Get in the house and look after your babies, you stupid b****.’

Miss Molly-Moo-Moo

7 Feb

You’ve heard a lot about Toby this week and almost nothing of Molly.  Molly worships the ground I walk on unless I’m not there; in which case she worships whoever is giving her the most attention.

She is the most loving dog but she doesn’t do dog behaviour: Walk?  No thanks; I might get wet/cold/hot/dirty.  Food? Is it gourmet/heated/yours?  Maybe, if you spend long enough coaxing me.  Coat?  Absolutely!  And t-shirt, jumper, blanket as well.  I’m freezing!  It is August, after all.

She hasn’t done anything interesting of late (she has to be prised from my side for that) so I thought I’d re-post A Day In The Life, to give you a flavour of her character:

  • Scratch at Mummy’s door but she can’t hear me over her avalanche impression.
  • Go potty.
  • Bark to wake Mummy.
  • Watch her stand in my poo and go potty.
  • Hide in the cushion like a cutie pie.
  • Cuddled for reassurance that Mummy loves me despite what she is sure is a mistake on my part.  Phew.
  • Love Mummy.  Love Mummy.  Love Mummy.
  • Demand breakfast.
  • Turn nose up at breakfast.
  • Let Mummy hand feed me my breakfast of expensive tinned dog meat.
  • Love Mummy.  Manage a sticky lick to her face.
  • Love Mummy.  Wonder why she’s looking a little nauseated.
  • Sleep behind Mummy while she’s at the computer.
  • Wake up, irritated by the noise Mummy makes when she falls off her little bit of the seat.
  • Love Mummy: if I’m going to be awake, I might as well enjoy it.
  • Watch Mummy trying to type one-handed while I sit on her lap for an extended belly rub.
  • Sleep.
  • Take the occasional sniff at Toby’s bottom, particularly when he wants a fuss from Mummy.

  • Drool as Mummy eats lunch.
  • Refuse to let her up until I get my share.
  • Sleep, exhausted from eating my protection money.
  • The dreaded walk…
  • Tolerate grooming; harness, putting on of; coat, putting on of; coat, taking off of; harness, taking off of; coat, putting on of; harness, putting on of.  I knew she had it the wrong way round but I didn’t tell her because it might start raining before she’s finished and then I have a legitimate excuse to refuse to leave house.
  • Open door.  See rain.  Refuse to leave house.
  • Tolerate harness, taking off of; coat, taking off of.
  • Love Mummy.  Love Mummy.  Love Mummy.
  • Sleep.
  • Ignore the weird kid who sleeps in the room next door to Mummy, when he comes downstairs, eats, grunts, and returns to his hole.
  • Drool as Mummy eats dinner.
  • Refuse to let her up until I get my share.
  • Demand dinner.
  • Turn nose up at dinner.
  • Let Mummy hand feed me my dinner of expensive soft pellets.
  • Love Mummy.  Love Mummy.  Love Mummy.
  • Sleep.
  • Cuddle Daddy while Mummy’s busy, keeping my eyes trained at all times on Mummy.
  • Love Mummy.  Love Mummy.  Love Mummy.
  • Stick to Mummy like poo to her toes as she prepares for bed; she’s going nowhere without me.
  • Wait patiently to be lifted on to the bed because I’m too feeble to jump up myself, unless she’s not there.
  • Have extended cuddle until Mummy’s arms ache, her tea goes cold and she knocks her Kindle onto the floor while trying to reach around me.
  • Love Mummy.  Love Mummy.  Love Mummy.
  • Sleep.
  • Disturbed by Mummy trying to get comfortable on her tenth of the bed.
  • Wait until she settles then sit on the most awkward part of her body (varies according to whether she’s lying on her front, back or side).
  • Sleep.
  • Disturbed by Daddy giving me a goodnight cuddle before he puts me out of the room so he can go to bed.
  • Give Daddy the evil eye for separating me from Mummy.
  • Wait for Daddy to fall asleep and try to sneak back in; jump easily onto the bed and wiggle my way between them, sleeping long-ways to get comfortable.
  • Daddy’s on to me: he shuts the door properly this time.
  • Love Mummy.  Love Mummy.  Love Mummy.  Can’t be separated from Mummy.
  • Scratch at Mummy’s door but she can’t hear me over her avalanche impression.
  • Go potty.

Spooked

6 Feb

Toby is easily spooked.  He was abused as a pup and, although he is a happy and healthy dog now, some issues remain.

One dark night in January, Toby chose to sleep downstairs, even though it was cold and lonely; and here’s why:

He had been asleep, tucked up in his bed, covered by his blanket.  His whole body was under the covers, including his nose.

That’s when he broke wind.

The peculiar smell sent him running off in panic.

I shouldn’t laugh, but I have a dog who is literally scared of his own farts.

Kind Of Strange

2 Feb
The villain of the peace

The villain of the peace

Have Toby, Will Travel

Besotted, bewildered, bawling woman is reunited with her unrepentant pooch. He is absolutely fine apart from being a lot scared and a little breathless.  She is still crying, but now in relief.

Have you ever wanted to be a heroine from one of your favourite books?  I always saw myself as Jane Eyre: pragmatic, stoic, capable.  Imagine my shock when I realised I am actually Twilight‘s Bella Swan, the girl who never stops crying.

White Van Man offered me a lift but we were five minutes from home as the crow flies (fifteen minutes as the drip walks), so I refused his kind offer.  White Van Woman, however – who could have been Jane Eyre because she didn’t take any nonsense – insisted on driving Toby and me home.  Her name is Christine and she didn’t mind the interruptions as I talked over her yet again (it seems my manners disappear in emergencies).  I first phoned Pam with the good news and then took a call – to my great surprise – from the Hub, who seemed to know all about our adventure.

Christine dropped me and an excited Toby – I’m in a car!  I can see out of the window!  Why isn’t it open so I can surf? – at home and I opened the door and fell, sobbing, into the Hub’s reassuring arms.

Right knee, battered and bruised

Right knee, battered and bruised

I love coincidences.  Do you?  How’s this for a coincidence?  I had left the Hub asleep in bed when we went out for our walk. About twenty minutes later he was woken by a nice woman named Doreen, who asked if he had two small dogs and if so, his wife had collapsed at the Pyramid roundabout.

Turns out that Doreen used to live just up the road from us and Doreen’s daughter had been in the traffic and seen Toby running through the cars and what she thought was me collapsing (I went down fast, hard and face-first). Luckily, she recognised me even though we have never met – worryingly, from the back (or, more accurately, from the bottom up); I hope it is mostly because she knows the dogs.

Doreen’s daughter phoned her Mum and asked her to drive to our house to tell the Hub what had happened.  I found all of this out later when she returned to check on us.  Doreen even posted a message on Facebook about a lost Yorkie.  I am so grateful.  What kind and thoughtful people.

Left knee, ditto.  Also elbow and thigh, but the pictures are not of this same high quality

Left knee, ditto. Also elbow and thigh, but the pictures are not of this same high quality

The Hub, half asleep and scrambling for socks, decided to look for Toby. He didn’t know about all of the people helping me but he did know I was with Pam and therefore not alone.  He also knew that I would climb out of the hospital bed it was possible I might be in and kill him if he came to see me before finding my dog.  

The Hub could be Jane Eyre as well.  Everyone could except for Miss Sobsalot here.

Pam arrived then with Molly, and we all exchanged stories in the kitchen, while the Hub made tea to aid our recovery.  I’m pretty sure that at one point I said, ‘Excuse me,’ to Pam, and dropped my trousers.  I wanted to show my wounds to the Hub.

The Hub disinfected my knees and elbow (I only discovered the scrape on my left thigh later on) and fed me paracetamol and ibuprofen, because my left arm from hand to shoulder was extremely sore.  He only became concerned when I couldn’t eat a biscuit: he has never known me turn down food in thirty years, come childbirth or illness, apart from one nasty, four-day bout of gastroenteritis.

A day on the couch, a hearty lunch (including the rejected biscuit), some strong painkillers, wonder that the whole incident had lasted no more than twenty minutes (it seemed like three days; it must seem so to you, as well) and reflections on the immense kindness of strangers, and I was soon back to my normal self.  

Which is just as well, because Toby wants a walk…

Nicola Hulme Author

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